“Kill him like you did the other elf, and send the ribbon to his bitch.”
A flurry of movement. A thousand swords clang together at once and the sound reverberates around the room and makes for a call of war. Ten thousand blades render through the flesh of the still-standing, with only a cruelty the men and beasts of Angmar can manage. Now there was no one to rush to his aid, no one to warn them, for there in Angmar did he meet his end.
“I love you.”
Lips meeting with the passion of lovers torn asunder; roaming hands scramble to find a grasp on fabric and skin as they pull each other close. Gasps for breath betwixt drowning in the other, and a chance for a life where there was previously none.
“I cannot remember.”
A lie spoken through the teeth of a ghost, a shadow of the memory, of the darkness of Angmar. A nightmare where the caress of one you love turns into hands tightening around your throat; a fell dream where he perished in the fields of Angmar, rather than perishing his courage and his hope unto himself. Where not even awakening next to the one he loves brings him any comfort, and it is easier to lie about what he has seen than make trouble with the truth.
