A.N. – I don't own Gondor, Rohan, anyplace in those two countries, the
Shire, Bree, any Lord of the Rings characters or any members of the
Fellowship. I really don't own anything Tolkein wrote. You already know
that. I only own Carangeriel, the wolves and a few minor places and
characters.
Chapter 1
Shadows
"Who are you?" asked the gatekeeper of the little town of Bree, for the third time.
"I am a traveler, and I am tired, and the rest is none of your business!" growled the stranger. The gatekeeper thought it most certainly was his business; there had been too many strange people around lately, and this one was stranger than most; a tall, black-cloaked figure holding the reins of a gigantic black charger.
"Tell me who you are if you would have me open the gate," persisted the gate-man.
The traveler sounded very impatient now.
"Look, if I was a wraith, you would already be dead and your precious charge broken. Now let me in before I do break down this pathetic gate!" This last order carried such a threat that the gatekeeper gave up. He could most certainly not win a fight through a closed gate with such a creature as this; he slowly eased the portal opened and the stranger's black stallion strode through, seemingly without prompting from his master.
As they rode past, the gatekeeper tried to get a look at the rider's face through the thick shadows of the hood that covered it. At last, desperately, the villager called after the dark figure,
"At least tell me what you are called!"
Slowly, the figure turned til the place where its face should be was facing the gatekeeper.
"I am called Morandir."
The name had an black sound to it, even to the gatekeeper, who knew not enough Elvish to know that Morandir means "Dark Wanderer".
This is really a strange night, thought the gatekeeper, first two right rich-looking Shire-hobbits, now hardly half a candlemark later this thing!
Merry and Pippin were nervous, very nervous. The Prancing Pony was so different lately; even when they had first returned from their adventure with the Fellowship of the Ring five years, it had been more fearful, more withdrawn, than the first time they visited it, and now all in it were practically terrified of every shadow.
"I think," Merry said in a low voice, "that we shouldn't stay here too long. Frodo's already on his way to Rivendell – and I don't like the look of that bunch over there."
He nodded at a group of loudly-laughing humans. One wore a gold pendant, another a ruby ring. They all carried sword and none of them looked like savory characters.
Pippin nodded, then tensed as a rough-looking man from that group headed for the hobbits.
"What're you little folk doing here?" the man asked, hoglike.
"What we're doing is our own business," Merry responded, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on the silver-bound horn of Rohan given to him by King Eomer. The man grinned wolfishly.
"That's nice," he said on, innocent enough words but dangerous tone.
The stable-boy of the Prancing Pony looked up at the sound of muffled hooves, moth slacking open as he raised his head. A huge black stallion trotted into the courtyard, ridden by a midnight-cloaked figure. The rider stepped out of the saddle before the horse had quite stopped, stood by the horse's head for a moment, scratching the great animal behind the ear, talking to it softly while the stable boy watched.
"Ay, Mornie – your place for the night. Not much, I know," the rider said as the horse snorted, "But better than the road. And probably better than the inn."
Mornie whickered softly, nudged his master, who may have smiled. The cloaked figure patted the horse on the neck, led him into the stable.
The stable boy just stood there the whole time, totally forgetting to ask the stranger if he wanted help with the horse. Soon, the cloaked rider returned, striding silently past the boy and into the inn.
Both hobbits and the human looked up as the door opened. The man gave a little yelp of surprise, nearly dropped his mug of ale; both hobbits drew their swords.
"Is that a wraith?!" Merry whispered incredulously to his companion.
"I dunno, Merry. It looks like one."
For a moment they stared apprehensively at Mornie's rider as he walked over to the bench in the dark corner in which, six years ago, the halflings had first seen Aragorn.
Someone whispered in a hushed voice "Morandir." The dark rider had a long silver sword, black-hilted, bare, at his belt. Soon the name had spread around the little inn, "Morandir…Morandir."
He ignored it; Merry tried to go back to his belated dinner and ale.
"Morandir – Elvish…" Pippin said, and the rider's hooded head turned towards him.
"Yes," Morandir said in an expressionless voice, "Elvish for Dark Rider."
"Why that? And why are you in Bree?"
"Use your head, Peregrin Took," replied the distant voice.
Merry's hand tightened so hard on the handle of his ale that half the contents of the cup sloshed out.
Morandir had already gone back to staring into the fire.
He was hungry and cold, but not enough to order food or move closer to the fire. There were too many dangerous-looking people in the inn; he didn't want to show any sign of weakness.
There was also another feeling, one so long unfelt it seemed almost alien to Morandir. Loneliness. He had spent so many years alone, he had grown very used to being alone. He had Mornie, and that was all he needed. At first, though, when he'd first been alone, it had hurt. He'd cried sometimes in that first half-year, but he'd learnt to block it out. Then, after a while, he'd not even had to block it out. It just wasn't there anymore. Then, lately, it had come back, not as frequently as it had at first, but just as strong. Now he felt it coming again, put up the mental barriers. Unconsciously, his hand drifted to the hilt of the elvish sword. He wore another sword at his belt, back under the cloak. It had a cross- hilt with a black, engraved hilt, but he didn't use it. For nearly six years, it had been broken.
