Warning: AU, violence

~ Down the Old Road ~

The nine Black Riders rode on, screeching and squealing, celebrating their victory at seizing the Ring, along with Its bearer. Though Sauron only needed the Ring, he would not waste the chance to torment the hobbit, rewarding him for his obstinate act – keeping the Ring from Its rightful owner.

The Witchking, the one taking hold of Frodo, pressed his skeletal hand upon Frodo’s back, eliciting a weak moan from the still unconscious hobbit. The Witch King had recklessly thrown the bound figure to the back of his horse after they had successfully escaped the other frail hobbits and the careless human who had patrolled at wrong side and come much too late to save the wretched creature.

Frodo had so far been an easy and obedient prey. Not that the hobbit intended to be. It was all because his divided self had been forcing him to feel what the other felt, to act what the other did, and to suffer what the other had to suffer. And he had been behind the shadow for as long as he knew, without realizing that his spirit self was literally beneath it, the fog, the very materialization of the Dark Lord Sauron himself. And when the one detained in the cursed land of Mordor stirred to wakefulness, the other one carried by the Ringwraith slowly awakened, too.

The Witch King sensed the waking of the hobbit and welcomed it with a sharp hiss.

“Come, halfling. Struggle and I will tear you apart.”

Frodo barely registered the sharp remark as he was still fighting with himself, trying clear his confusion, focus his sights, and catch his breath. He tried to lift his head but even that was difficult. After some time Frodo came to realize his uncomfortable position, lying on his stomach on the back of a horse, an enormous, pitch-black horse, with someone – or something – behind him. And his hands were still securely tied behind his back.

The jostling of the horse constantly tossed up and down, the harsh contact it made between the horse’s lithe body and his soft, empty stomach torturing Frodo as he got sicker and sicker. The hobbit groaned in agony as an attempt to draw more air to his head to rid off the growing headache failed entirely. There was no chance at all. The horse sped up like flying, making Frodo keep bouncing.

Worse of all, the wraith thought Frodo was being resistant to his words and thus decided to do something about it. He caught Frodo’s trussed up wrists in his grip and squeezed them so hard they cracked sickeningly.

Frodo bit his lip to stop him from crying out loud, but tears streaming down his face without him realizing it. How it hurt! The wrists had been sore enough to get additional pain.

“I… I…” And Frodo was forced to choke back his plea as a sound smack struck the back of his head.

The horses strode along with their foul riders, heading to Mordor, ignoring what Frodo was intending to say:

“I don’t have the Ring anymore.”

* * *

~ Flight from Orthanc ~

A sudden furore in the air awakened Gandalf to full consciousness. But he barely realized what the big shadow was as he was suddenly lifted into the air and slammed back, hard, on his stomach, knocking the air completely out of him. Gandalf shut his eyes and opened them again, gazing up to his attacker through the layers of his hair. Saruman.

“So, dear friend,” he leered mockingly. “What has your proper mind told you? Join me… or perish?”

“My proper mind knows exactly what to do,” grumbled Gandalf. “and it has nothing to do with you!” His chin up, Gandalf challenged Saruman, seethingly.

“Friendship with Saruman is not lightly turned aside,” Saruman, frowning, hissed threateningly.

Gandalf crawled up slowly. The air surrounding them stirred more vigorously. A flash of an enormous shadow startled both wizards. But Saruman hardly wavered.

“One ill turn deserves another. It is over! Embrace the power of the Ring, or embrace your own destruction!”

Gandalf bore his eyes sharply against Saruman’s.

“There is only one Lord of the Ring! Only one can bend it to his will. And he does not share power!” He turned around and without warning leapt off the Tower of Orthanc, landing on Gwaihir’s back.

“Meneg hennaid, mellon-nin,” breathed Gandalf, patting the sturdy neck of the gigantic eagle. “But now you must hurry!”

Gwaihir heard, sensed and smelled his close companion’s panic.

“Are you hurt my friend?” queried the bird. “I’ll fly you to Rivendell at once!”

“No!” Gandalf could not help shriek. Gwaihir jumped mentally but he succeeded in keeping himself checked and thus, flying steadily.

“Fly low and be on guard! We are looking for any sign of Frodo,” Gandalf continued before Gwaihir had a chance to ask a question.

“Frodo?” Silently Gwaihir cursed himself for being so out-dated. The answer came swiftly behind his ear.

“Yes, Frodo. Not Bilbo. He’s Bilbo’s nephew.”

Gwaihir restrained the urge of asking about Bilbo. Instead, he asked, “What is it about Frodo? Is he in a grave peril?”

Gandalf almost did not hear the question. He looked down the terrain that had been getting closer as the big eagle flew downward. Gandalf, sweeping across the landscape with his gray eyes, was expecting to spot two hobbits walking wearily with Aragorn. But soon he found that he could not even convince himself of that possibility. The vision or hearing of Frodo’s scream the other day had left him deep in sorrow, no matter how much his heart wanted to deny it. But…

“Look!” Gandalf cried, pointing out at a group of dark shadows moving swiftly. “Down, down!”

And while Gwaihir warped down in an amazing speed, Gandalf recognized in horror the figures of the Black Riders. Ringwraiths. Nazguls.

And they were heading toward Mordor.

