October 20
Sam groaned in relief at the feel of grass under his feet. He had never dreamed that hobbit feet could grow so weary and sore, but Glorfindel had kept them walking at a relentless pace since dawn, with few rest breaks. It was late afternoon, and pine trees and cool grass grew on either side of the Road. The group passed through a dark tunnel hewn of smooth stone, then out again into the sunlight. From where they now stood, Sam saw that the Great East Road ran down a small slope, then traversed a flat meadow and finally ended -- at a wide and vigorous River. At last.
They were just about to leave the shelter of the trees and start down the slope when Glorfindel stopped, bringing the party to a halt with a gesture. Pippin sighed. This was the sixth time the Elf had stopped. He would listen, exchange a few incomprehensible words with Strider, and then continue on. But now that they were nearly there, Pippin just wanted to keep going.
“What--” Pippin’s question died in his throat, and his heart started to hammer in his chest, when he saw what Glorfindel was doing. Very slowly and deliberately, the Elf took Frodo’s right hand and closed it tightly around Asfaloth’s reins.
“Hold on,” Glorfindel said quietly. “Do not let go, Frodo, not for any reason -- and do not stop.” One more second… two… Pippin had stopped breathing. Then, “Go!” Glorfindel yelled at the horse. And… “Fly! The Enemy is upon us!”
Asfaloth leaped away with Frodo hanging on with one hand, and at that moment, the hobbits heard the sound they had dreaded for nearly two weeks -- galloping horses -- from behind them. Glorfindel and Aragorn pushed the hobbits ahead of them and yelled for them to run, and with what strength they could muster, Sam, Merry, and Pippin ran as fast as they could down the slope and out into the meadow.
Asfaloth was halfway across the meadow when five Black Riders came out of the trees the group had just left, and reined in their mounts. They sat silently, all five concentrating fully on the small figure on the racing horse. They joined their power and, as one, commanded the little one to stop.
Frodo suddenly felt all urgency drain out of him. Why was he running? Tugging on Asfaloth’s reins, he checked the horse to a walk, and turned him around. There, beyond the small dim shadows that must be his friends, were five wraiths. They were doing this to him! With a surge of anger, he drew his sword. It was difficult to see clearly, through the shadows and mists surrounding him, but the five dark, solid figures were clearly visible. Between him and the wraiths, close to the other hobbits, he also saw a light, clear and bright and blazing fiercely.
“Ride on! Ride on!” cried Glorfindel, and then loud and
clear he called to the horse in the elf-tongue:
Four more wraiths now appeared from the rocks and trees to the left of where the small meadow sloped down to the River -- two, including the Witch-king, rode the remaining distance to the edge of the River and halted, waiting -- while the other two sped towards the white horse and its small rider.
Asfaloth was running so fast that Frodo was buffeted by the wind. He bent his head and held on as tightly as he could. He sensed the wraiths approaching, their voices calling to him to stop, and the two closest drew abreast of him. One of them reached out to pull him off the horse. As the hand reached for him, Frodo felt as if a piece of ice was suddenly thrust into his chest. He screamed, his grip weakening, but suddenly the wraith was gone. Asfaloth, with a new burst of speed, had leaped ahead and left them behind.
The Great East Road ended abruptly, and Frodo heard, more than saw, the foaming River, then felt cold water splashing his feet and legs. They were across. Asfaloth climbed the steep bank on the far side of the River and would have continued on, but Frodo suddenly felt commanded to halt. Suddenly weary and dizzy, he brought Asfaloth to a stop, and once more turned. The Nazgûl, all nine of them, sat astride their black mounts on the opposite bank. There was no escape.
Frodo gasped as a sudden, terrible realization came to him. His vision of the living world had dimmed, but he could now see the wraiths even without the Ring on his finger. And they could see him. He was becoming part of their world, where everything was icy cold, and dark, and… he was becoming one of them.
That’s what they’ve been waiting for, Frodo realized in horror. And now they can’t wait any longer.
“No!” he cried. With his last bit of strength, he pulled his sword from its sheath once more, and held it up. “You will have neither the Ring, nor me! Begone!”
~*~
Somehow the halfling still resisted, even now, although the Witch-king could sense with surety that, within the day, this little one would at last have succumbed. But he would wait no longer; they would take him and force the Ring upon his finger. Thrusting the weakened halfling, unwilling, over the threshold and fully into their world, would empower the slowly moving shard to finally complete its task. It would thrust deeply into the small one’s heart and instantly absorb what life he had left. The living form -- body, mind, and essence -- would cease to be. Life would be replaced by Shadow, and he would be left empty -- to be filled with the thoughts and direction of the Dark Lord’s choosing.
Their orders were clear -- the Dark Lord craved both the One Ring and Baggins, and he would have them both. There was no strength left in this halfling to resist them physically. Not any longer. They had been overconfident to let him go the first time, but there had been no precedent for such strength of will to resist a Morgul wound for this length of time.
Just beyond where the halfling waited, there was no mistaking the curtain of Power which shimmered and pulsed -- no doubt a barrier set around the perimeter of the Elf enclave within the far valley. Without the One Ring in his possession, the Witch-king knew he could not pursue Baggins if the halfling passed within this protective barrier. He had to be stopped now, and brought back across the churning water over which they had no control and loathed to cross.
“Come back,” he chanted forcefully, his companions with him. “To Mordor we will take you.”
The halfling shuddered, close to the breaking point from the effort to resist, to stay conscious, to embrace Light instead of Shadow. With his last strength, the hobbit held up his small sword.
