"He could not be quite sure, but it seemed to him that suddenly, before it passed out of sight, the horse turned aside and went into the trees on the right."
-Three is Company, The Fellowship of the Ring
The cloaked rider could have sworn he had felt the ring. He could sense that it was close, but he could hardly trust those senses in broad daylight. He shook his head in disappointment, guiding his dark horse off the trail.
The off-road cut from Hobbiton to Brandybuck would have taken days for most anyone; the thick growth would slow even the swiftest rider significantly. The hooded figure ignored the roots and trees, pushing his huge mare to extraordinary speeds. Each bound was perfect and powerful, as if the horse didn't even notice the coarseness of the ground beneath it. The figure's cloak easily flowed around the trees and branches as if there was no solid body to slow.
The rider pulled his horse to a stop where the trees got thicker, causing his mount to whinny loudly. The last time he'd seen such large and majestic trees so densely he was driven out by the elves, and that was not something he wanted to recall. He slowed his horse to a casual trot, keeping an eye out for any unwanted company. If he followed the border of thick trees, he would come to the Brandywine River before nightfall, much earlier than the hobbits could hope for.
He had to struggle to keep his horse at such a slow pace, and almost allowed it to break into a run a few times. He liked when the horse was running or he was riding on the back of his bird; the wind almost made him feel alive. Almost.
It took a moment for the dark rider to realise that music had broken the quiet of his makeshift path. It was different than the music he was used to: war drums, hunting horns, and wild screams. It was cheerful and musical; it was alive. Pipes and horns blended to make a harmony unlike any he was familiar with. It was unlike the music of the east, and even more unlike the sounds of Dol Guldur.
The tune had managed to pique the figure's curiosity against his better judgement. He pushed his horse a little faster, justifying to himself that it would get him to Brandybuck quicker. The music didn't stop; as one song stopped another began, and as the black rider got closer he could hear voices and cheering. There was some kind of social gathering going on just beyond the forest edge. At this sudden realisation his immediate thought and fear was elves, but he settled on the fact that it was much too loud and careless to be an elven gathering.
It was maybe two minutes before he reached the source of the music, but it seemed as if it was the longest part of his journey. He could see where the tree line stopped, and he could see the beginning of the clearing, but the celebrators were still hidden by the thick woods.
He guided his horse slowly into the trees, wishing to remain unheard and unseen as he observed. As he got his first glimpse he felt foolish for not coming to the conclusion that it was a hobbit celebration earlier. The simple small folk were indulging in food and drinks and cheers; music was playing and people were dancing and sharing gifts and stories. The whole thing was so full of life and joy that it clouded the wraith's judgement.
As he reached with his mind to listen to everything he could, a rather boisterous voice began to cheer quite close to him. "To Milo Baggins and Dora Boffin!" Cheers and agreements ran through a crowd as the hooded rider tried to concentrate. It was hard. The area was so busy and bright and alive.
It was something he heard. Just now. He tried pushing things away and focusing. He could hear a hobbit girl crying somewhere. Someone was telling a story about cave trolls. A dog was barking at a passing squirrel. So many noises, it was too difficult to concentrate.
"Baggins!" a man greeted. Baggins. That was it. Baggins had the ring. That's who he was looking for. He shut out his dominant supernatural senses to focus on his more immediate surroundings.
Someone was walking directly into the forest around him. He had a purpose, and it looked like he wasn't stopping for anyone. He warily looked around to ensure that no one was looking, his eyes darting furiously as he started at his belt. Was he carrying a concealed dagger? The cloaked figure wondered if he was witnessing some kind of treachery.
Then his pants dropped and he started to whistle along with the music. He stared at the ground in front of him that was now darker and wet. When he looked up from his business he was greeted by a man twice his size in a whispy black cloak atop a beautiful black mare. "Baggins?" the figure hissed.
"N-no," the small man quivered, "B-Baggins is the fellow th-that just g-got married." The dark rider noted that the man wasn't entirely finished his business, as there was a fresh dampness gathering at the front of his trousers.
