Chapter Text
In its prime, Amon Sûl had been a strong and proud watch tower, ideally placed to watch over the Great East Road, and built to last through the ages. The strength of the architecture did not get a chance to be tested against the passage of time, though, with territorial skirmishes causing damage to the once great tower.
But though its long disuse had left the roof caved in, the tall walls that remained in some parts were a boon to the wind-torn and weary travelers.
The four hobbits seemed eager to rest, but their taller companion kept himself alert.
“These are for you.” He said, as he threw each of his charges a blade. “I’m going to have a look around. Stay here.” He strode off, leaving the hobbits to sort themselves out.
Frodo was weary from the journey—both the actual walking involved and the stress of what was to come. He sat down. He would help set up camp in just a moment. He just needed a brief rest…
Sleep claimed him quickly, a gentle embrace for his tired soul. His companions were much more lighthearted, though, and they quickly did what they could to make their evening more enjoyable.
Alas, these were hobbits that had been cosseted in the safe haven of the Shire, and they had no real understanding of the stealth necessary on a trek such as theirs. Frodo was much more aware of the danger, the burden he carried weighing heavily on his shoulders. He slowly drew himself out of the embrace of sleep before his mind registered exactly what he was smelling. Woodsmoke. And roasting tomatoes. A dangerous combination, he realized, being where they were.
“What are you doing?!” Frodo hissed. The light of the fire was reflected in his wide blue eyes as he looked fearfully at what the others had done.
“Tomatoes, sausages, nice crispy bacon.” Merry replied, not looking over at his distant cousin, instead smiling down at the delicious feast he was tending to.
“We saved some for you, Mr. Frodo.” Sam said, smiling at the brunet.
“Put it out, you fools! Put it out!” Frodo was quick to jump into action, kicking dust into the fire to smother it.
“Oh, that’s nice!” Pippin protested, looking down at his plate with a sad frown. “Ash on my tomatoes!”
A screech was heard from the darkness, a familiar cry they all remembered from the tense night in The Prancing Pony, and the hobbits immediately froze, all levity forgotten. They looked to Frodo for direction. He’d been the only one smart enough to see the problem in lighting a fire on top of a watchtower, after all. And besides that, he was the oldest.
“Go!” He motioned them up the steps, and they all raced to the top of Amon Sûl. But the top of the watchtower offered them no security. They were surrounded by the wraiths that hunted them.
“Back, you devils!” Sam cried, brandishing the sword he had been given. The Nazgúl knocked the sword out of his hands and then threw him aside. Sam did not descend gracefully from his brief flight, and hit the stone hard as he landed, lying in a huddle on the ground.
Merry and Pippin, finally showing some of the sense they’d been born with, realized that the dark figures had a target in mind, and they placed themselves in front of Frodo, trying to guard him. But they were untrained, more scared than they had ever been in their lives, and very small in relation to the gaunt figures, and they were easily cast aside as well.
Frodo backed away, his shaking hands dropping his only weapon, and he lost his footing, falling to the ground. He looked up in horror, wondering if this was how the four of them would die. A syllabant hiss seemed to curl around his ears, and he found his hand reaching towards his pocket unconsciously. The ring was whispering to him.
He drew the gold band out of his pocket, and the leader of the Nazgúl seemed to see it. The wraith drew his dagger and walked towards the hobbit, who tried to crawl backwards only to meet the resistance of an immovable stone wall.
Trapped in a corner, the hobbit could only watch in terror as the figure came closer, reaching out to him; Frodo felt the ring slip onto his finger. Had he meant to do that? Or had it just happened? His world changed to a whirling mist, and he could see the Nazgúl for what they really were. Ghostly figures of kings whose names had been lost to time, just as their souls had been lost to the darkness. Frodo shuddered in horror.
The Witch King reached for Frodo’s hand, but he drew it back, shying away from the menace. The wraith reached forward to stab the boy for his insolence—he would be just as capable of getting the ring from a corpse—but a ripple seemed to go through the air.