“The Ring!” the Nine chanted. “The Ring!”
But still the small one would not come to them.
The pale king raised a hand, and suddenly Frodo felt the pain in his shoulder grow unbearable; he tried to scream, but found that he could no longer speak. His sword abruptly flew from his shaking hand, and shattered, and a cruel, icy pressure began to squeeze the breath from his body. He knew that he had only to take out the Ring and put it on, and the nightmare would end. He could rest. It would be over.
No, he thought weakly. No…
The Witch-king concentrated the full force of his essence. He watched as the blade in the small hand snapped and fell, and the tiny body gasped in agony as the shadows wrapped tightly about him. He hissed in satisfaction as the halfling grew clearer, his form beginning to take a more defined shape. The fading had at last begun, and could not now be stopped so long as the enspelled shard remained within him. They had him -- and now they would claim him.
The riverbed at this most shallow part of the Bruinen had been set with large, flat slabs to be used as paving stones on which travellers might cross. The three wraiths rode forward -- and were halfway across before they realized their peril.
~*~
The wraiths thundered past, and Pippin hardly had time to lift his head off the ground before he was lifted up bodily by Aragorn and put back on his feet. “Ride on! Ride on!” Glorfindel was shouting, then something in Elvish, then Merry was grabbing his hand.
“Come on, Pip,” Merry cried, starting to run. “Let’s go.”
They went. Three hobbits, one pony, one Elf, and one Ranger running, running, on tired legs and painful feet and no breath left… Sam stumbled and fell, and Glorfindel was instantly at his side, pulling him back onto his feet and urging him on. The group made it to the far edge of the meadow and into a small hollow, and stopped, gasping for breath. Not more than thirty feet in front of them sat nine wraiths on nine black horses, waiting at the top of the slope that led down to the River below them. The Riders paid no heed to the small group behind them -- their attention was fixed on the Ring-bearer.
“Hurry,” Aragorn said, unstrapping the long branches from Bill’s heaving sides. Glorfindel had already kindled fire faster than Pippin thought possible, and Aragorn set each stick ablaze and handed them out.
“The flood is coming -- I can feel and hear it,” Glorfindel murmured to the group. “We must drive them into the River when it arrives.”
Sam felt it too -- a rumbling deep under his feet -- but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Frodo, sitting astride Asfaloth high on the opposite bank. He gasped as three of the wraiths rode into the River and stopped. His master’s sword suddenly shattered, and Frodo swayed. The three wraiths rode farther, then stopped again, suddenly uneasy -- too late, they realized that a massive wall of water was bearing down on them.
The hobbits stared in amazement as a sudden, monstrous flood crashed and cascaded past them, sweeping away the three Riders in its path.
“Now!” Glorfindel yelled. “Drive them forward!” The horses of the six remaining wraiths, unexpectedly faced with the roaring and thundering of what appeared to be not water, but massive, crashing boulders, gigantic horses, and a wall of flame, reared desperately and tried to retreat. What they met was darting figures screaming and yelling, and wielding fire -- maddened, their hooves lost their purchase and began to slip down the bank. The Nazgûl screamed in rage and pain as a brilliant light -- an Elf-lord revealed in full wrath and power -- burnt and blinded them, searing through their very essence. Now leaderless, and without direction, they tried without success to control their mounts -- but one by one, the horses leaped or tumbled or fled insanely into the tumultuous flood, throwing their shadowed riders into the heart of the thundering River where they were swept away.
As Aragorn bore down on the remaining Nazgûl struggling to keep his horse from slipping down into the River, the wraith, in a fury, tried to bring down the impudent Man in his path with the power of the darkness within him. Momentarily stunned by the Black Breath, Aragorn stumbled and fell directly into the path of the horse’s flailing hooves. Merry, who was closest, leaped forward with a cry, thrusting his blazing sticks in front of the horse’s maddened eyes. The horse reared up, and with one final piercing scream, the wraith was thrown into the flood. As the frantic animal slipped down, one hoof caught Merry on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground next to Aragorn.
“Merry!” Pippin screamed, running to where his cousin lay motionless.
Glorfindel released Sam, whom he had physically restrained from throwing himself into the River to try to reach Frodo, and ran to where Pippin was on his knees next to Merry and Aragorn was struggling to sit up.
“They are gone,” the Elf announced, “but we must wait until the waters subside before we can cross.” He raised Aragorn’s head so he could look into his eyes. “Are you injured?”
Aragorn took a deep breath and shook his head. “His thought barely touched me. He could no longer control or direct his will.”
“Strider,” Pippin whispered, “Merry’s hurt.”
Aragorn nodded, and gently examined Merry’s bruised temple. The injured hobbit groaned and he stirred slightly, causing Pippin to sigh with relief. Now that the rush of adrenaline was ebbing, and the wraiths were gone, Pippin found himself starting to shake -- and, after running on already tender feet, he realized that they now hurt so badly that he wasn’t sure he could stand.
“Meriadoc most likely saved your life, Aragorn,” Glorfindel said. “That horse would have crushed you in its madness.”
“I know. We must---” Suddenly the Ranger gasped. “Frodo! Does he live?” All eyes turned to the top of the bank on the opposite side of the River -- where Asfaloth stood guard over Frodo, who lay unmoving on the ground.
Glorfindel gazed intently at the small, still figure, seeing many things, on many levels.
“I believe so.”
“He hasn’t faded.”
“No,” Glorfindel murmured. “But it has begun.”
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