Morandir's eyes drifted over towards the hobbits, but he immediately tuned them back to the fire, staring into its heart.
Carangerial rolled over and over in the grass, grabbing at her 'sister's' big grey paws, laughing. The grass tickled her, like her companion's fur and she lashed out again, tripping her 'sister'. Both wolf and elf rolled down the hill; Anera, the wolf, was grinning all over, but Carangerial's laughter didn't spread to her eyes. After a moment, Anera noticed.
Carangerial, what is on your mind?
Does it show that much? the elf sighed. Yes…there are things around, I think, that should not be. Even the villagers, foolish things, have noticed.
Oh…we didn't know if you knew. Father said not to mention it to you, that you already had enough on your mind. We should have known better.
Father said that!? What does he think I am? Maybe I Should go down to the village – there's something going on down there.
Argh. You hate it and you hate them and we hate it when you go. Why go?
Because I am nosy. And because it might be something important.
With that, Carangerial sprang to her feet, silent and grey as a wolf, and moved off down the hill towards the village. Aside from her hair, she looked about fifteen and, unlike most elves, she was actually within twenty years of the age she looked. Her hair, nearly three feet long, was silver, very thick, shaded with black, like a wolf's. Carangerial was as fierce as she looked, and many of the villagers moved aside like frightened rabbits as she entered the village.
Ghostlike, she slipped into the crowded council hall. A few people looked up at her, and one hissed,
"We're sending someone to Rivendell. Someone got killed by a warg, and a lot of others are spooked."
"Who are you sending?"
"We don't know yet, that's what he meeting is about."
Carangerial had almost spoken before the man said half-pleadingly, "It would be good if we could send an elf…"
"I will go." Carangerial said loudly. It took a long moment for the noise to die down, and then for people to figure out who had spoken. The mayor looked at Carangerial and blinked heavily several times.
"You what?" he asked.
"I said, I'll go," Carangerial snapped, light-green eyes blazing.
"A-all right."
The wolves weren't happy. They felt very protective of and loving towards Carangerial; they had half-raised her since she was very young. Her adoptive family in the village had given up on her when she was just twelve; since then, she had lived with them. Now, they objected loudly to her leaving for Rivendell.
"I have to go! This evil, whatever is causing it, concerns all of us, and if I don' go, some villager will bungle it. They aren't' outside at night, won't know what to ask. and part of the problem is wargs; if I don't go, they might take it out on you."
After that, the wolves reluctantly shut up, and the next morning, their adoptive daughter set out for the fabled House of Elrond.
Chapter 2
The Road to Rivendell
"Merry, you know what?"
"No, what?" the other hobbit responded, in no mood for chatter.
"Back there in the Pony, with your sword and horn, you know who you reminded me of?"
"Not really," Merry replied, just wanting Pippin to shut up.
"You looked a lot like Boromir!"
Merry couldn't help but laugh at them. He couldn't think of very many people less like the hobbits' long-dead friend.
Suddenly, both hobbits hurled themselves to the side as an arrow swished past. Something heavy hit Pippin in the back of the head and he sprawled forward, his world swimming. Merry rolled over on the road, tripped over his feet, stumbled up, drawing his sword, but it was too late; already, the seven mean-looking humans from the inn had surrounded them. Pippin stumbled up, blinking, pulling out his own blade.
One of the humans laughed.
"You can give it up, little ones. Just give us anything of value you have on you and keep your fool mouths shut up, and you'll stay alive."
"Not a chance in Mordor, orc-breath!"
With that, Pippin made a lunge at the leader's horse. The human sent him sprawling backwards as another lashed out at Merry.
It didn't take the hobbits long to realize they were doomed, and that even giving their things to the robbers wouldn't help; Merry had cut one of their arms, and the humans were thoroughly infuriated.
Pippin stumbled and fell over backwards for the fourth time, a human charging down on top of him, when a horse screamed and fell, rolling over, panicked.
Merry and the two robbers on their feet lurched backwards as a silver elven-sword swished down, severing one of the outlaw's necks. In the center of the fighting mass, a black horse reared and one of the robbers dove in under its forelegs, trying to stab the black-hooded rider. Mornie crashed down, sending the man tumbling to the ground, and Morandir reined the stallion in a tight circle over Pippin, who was holding up one arm as if to shield himself.
The riding outlaws tried to close in about Morandir; one swish of his sword killed their leader, and a quick stab sent another on his was to eternity. For a few heartbeats, the rest stared at him, then turned and fled. Morandir, too, turned his horse off the road, and vanished in the shadows of the wood.
"Pippin, are you okay?" Merry asked, breathless.
"Yes – that Morandir. He went in the woods; I don't want to be on the road. He could se us, we can't see him."
"Pippin, that's stupid! He saved us!"
"And why?"
