Word Count: 100
Character: King of the Dead of Dunharrow
Disclaimer: Tolkien fecit, Kortirion drabbles in the dust - sorry!
Notes: Previously posted some while ago in Tolkien100, but I'm a review whore!
The very dust oppresses us. Ancient as the bones of the Earth this place is carved from. Evil was done here; grievous things by wicked men best forgotten. We linger, forced to wait. It should be a tomb, for we crave oblivion, but die not. He bound us until we are called and our hate is palpable.
I thought it was him, he bears the wyrd, but how could it be? Thirty generations have passed, pitifully slow. I loathed him; I feared he’d not offer absolution, - but he did.
Then we harried death into oblivion. And it was sweet.