Gandalf’s heart seized in dread. He had never wanted those creatures to ever march out of the bedeviled place to begin with, especially now. He knew they had come forth seeking the Ring. But if the Nazgul were returning to Mordor that could mean…Gandalf tore himself away from that line of thought, gooseflesh prickling all over his body. The Nazgul’s return to Mordor could mean that they had found the Ring…and its bearer.

Gwaihir tailed behind those creatures very closely in such a manner that they would neither hear nor feel his and Gandalf’s presence. Then the bird flapped his wings hard, ascended gracefully and swiftly forward.

Screeching sounds emitted from the Riders’ horseshoes being pulled to stop in a sudden movement. Gwaihir floated over the ground, still fluttering the wings a little, and his rider was staying on his back, labored breaths wheezing out of him. Gandalf was trying hard to compose himself but he found he could not. The sight of a small figure slumped over the lead Rider’s horse struck him like a physical blow. “Stay out of the way, wizard!” hissed the leader, who was unmistakably disturbed by the presence of the wizard and the eagle.. Gandalf’s brow furrowed.

“Wicth-King! Most twisted of all men! How dare you raise your voice against me!” Gandalf thundered, raising both his hands. He deeply regretted the loss of his staff in Isengard.

Yet, instead of cringe of fear the wizard had expected, it was soft, mocking chortle that came from the wraith.

“Beware of what you are saying. You might not know who or what is awaiting you!” With that, the Witch-King wrenched at Frodo’s backside of the cloak and hauled him up. Frodo stared wildly as he was seated in front of the wraith, letting out a strangled cry as he caught the sight of an unbelievably huge winged creature in front of him with…

“GANDALF!” he shrieked.

His suspicion affirmed, Gandalf leant forward, hands grasping Gwaihir’s feathers tightly. He was stupefied, angry, horrified. All came into one. It was Frodo. Frodo in the clutches of the Nazguls. Gandalf whispered something to Gwaihir, who then languidly drifted forward. The bird’s movement ceased at once as it felt Gandalf tighten his grip.

“No,” breathed Frodo. No, he was not saying that because the Witch-King had hurt or beaten him again. It was nothing like that. But the beast had indeed touched Frodo in a way that made the hobbit’s blood run cold. It was a caress, the hand around Frodo’s throat and creeping up slowly toward his chin. Frodo’s eyes went downcast in trepidation, his breaths heavy.

“A wise decision, wizard,” said the Witch-King smugly. “You are wise to keep your distance. I have your halfling and I will bring him to Sauron.”

Frodo squirmed a little at the mention of the name, and he earned the wraith’s cruel snag at his jaw. Gandalf could see now that the hobbit’s hands were bound behind his back.

“Do not try to pursue us or take him from us.” The other eight wraiths moved threateningly and now they were surrounding their leader.

“Damn!” cursed Gandalf silently. He strained to keep from losing sight of Frodo. The hobbit seemed like he was drowning in a sea of black, the fact that he was less than half the size of those Nazgul only intensifying the appearance of his utter helplessness. And the terror in Frodo’s eyes choked Gandalf further.

The only options available were horrifying; to do nothing while Frodo was being taken away to Mordor or press forward in an attempt to rescue the hobbit at the risk of seeing him killed by those evil beings.

“Frodo,” Gandalf called out.

The hobbit’s eyes were closed now, tears pouring down his pale cheeks, revealing outwardly the dread that came from the deepest part of his heart mixed with the longing for normal days in the Shire. Gandalf’s voice, however gruffy, sounded like a comforting chant in Frodo’s ears.

There was a rustling sound on his side as the beast reached down and drew out something. His eyes fluttering open, Frodo was almost relieved to see that it was not a long, terrifying sword that the Witch-King had fetched. It was a small and slim dagger though still considered long for a hobbit’s size.

On the contrary, Gandalf felt all his bones turn into jelly once he saw the weapon.

“Morgul blade!” he panted. “It might not kill Frodo but it would turn him slowly into an undead creature like those wraiths!”

Gwaihir tensed as he heard what Gandalf was saying. And the bird was now watching warily as the Witch-King slowly motioned the dagger to Frodo’s open throat. His skeletal hand was now rested heavily on Frodo’s shoulder.

A guttural cry from Gandalf marked his sheer despair upon the situation. The leader replied with a smug chuckle.

“We are leaving now,” he hissed, while delivering a silent threat as he pressed the blade further into Frodo’s skin, eliciting a gasp from the captive. Frodo stiffened as the horse he was riding was now moving backward, followed by the others. Terrified, Frodo could not choke back a sob.

“G – Gandalf…” His voice was just a notch above a whisper, shuddering violently. But the pressure of the blade was swiftly increased, silencing him altogether.

However, Frodo’s plea did not fall onto deaf ears. Gandalf had heard it and made a decision, a daring one. He had to go on!

Thus, while the horses were receding, Gwaihir silently mounted and started the pursuit.

The Witch-King, realizing the movement, cried out,

“SO! I see that you care not for the well being of the halfling! You asked for this, wizard! Now bid him farewell!”

The Witch-King lifted his blade off Frodo’s throat, tightened his grip on the hilt, and sank it deep into the front of Frodo’s left shoulder.

TBC