The hooded head nodded, and the figure pushed his horse casually to the clearing. Celebrations around him went quiet and small folk stared and whispered in hushed voices. The music slowly came to a stop as the musicians stopped to watch the cloaked big folk.
"Baggins?" came the rough hiss of the wraith. A shock spread through the crowd as each individual began to come up with their own stories about this foreign stranger.
A fancied man dressed in a groom's suit steps towards the rider, nodding slightly. His brown hair was ruffled from partying and there was an ale stain on his flamboyant white shirt. "Welcome," he offered a nervous smile.
The eyes, the wraith had learned, could betray any lie or façade. They were a window to the person's true thoughts and feelings. In the groom's deep brown eyes he saw love and happiness quickly drain to fear. He saw how far he was willing to go; how easy he would break in the end.
The wraith responded with a quiet growl. He outstretched his armoured hand in a demanding fashion "The ring."
"The r-ring?" he attempted to sound casual and in control. He was trying to impress his friends and family during his big moment. "I already g-gave that to the bride." The slight quiver in his voice was hard to miss.
"Where?" The coarse breath responded immediately after the halfling finished his statement.
Baggins pointed across the clearing to where festivities were still occurring and they hadn't noticed the wraith's presence. The beautiful bride was waving a bouquet of purple lilacs carelessly as all sorts of women showered her with attention. Her dress was untraditional according to the various cultures the wraith had come to be familiar with; it was simple and practical rather than excessive and bright.
He set his horse across the clearing and conversations died as he passed. People stared, wide eyed at his straight-forwardness and foreign nature. The woman that had been pointed out by her new husband had her back to the rider. She had the flowers lifted as if she were about to throw them at her guests, who were silent and pale due to the rider's presence.
The flowers never left the woman's hand, though, as she is greeted with a serrated blade impaling through her back. In a swift, unseen motion the rider had demounted and killed his prey. She fell back, her curled brown hair cushioning her head as she landed and her purple bouquet falls onto the rider's feet.
The small purple flowers individually wilt. Time seems to drastically slow as the wraith looks down and admires the charring lilacs. The screams of her company are ignored as the large figure kneels and takes the diminutive hand in his clawed gauntlet. He removes the knife from her back and uses it to sever her ring finger.
He closes his hand around his newly acquired treasure and breathes in for a moment. It was too easy. He waited for the power of the ring to surge through him. Small, pudgy faces stare in shock. Moments pass and nothing happens.
He sheaths his sword and picks up the scorched bouquet and inhales sharply. Rage begins to swell up within the cloaked figure as he rises from his kneeled position over the bride's bleeding body. With a curse he disgraces her with a powerful kick.
The figure releases a powerful, angry roar and throws the dead flowers at the tearing, frightened women gathered around him. A few step aside and there's a scream of shock as the lilacs fall limply to the ground. The wraith starts calmly at the horrified groom, pulsing with newfound anger. He admires the lone finger and tosses it to the hobbit.
A whistle emerges from under the black hood and the powerful black mare trots towards its master. As the wraith hooks his foot to mount the large horse, a courageous voice interrupts.
"You can't just get away with all this! You can't just leave!" It was the groom. The dark rider turned his head slowly to regard the diminutive upstart. There was a spark in his eye that the dark rider had not seen before. He had misread those eyes; they were brave and loving and completely lacked fear.
The wraith met the sparking challenge with a steady glare. The hobbit wouldn't see the fierce eyes, but he was confidant the idea would get across. The brave façade of the halfling slowly dropped, as the rider did nothing but watch. An empty fear replaced the brave spark of life and courage.
Baggins' short legs shook violently and he burst into a run: a race for his life. The dark rider did not pursue, but instead made a motion with his free hand and muttered a hissing curse at his intended prey. Friends watched in horror as the groom's skin thinned and rotted.
It started at his fingertips, slowly gnawing at the calloused skin, but soon sped up to the point where it seemed the decay was actually crawling up his arms like sick locusts. Tears ran down his burning face and he began to scream uncontrollably.
His cries went unheeded by the black rider, whose horse was already slowly cantering out of the clearing.