A/N

As per my usual process of 'crossovers based on similarities that I do for the fun of it instead of making a tizz on forums like some people I could name,' idea came from the thought process of "Fenmore leads a group called the Nine, Ringwraiths are called the Nine, so...write about it.

And then profit. Or not. 0_0

The Nine

"And how are you Khamûl old chap? You're looking a bit green around the gills."

Not one of the Easterlings responded to Fenmore's jab. Not the servants. Or the soldiers. And especially not Khamûl himself. The Black Easterling. Scourge of the West, sworn enemy of the Dúnedain, and a dozen other titles that Fenmore didn't even care about.

"Well, I'm sure you'll get better," Fenmore continued. "Khamûl the Black. Heh. Dare I say it has a nice…ring…to it?"

Khamûl remained on his throne. His sallow skin wrinkled, his eyes sunken in, his body thin and gaunt. If he got the joke, he didn't give any sign. Again, it was something Fenmore didn't particularly care about. Though as Khamûl's head slipped and as he raised a hand to catch his chin, he did get a glimpse of the gift Sauron had offered. The gift that had made the poor sod this waste of a man, and sapped his will to the extent where he no longer cared about it.

"Well, anyway," Fenmore said. "Gifts from Sauron the Great."

He clicked his figures, and through the doors to Khamûl's throne room, eight hooded figures emerged, each bearing a heavy chest. Some of the Easterlings tightened their grip on their halberds, but held in place as Khamûl slowly raised his hand, his ring of power shining for all to see. His subjects subdued, each of the chests were brought before him, and his compatriots began the process of telling and showing him what each contained.

Bloody twat, Fenmore thought, watching as Khamûl's sunken eyes shone for a moment as he beheld the gold and jewels displayed in the first chest. It's a wonder you're still breathing.

Men were weak, Fenmore thought. In this world, and in his on the other side of the Dawngate. Men like Khamûl and women like Queen Neissen were the reason he led the Nine. Men who only followed him because he'd proven himself as a shaper. Not men like Khamûl or the other eight sods this world's dark lord had ensnared. As long as Fenmore got some of the gold himself, and was allowed to return home to put it to use, Sauron could do what he could.

"And as a final gift, the essence of troll tooth," one of Fenmore's men declared. "Guaranteed to soothe the aches of even the weariest bones."

Fenmore smirked. Bet you want that you old git.

If he did though, the Black Easterling gave no sign. He just sat there, inept, and just a hair's breath away from becoming one of Sauron's own Nine. Nazgûl, Ringwraiths, basically spectres of terror that Fenmore hoped he could see in action before he left. But before that came to pass, he had to make sure Khamûl actually got to the action.

"So, about these gifts," the shaper said, stepping forward. "They're not free you know. Sauron has a price."

"Speak," the Black Easterling rasped.

Huh, that got your attention didn't it? "Well, you see, there's been a bit of a hiccup. Turns out some…um…pointy eared guys…"

"Elves. Enslavers. Servants of Illuvutar, the Bringer of the Doom of Men."

"Yeah, sure," Fenmore said. "Point is, he's marching on some land called Eregion. Something about rings of power, and elves using those rings rather than succumbing to them, and he wants to teach them a lesson." He shrugged. "Sounds like fun."

Khamûl nodded, and for a moment, he seemed to have some life in him. "Then Rhûn shall answer. The enemies of Sauron are ours as well."

"H'raa!" the other Easterlings yelled, slamming the shafts of their weapons on the ground. Fenmore smirked – it was no wonder Sauron valued this race's loyalty.

"Tell the Dark Lord we shall march," Khamûl rasped. "Tell him we shall join his war."

"Glad to hear it," Fenmore smirked. "Sure your lord will be glad to hear it too."

Clicking his fingers, the other members of the Nine formed up on him, all in a straight line. Reliving his days in the Queendom of Neissen, Fenmore led them in a bow.

"The Nine depart," the shaper said. "See you around."

"Nine?"

"Oh yes, Nine," Fenmore said. "As in, nine rings. As in, nine servants. As in…well, nine."

Khamûl stared at him. His eyes dark. His skin sallow. His life nearly gone.

"Ah, don't worry, you'll get what I mean soon."

Fenmore turned around. The other members of the Nine followed him. Ready to see the other kings that would be in even worse shape than the Black Easterling once he got to them.

Yeah…very soon.