Tales of the Nine by Kaylee Arafinwiel

Wraiths Writing Poetry

This came to me when I was rereading the Poetic Forms card, and saw “ghazal” which to me sounded like a Ringwraith name or something. I asked my friend Anda what a Ringwraith might write poetry about, and she said “Find out.” Challenge accepted….and now I feel weird.

“Three!”

Wraith Three lifted his head-that-wasn’t and shot a baleful glare in Khamûl’s direction. Or tried to. Not having eyes was a distinct disadvantage, though he still managed (somehow) to see what he’d been writing. (How he did that without hands was problematic as well, but he merely chose not to think about it.)

“What, Khamûl?” he demanded sourly. “I’m busy.”

“Well, I need you at the front of the shop.”

Maggots and mealworms! Three hated the idea Khamûl had taken into his head, going into the Sulfurous Exfoliant business after the downfall of their Master. True, it had proved lucrative, but the very idea meant they were invited back to Tharbad’s yearly Spring Faire again. And that meant minding the stall, instead of working on – well. He glanced down at the sinuous curves and careful flourishes of the Tengwar he’d been writing out, proofreading his work. Black Speech, of course, but no reason not to make it as pretty as possible. He might be a Wraith now, but he was still a Lord. And a poet.

“Give me a minute, boss,” he snapped back, tone laden with just the right amount of aristocratic scorn. “I’m busy here, I said.”

“Don’t make me send Seven after you, Zimrathor,” Khamûl threatened, and the sound of Three’s true name on his superior’s – lips? – made his nonexistent blood freeze. “She has some…creative ideas about what to do with you.”

He remembered when he first found out Seven was – had been – a woman. That had proved interesting. But if Seven should see…He got up, accidentally knocking the paper to the ground in his haste. “All right, all right, keep your cloak on. I’m coming.”

He didn’t see Seven, wreathed in the shadows, slip out of the corner of his room and pick up the paper. Smirking facelessly, she glanced down at her prize, and began to read…

I have a lovely maid in mind; her cloak is of the finest silk.
To her howls I can only compare those of the Eastern wind.

Such life and beauty as we did die, until all was left behind
Never with blessed kin we’d rest, for cursed were we – by wind.

Seven’s nonexistent eyebrows rose sharply. Who knew Zimrathor could write like this? The Rings we bore…Her eye sockets narrowed with sudden understanding. Zimrathor loved her. Her! Even after all these long centuries. When he had been given many chances to speak in ancient Númenor, long dead, he had never…

And with this realization striking her undead heart, she who had been Vardilmë, once of Andúnië, wept ashy tears.