Chapter 371: A World Where Only the Nazgûl Gets Hurt
Before the Mirror, Lady Galadriel revealed much. In that same moment, she withstood the One Ring's temptation and passed her own trial.
In the near future, she would follow her fate and sail into the West, returning to Valinor, the Blessed Realm, and leaving Arda behind. From that moment on, the One Ring's doom no longer touched her.
"This charge is fated to be fulfilled by you, Frodo," she said. "If you cannot do it, then no one can."
"I know what I must do," Frodo answered, yet he could not keep the tremor from his voice. "But I am afraid to do it…"
He looked away, feeling the weight upon him tighten once more, until it seemed to press on bone and breath alike.
Galadriel watched him for a long moment, and when she spoke, her voice was calm and sure.
"Even the smallest person can change the course of the future."
It was not the first time Frodo had heard words like these, yet they gave him strength all the same. He closed his fist around the Ring, and something in him steadied.
…
After they had rested, the company gathered again and prepared to depart.
Celeborn gave them counsel.
"Your road is not safe. The two cities of the North and South Vales are locked in war, and the fighting in the north has fallen into a stalemate. A wingless fell-drake, fleeing in panic from the Northern Waste, has thrown itself against a fortress of the Free Cities. It cannot break their walls, yet it has caused them no small trouble."
"But it is also an opportunity. Great wars can hide many footsteps. If you go by the far side, you may pass beyond the Enemy's gaze."
"Take the river. Go by water to the wild lands near the northern highlands of Rohan. Then abandon your boats and travel south through Rohan. That path is safer."
"The road is long. May you go on in safety."
Celeborn offered his blessing, and they bowed in return.
Before they parted, Lady Galadriel came as well and gave each of the Fellowship a gift to aid them on the way.
Many of those gifts carried weight beyond their shape. They were the sort of things that stayed in the heart, lingering long after they were received.
The company set out once more, taking boats and rowing swiftly downstream.
When they reached the border of the North Vale and the shadow of the war zone drew near, they went ashore and hauled the boats up onto land.
That night, they rested and spoke quietly about the road ahead.
A company without a Wizard felt less certain. Wizards knew far too much, saw far too far, and always seemed to have another answer, another path.
But Gandalf was not with them.
"I can already hear the clamour from the Vales, and the war-horns," Boromir said. "To press on by water would be unwise."
"As the Lord of the Golden Wood said, we can take the roads of Rohan and go south, all the way to Gondor. I know how to travel that way. My father told me of it, of what they endured. It was long ago."
At that, everyone's attention turned to him, and Boromir continued.
"When my father was still young, he travelled here with my grandfather, and with Lord Levi, and with the former King of Rohan. In those days, the two cities of the North and South Vales had not yet been built. It was on that journey that Lord Levi raised an unquenchable First Campfire there, and later that fire became the cities' own device and banner."
"That journey must have been something to see," Aragorn said, smiling as he pictured it.
Boromir's voice grew quieter. "Yes. Even a man like my father remembers it and misses it. A road that arrived suddenly, a road scarcely written of."
"He misses the past, and he misses those who walked it."
Now, of those four elders, only one remained in the world, a Steward grown very old, who had defied Sauron for decades without yielding, and yet had become stubborn, even obsessive, in the end.
The other three were gone.
Hiss!
A sharp, grating shriek tore through the air above them.
Steel came free at once.
"A Nazgûl," Aragorn said, eyes locked on the dark rider circling overhead, unblinking. "Was he not meant to be in the north, leading the assault on Dale? Why is he here?"
"Perhaps something has driven him this way," Legolas replied, his senses keenest of them all.
He pointed into the distance. "Look there. Do you see it? A faint orange glow in the sky."
"I see it," Aragorn said, frowning. "But what is it?"
"I do not know," Legolas answered. "Only that it must be something even a Nazgûl can fear."
With a rush of wings, the fell beast swept over the company, bearing the Nazgûl as it passed. Its presence spilled dread into the air, and their blood seemed to chill where they stood.
The four Hobbits suffered most. From the moment the Nazgûl appeared, they could not stop trembling. Their eyes were wide, hardly blinking, afraid that if they so much as looked away the Ringwraith would be right in front of them.
And Frodo was in the worst pain of all.
Each time the Nazgûl drew near, the One Ring began to stir—frantic and merciless—tearing at him with a double agony of flesh and spirit. It did not even pretend at subtlety.
When the Nazgûl came closest, it was not only the Hobbits who faltered. Even Legolas and Gimli felt panic tighten around their hearts. In the whole company, only two could still face that shadow head-on.
One was Aragorn, lifting his gaze with grim calm, watching and judging.
The other was Boromir.
There was fire in Boromir's eyes. Whatever fear the Nazgûl inspired had long ago been burned away in years of war. Now he wanted to burn something back, to make that flying shell of armour feel the wrath of Gondor.
"He is going for the North Vale," Aragorn said after a moment, his voice clipped with certainty.
"We cannot let him pass," he added.
"Legolas."
Aragorn spoke the name softly, without turning.
Legolas glanced back.
Aragorn lifted a hand and pointed, not at the Rider, but at the fell beast that bore him.
Understanding passed between them.
The Nazgûl was flying low over the trees, less than two hundred paces away.
Too close.
Legolas already had his bow in hand. He set his feet, drew a slow breath, and forced the creeping dread down into silence.
Then, beneath the cold moonlight, he drew to the ear and let fly.
The string snapped.
The arrow drove into the fell beast where the wing joined the body, and the creature shrieked as it lurched in the air.
He did not pause. A second arrow flew at once, punching through the creature's wing membrane.
The fell beast shrieked in agony and plunged into the trees.
"Now, with me!" Aragorn shouted, and he was the first to charge.
Boromir followed close behind, and Gimli hurried after them with axe raised.
And so a ridiculous scene unfolded.
The Nazgûl, struck by an attack from nowhere, was forced to land. The moment it hit the ground, two tall warriors and one shorter, all armed with blade and axe, burst from the forest. Before the Ringwraith could so much as gather itself, they hacked its mount to pieces in a flurry of blows.
Then they turned on the rider.
A short while later, Aragorn flicked his sword in a clean flourish and sheathed Andúril. Boromir also put away his iron sword, its edge carrying a Smite V enchantment. Gimli gave the Nazgûl's empty armour a couple of kicks, then looked between the two Men, honestly impressed.
"Your blade is no common craft, Aragorn. You cleaved the Nazgûl's helm clean open."
"And Boromir, that strike of yours made him suffer. His scream nearly deafened me."
"You were no less useful, Gimli," Boromir said with a laugh. "That axe of yours did fine work."
They laughed together.
A world where only the Nazgûl got hurt had been achieved.
…
At that same hour.
High in the snows, the Lord of the Eagles left the eyrie, and his great wings beat the cold air as he rose toward Zirakzigil, to greet the Grey Pilgrim's return.
And far away, in darkness deeper than stone, Levi felt it.
Not a voice, not a command, but a turning of the world beneath his feet, as though the very foundations of Arda had shifted.
The One, the Author of all, laid the lightest touch upon him.
And the summons entered bone and breath alike.
He, too, must return.