‘I gave a shout, but when I got up to the spot
there was no signs of them, and only Mr. Brandybuck lying by the
roadside. He seemed to be asleep. "I thought I had fallen into
deep water," he says to me, when I shook him. Very queer he was,
and as soon as I had roused him, he got up and ran back here
like a hare.'
'I am afraid that's true,' said Merry, 'though I don't know what
I said. I had an ugly dream, which I can't remember. I went to
pieces. I don't know what came over me.'
'I do,' said Strider. 'The Black Breath.’
‘Strider’, The Fellowship of the Ring
Although Glorfindel had warned them that the river might flood if
the Master of Rivendell sensed a need to protect his valley from
great danger, the torrent was so sudden, so loud and so
fierce, Sam couldn’t believe his eyes. His
attention had been torn between watching the black
horsemen in the river advancing towards Frodo and the white horse,
and frantically waving his firebrand at anything that moved.
He was too exhausted to run any longer, and watched in relief and
amazement as the black horses left on their side of the river
reared and whirled and were swept away with their riders.
Only one was left, and as Merry and Pippin ran to the bank,
calling out desperately to Frodo’s still
form, to Sam's horror the sole rider pointed
directly at Strider, yelling something in a harsh tongue from an
invisible face. A crackling energy filled the air, and for a
moment Sam felt that he was falling into a dark void.
He cried out in fear, the flame at the end of the branch he held
the only light he could see. And then the oppressive
blackness lifted. Looking around dazedly, he realized that
the rider was gone, taken by the flood... and that Strider lay on
his back, his eyes open, staring blankly at the sky.
~*~
When the Nazgûl pointed straight at him, Aragorn suddenly felt as if he was looking down a long, dark tunnel, and a powerful wind hit him with great force. It seemed to come at the same time from outside and yet deep within him. The flaming branch he held fell from his numbed hand and he slid to the ground, no longer in control of his limbs. He felt as if he had been suddenly frozen, plunging through ice into deep water. He heard Sam calling his name as if from a great distance and he tried to respond, but a searing pain shot through his head and everything went black for a moment. When he came to himself, his head ached dully and there was a moment of confusion as Sam’s blurred face appeared above him. The hobbit’s huge eyes were dulled with grief and exhaustion, and for a moment he couldn’t remember why.
“Strider?” A small hand touched his face. “They’re gone, all washed away. Mr. Frodo is…” Sam’s voice choked, and tears began to flow as he stared across the river.
“Let me see to him, Sam,” came a familiar voice, and the hobbit’s place was taken by Glorfindel, who gazed down with great concern.
“I am all right,” Aragorn said, trying to gather his thoughts. His vision cleared, and he looked around frantically. “What of Frodo?”
“He lives.” Glorfindel knelt, and looked deeply into Aragorn’s eyes. “Are you wounded? Did one of the Nazgûl touch you?”
“The last rider yelled something at him,” Sam said, pointing to where the wraith had been.
“He did?” Aragorn frowned.
“Sam, what did you hear?” Glorfindel asked urgently. “It may be important.”
“It sounded like something awful,” Sam said. He closed his eyes and saw, once again, the empty, ragged sleeve pointing at Strider. Strange words rippled through his memory, but they were now indistinct, as if he was listening under water.
“I can almost...” But the harder he tried to hear the words, the more vividly the shock and fear of that moment closed around him with cruel, grasping fingers. He was drowning...
“Samwise!” Out of the darkness came Glorfindel’s clear, bell-like voice. Sam opened his eyes with a start, and gasped with relief to see that the sun was still shining.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Glorfindel,” he said, swiping dirt from his face with an equally dirty sleeve. “I’m just that tired.”
“We all are, Sam,” Merry said, coming to join them. “Strider, are you all right? The flood is passing, and we need to get to Frodo.”
“I am fine,” Aragorn said briskly, but he swayed slightly as he got to his feet.
“Strider!” Pippin yelled from where he was gazing anxiously towards Frodo and the white horse. “I think we can cross now!” He stepped into the still-frothy river, and gasped as he found himself in cold, rushing water higher than his waist. Aragorn rushed forward and plucked Pippin up before he could be swept downstream.
“Glorfindel, will you see to Merry and Sam? I will take Pippin,” Aragorn called out. His thoughts were once again sharp and focused, the brief weakness of little consequence. He lifted the hobbit up onto his shoulders, and turned to whistle for Bill.
Even as Glorfindel bent to sweep Sam into his arms and urge Merry to climb onto his back, his eyes never left Aragorn. The Nazgûl were gone, yet a faint, mocking echo of them remained. Something felt wrong, and he was uneasy.
I must learn what the fell rider said to him, he thought. Perhaps there is a way Sam can be helped to remember.
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