Both the hobbit and the undead king froze. It wasn’t just a ripple in the air, like some kind of heat mirage. It pulsed through their bodies, a visceral feeling that was not quite like anything Frodo had ever experienced.
Amon Sûl was no bastion of mystical arts. It had been built by the hands of men, and defended by the same. It was home to no greater magic than that which might be seen in any Man who puts his heart into leading his people and protecting his home.
But the absence of any magical importance doesn’t preclude the presence of magic by itself.
And how else could one categorize the pulsing energy emitting from one of the still intact archways? It was certainly no natural phenomenon. Frodo’s eyes were fixed on the archway, but his opponent seemed to have deemed the glowing opening as unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and had let his dagger resume its previous path.
Cursed blade met unprotected flesh, and Frodo screamed. His blood looked black in the light of the ring world, and the hobbit would have recoiled if he’d had the strength to move. The grasping fingers of the Witch King were reaching for him, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to defend it for much longer, but he couldn’t give up! This couldn’t be… He couldn’t…
Darkness seemed to be closing in, and he dreaded the idea that the last thing he would see was the ghastly face of the Nazgúl.
A shadow flickered from off to the side, and the wraith backed off. Frodo managed to take off the ring, reappearing in the real world, with its very real sensation of pain. He couldn’t be sure if the ring had been suppressing the feeling or if he had been in some kind of panicked haze, but the wound on his shoulder seemed to burn much more fiercely under the light of the moon.
“Frodo!” Sam cried, running over to the wounded hobbit, apparently having recovered from his brief lapse of strength.
“Oh, Sam!” Frodo gasped out, seeing the flickering of fire at the corner of his vision.
“Strider! Help him, Strider.” Sam demanded, and the Ranger hurried over. He lightly pressed his fingers over the wound, and Frodo screamed again. He drew his hand back and examined it. The blood had veins of darkness in it, and something metallic glinting in it.
“He’s been stabbed by a Morgul blade.” He said, before leaning forward over Frodo’s face. He pulled up the hobbits' eyelids, taking in the dilated and unfocused pupils, and how feverish he suddenly was, despite the fact that it was quite chilly. “This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs elvish medicine.”
The Ranger straightened up and found three pairs of eyes looking at him. Looking up to him, both because of his stature and because they were lost and needed him to lead them.
They were so very lost. So very far from home.
“Pack up the camp. We need to make haste towards Rivendell.”
The hobbits jumped into action, and the Ranger allowed himself the smallest moment of respite, walking over to one of the arches and resting a hand against it, looking out into the distance. It was dark, and not good to be on the move, but they could not afford to wait—not with Frodo wounded with something so foul and fast acting.
Frodo gasped again, and Strider whirled around, hurrying towards the smaller figure.
“The light… The light!” Frodo panted, and Sam seemed to be twisting himself into a fit of distress.
“Don’t go towards the light, Master Frodo!”
Strider examined the hobbit’s vital signs again, discovering to his confusion that Frodo’s eyes were, in fact, focused on something this time. He turned his head to follow his gaze and saw one of the arches that lined the side of the platform they were on. There was a dark smudge along one side, and he had a feeling that it was the same black blood that was oozing out of the hobbit's wound.
“It’s…. She’s…” Frodo couldn’t seem to get his words to come out properly. “The light…” Sam looked at the Ranger in confusion, but the Man wasn’t looking at Master Frodo anymore. He was staring off to the side, his brows furrowed in confusion. Samwise decided he might ought to take a look as well, and what he saw puzzled him quite a bit.
The archway was glowing. It wasn’t the warm, flickering glow of a fire, or the low constant light of fireflies. It wasn’t even the steady and bright light of the sun.
The illumination was subtle but still readily apparent in the darkness, and it was a cool light that seemed to be pulsing.
Pippin and Merry rejoined their fellows, their packs put back to rights, and then they, too, were drawn in by the strange sight. Who had ever heard of an archway that glowed without any oil or wicks?
Because they were all so focused on the archway, they all bore witness to the figure that came shooting out of it, skidding across the stone floor before coming to a stop directly in the center of the tower.
They all froze, staring at the white-clad form, which had not been there moments before.