The stinging of black ash filled her lungs as she tried to run. The immense fires engulfing her village burned at her skin, the screams of her people pierced her ears as the Uruks slaughtered them mercilessly. There was nowhere to hide, not now, for everything was set aflame or had been torn asunder. Yet she still tried to flee in fear, stumbling over corpses of her folk as she tried to reach the outskirts of the village. At least then, she had hoped, she would have a better chance to disappear into the darkness of night and black smoke. She did not want to die, not like this, not at the hands of such calamity. She was young, she wanted to live and wanted to see the sun shine upon her face once more.
Alas something cold and foreboding took a hold of her, making her stumble to the crimson soaked earth beneath her. Whimpering in fear she tried to struggle, tried to claw herself away yet she was pinned, and it pushed her face harder into the mud.
Still she tried to resist, kicking out and flailing her arms to try to get her release. But it held her firm, and forced her onto her back to face it. It was enveloped in shadow, of a darkness so foul it tainted everything around it. She had not witnessed such sorcery before yet she knew well enough who was her tormentor; The Witch-King of Angmar.
Slowly the shadow took form, and soon stood before her a man of immense and wicked beauty. His dark ashen hair whipped in the wind as his glacial blue eyes burned into hers, full of malice and ill content. "Be gone from here, lord of carrion, shrivelling death!" She had plucked up the remainder of her dwindling courage in one last act of defiance. A brilliant smirk crossed his face then, and within the blink of an eye he was over her, his grip on her crushing her throat.
"You dare defy me, wimpling?" He hissed at her, tightening his grip so that no more than a squeak could escape her cracked and blooded lips. He raised her body from the ground, his grip still choking her, his cruel gaze burrowing deep into her soul. Tossing her aside like a rag-doll, the wind was knocked out of her as she landed sharply on a fallen pillar. Painfully, she tried to regain herself, but once again the Witch-King was upon her, pinning her to the burnt wood beneath her, mocking her mercilessly.
"Scream for aid girl." He taunted into her ear. "For none shall hear your cries."
Sharp ripping pain stung into her flesh as he tore away her ragged clothing with the iron clad claws on his fingers.
"You will give yourself to me, Dúnedain wench!" He shoved her harder into the burning cinders beneath them, and his immense power sucked away any chance of a struggle. She tried to cry, but her voice was stuck in her throat as he clenched his hand around her tighter, his other arm weaving around her waist to pull her close to his overpowering body.
The scream she let out then came out as a mangled gurgle as he sheathed himself deeply into her, breaking through her innocence without an ounce of pity or compassion.
"Yes..." He groaned into her ear, ripping away the remaining cloth around her breasts. "Try to scream....let me hear the diminishing of your innocence!" And he plunged into her once more, making her raspy voice choke as she tried to cry out. He would not relent with his powerful thrusts and pulled her sharply back by the hair so that he may see the horror in her eyes.
"You will be mine, and I will bend you to my every whim." He growled before he grasped one of her now naked breasts, biting down into the tender flesh of her shoulder, relishing in the coppery taste of her blood. Once he had filled her, he threw her back to the ground in a muddle of limbs and torn flesh. "Take her back to Carn Dûm." He hissed at a nearby orc.
"No hand is to touch her but mine."
Bride of Mordor by Azukiel