B2MEM Challenge: I29: ghazal (Poetic Forms), What is the most tedious, routine work that you have to do? Write down a few tedious or routine tasks that you're sometimes required to perform. How does doing routine work make you feel? Would you like to have somebody do it for you? Now write a story, poem or create an artwork where characters have to deal with tedious jobs.

B2MEM 2015: Khamûl’s Sulfurous Exfoliants (for my prompt. This ficlet is slightly inspired by, but not officially related to, the crackfic inspired by same last year.)
Format: ficlet, poetry
Genre: Crack, probably. Also romance? Ish? Humor? Depends on what you find funny…I laughed so hard writing it…
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Um. Do not eat or drink anything while reading.
Characters: Khamûl, Ringwraiths
Pairings: Three/you’ll see
Creator’s Notes (optional): 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.
Summary: At Tharbad’s Greenway Spring Faire one year, Wraith Three whiles away the time between customers by jotting down some poetry that was running through his head. He never expected the subject of his poetry to find it…

“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.

Her hair, her hair so dark and fair, goes streaming out be-
Hind; as I go walking along with her, amidst the wild wind.

My love, whose eyes were soft and kind, can smile no more,
For the Rings we bore from us tore such features; the wind

Swept up and over the Western Lands, so long and long ago,
Beautiful, she, and handsome I, and in the stormy sea-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.