His Corrupted Mind [Witch-King x OC]

Chapter I : The Prophecy of Glorfindel

"Beginnings are always messy." -John Glasworthy

Second Age, 1975

Glorfindel, the great hero of older days, watched on his mounted position as the combined might of men from Gondor and the remaining Dûnedain of Arnor led by Eärnur son of Eärnil, and the elves of Lindon, Rivendell, and Loríen led by himself and Lord Elrond of Rivendell, destroy the hosts of Angmar. He only wished that they had taken action sooner, so that Arthedain might have remained standing in the aftermath of the Witch-King's conquest of Arnor.

However, the people of Arnor were never going to wake from the nightmare they had suffered through, the scars cutting deep into the earth and into their minds. The once great land of Arnor was in ruins, and all because men could not set aside petty troubles and unite as a single people. Their divide was their ultimate weakness here and the Witch-King had exploited it with great pleasure, laying waste wherever he went.

The cries of battle were fading away now, the battle nearly finished, and so far there had been no sign of the Witch-King himself. This alliance had routed him from his place within the defeated capital of Arthedain, the fortress of Fornost, and as he tried to flee north to hide within his own realm and within the walls of Carn Dûm, the great horsemen of Gondor overtook him. Not long after, himself and Elrond came up from Rivendell, trapping the Witch-King on the plain between the North Downs and Nunuial. No man or orc of Angmar would remain west of the Misty Mountains.

"Never again will evil lay claim to Arnor!" came a cry from Eärnur, and Glorfindel looked towards the Captain of Gondor, seeing the fisted hand raised high. His shout was met by the cheers of both men and elves, many weapons and fists raised in reciprocation. Glorfindel smiled faintly, but not fully able to join the revelry as a foreboding sense still plagued the edge of his mind. Where is the Witch-King? The answer to that question came sooner than he would have hoped.

A piercing screech cut through the battlefield, sharper than any fine elven blade of the First Age. All eyes on the plains looked to the source of such a fear-striking scream, and there upon one of the hills only a short distance away was a tall rider, wearing robes and a mask of black, his steed just as dark in color. Fear immediately filled the hearts of the armies of men and elves, for the Witch-King held such a presence upon the battlefield. Quicker than most would notice, the Witch-King set his black horse charging down the hill, his path soon clear. The Witch-King of Angmar rode to strike down Eärnur.

The Captain of Gondor prepared himself to stand against the Witch-King, but his bay mount, a fairly skittish creature, could not stand against the oppression and fled from the oncoming charge. Eärnur was then left to try to regain control of his horse. The Witch-King then ceased his charge, his black mount dancing from side to side, and he released a laugh that seemed to be no different from his earlier scream. This shall be a sound none shall ever forget for the rest of their days, thought Glorfindel before a faint shudder ran through his body. He then looked more closely at the Witch-King, and caught the faint flicker of something other. Something alive, yet dead.

Nazgûl! His mind shouted, and with little forethought withdrew his blade and made to ride to the Witch-King. Luckily for the hero of old, the Witch-King caught wind of Glorfindel's intenions and turned his dark steed away, retreating into the shadows. Glorfindel paused and looked to the west. Night was growing, and so the Witch-King of Angmar was lost to them. Eärnur returned now, anger and frustration plain on his features. When the man went to chase after the Lord of the Nazgûl, Glorfindel barred the way and said, "Do not pursue him! He will not return to this land. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall."

He and the Captain of Gondor met gazes for long moments before the latter turned his horse away, anger still present in his eyes. Glorfindel gave a soft, tired sigh before looking back to where the Witch-King had vanished. Under his breath, a soft utterance of words said the rest of what he had recently predicted. Words that went unheard.

"Soon will come a stranger. Her fate intertwined with his, and by her hand either to redeem or destroy."