The creature then studied the other three halflings and their garments. They walked seemingly unarmed, without sword or bow; what manner of guardians were these? Or perhaps their weaponry had been left with their mounts, now scattered and lost? And where was any sign of rank or position? The ancient ritual of sacrifice was more elaborate for nobility -- ceremony and song of greater length and complexity. Did these three warrant such preparations?
The wight searched the minds of the halflings for clues. All three were devoted to the safety of the fourth, but ah... the one lying farthest from the Ring-bearer was his sworn guardian, there could be no doubt. Whatever power this one possessed to protect his Master lay hidden, but would be respected. The others... yes. The other two halflings were sons of ruling houses in their country, heirs to land and title.
All three, therefore, would be treated with high honor, the ritual played out as it would for any noble chieftain of men.
The wight returned its attention to Merry, and something it had sensed. The ancient stories were known to this one, although incomplete and without detail. Before death took him, he would learn much.
The creature touched Merry’s brow, allowing him to dream. Images, thoughts, emotions... in sleep, Merry lay helpless to resist the cascade of memories the wight had stolen from brave men who had fought their last battle on these downs. He shuddered and moaned, his dreams vivid and terrifying. Battle, hopeless despair... death...
“So it was, halfling,” the wight spoke out loud. “So it shall ever be. Even the most noble fall into darkness; none can escape.” It turned from Merry and ghosted its fingers briefly over Pippin’s face. “So young,” it murmured, “they fall in battle so young, so foolish. Why do they fight? The Dark Lord will prevail, in time. In time, yes.”
Night deepened, the stars wheeling slowly overhead as the creature began its work -- deliberately and without haste -- long arms still the only aspect of itself embodied and solid. It ripped the clothing from each of the three sleeping hobbits, then pulled the garments apart, searching for wealth or hidden gems. Coins were found, several small knives, a curiously-shaped key from Merry’s pocket... all were tossed in a corner, as were the shredded garments. The wight brought out silken shirts taken from past victims. The cloth was ragged with age, but serviceable -- and large enough to be used as shrouds for these small ones. It clothed Sam, Merry, and Pippin in ritual garb -- white, girdled with the finest gold chains.
Soon all was prepared save adornment of the three halflings. Thin golden bands, once worn on the upper arms of great warriors, would serve as circlets on bright curls. Rings of gold and silver, some sparkling with gems beyond price, were slid onto small, limp fingers. Long swords of ancient lineage were placed between Merry, Pippin, and Sam, and shields decorated with emblems of the northern kingdom of Arnor were laid at their feet. The wight then lay one long, glittering sword across their throats as a symbol of its dominion over their lives and their helplessness in the face of their deaths.
“I claim you.” The wight intoned the ritual words it had spoken so many times before. “This realm and all who enter it are mine.”
Frodo it left alone, save to cross the small hands over his breast as was done for chieftains who lay in death. This one would be safeguarded for the Witch-king’s arrival -- untouched, and unspoiled. He still lay unconscious -- pale, with breaths as deep and slow as his companions -- and the wight still felt no need to speak enchantment over him. Should the Ring-bearer show signs of waking, a sleep spell could be easily and quickly woven, as it had been for his unwary guardians. But even if allowed to regain consciousness, there was no escape. The barrow was shut, and the wight did not perceive that this or any halfling had the power -- in strength or spell -- to move the massive stone guarding the entrance.
The wight surveyed the readied halflings, and cast its thoughts about the barrow and all it held. Swords and glittering knives of great power hung on the earthen walls and leaned against treasure-laden chests. The Men of Westernesse, foreseeing a need, had learned the craft of forging and enspelling weapons, several intended to be wielded against even the Witch-king himself. But that chance had never come, and now the blades rested here, safeguarded against discovery and use.
With all else prepared, the wight found amusement in a sudden thought. From a chest it drew forth a long knife which instantly began to glow and brighten. Such weapons, with the ability to flare with light, were rare and precious. They warned of fell creatures nearby -- blue for orcs, green for wights -- and had been crafted by ancient ones long gone.
“You carry power still,” the creature murmured to the glowing sword it held. “You would alert the halflings to my presence, but they will not wake again... and your warning they will never see.” It lay the weapon between Frodo and Merry, and the chamber was cast in a pale, greenish light.
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