Morandir hadn't meant to follow the hobbits. When he set out from the inn, he did not know that they had taken the road he followed. Surely these two could not be leaving on another long trip; they had already had one grand adventure, and generally even one is too much for a hobbit. At first, when he entered the woods, Morandir had paused to watch them. Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took…Merry and Pippin. No, don't think of them, dark rider, don't remember.
He was going to Rivendell, going to speak with Elrond of the evil creeping back into the world from the East. Morandir of all the inhabitants of Middle Earth should know of it, Morandir who rode equally in night and day, Morandir of the elven-sharp senses, Morandir who feared no living thing and whose curiosity drove him into the foulest places.
He did not want to go to Rivendell; that was yet another place with too many memories, to great a likelihood of meeting a familiar face. However, the elves who had befriended him, to whom he owed his life, had suggested that he go for them, though he was not one of them, and he could not turn them down.
Behind him, there was a long, cold howl, answered in the distance by another and yet another, til the night was full of wolfsong, but none of them were close enough to trouble Morandir or his steed. The night was growing cold, unseasonably so, and Morandir noticed, sniffing the wind and easing his hood back slightly to feel the air on his face. There was something wrong with the night. Mornie whinnied softly and shifted restlessly to the side as he trotted; Morandir gently signaled the horse back to the front, but got no response. Suspicious now of the cold night, he put more pressure on the rein, pulling Mornie back into a course parallel with the road. The stallion snorted and tossed his head, eyes rolling. Once again, Morandir reined him back, then, letting go of the reins, spurred Mornie forward. The Dark Wanderer was an extremely excellent fighter, but was not eager to do battle with what followed him, the source of the night's strange coldness. Bravery in facing foes one could not escape, or in defending something or someone loved, was a great thing to Morandir, but not the foolery of waiting for an enemy one has almost no chance of defeating.
In the forest a little behind him were five figures nearly identical to Morandir; tall, black-cloaked, mounted on dark charges. Their undead hands were encased in armored silver gauntlets and they strained sightlessly forward, guided unerringly by their uncanny sixth-senses. The Nazgul hunted again. With a whispered word like a sigh of wind, they leapt forward as one creature after their quarry.
Morandir did not know for sure what followed him, but he was fairly certain his hunters were Ringwraiths. If so, their mounts were probably horses of Rohan, in which case elven-bred Mornie should have a distinct advantage of speed and endurance. That should be enough to spare him a fight, unless there were more enemies ahead…
He leaned hard to the left, turning Mornie sharply. Not knowing how many were following was a disadvantage; so was the fact that the Black Breath was starting to gnaw at his heart. This is no time to despair, he thought as Mornie dashed into a large clearing where he could see the wraiths more clearly but, unfortunately, they could see him just as well. They want you to give in. don't let them have their way. He felt himself calming. As long as he didn't despair, even if they caught him they couldn't truly defeat him.
Anera had followed Carangerial as far as she would. It was with sadness that the elf bid her sister farewell, but, as she walked on, Carangerial felt her spirits rising. She had never been this far away from the pack or village. This was her first adventure, and it excited her to actually be going out on her own, exploring, as elves are born to do. She was a bit frightened, also; to be alone for the first time and going to someplace as far away as Rivendell was slightly intimidating, even to an elf.
"Why isn't Sam coming, again?" Pippin asked.
"Because he has a family," Merry told his friend with a sigh.
"But his life didn't stop him following Frodo last time! I wonder where that rider is!"
"I don't know, and I hope I never shall find out!" the other hobbit said fervently.
Chapter 1
Shadows
"Who are you?" asked the gatekeeper of the little town of Bree, for the third time.
"I am a traveler, and I am tired, and the rest is none of your business!" growled the stranger. The gatekeeper thought it most certainly was his business; there had been too many strange people around lately, and this one was stranger than most; a tall, black-cloaked figure holding the reins of a gigantic black charger.
"Tell me who you are if you would have me open the gate," persisted the gate-man.
The traveler sounded very impatient now.
"Look, if I was a wraith, you would already be dead and your precious charge broken. Now let me in before I do break down this pathetic gate!" This last order carried such a threat that the gatekeeper gave up. He could most certainly not win a fight through a closed gate with such a creature as this; he slowly eased the portal opened and the stranger's black stallion strode through, seemingly without prompting from his master.
As they rode past, the gatekeeper tried to get a look at the rider's face through the thick shadows of the hood that covered it. At last, desperately, the villager called after the dark figure,
"At least tell me what you are called!"
Slowly, the figure turned til the place where its face should be was facing the gatekeeper.
"I am called Morandir."
The name had an black sound to it, even to the gatekeeper, who knew not enough Elvish to know that Morandir means "Dark Wanderer".
This is really a strange night, thought the gatekeeper, first two right rich-looking Shire-hobbits, now hardly half a candlemark later this thing!
Merry and Pippin were nervous, very nervous. The Prancing Pony was so different lately; even when they had first returned from their adventure with the Fellowship of the Ring five years, it had been more fearful, more withdrawn, than the first time they visited it, and now all in it were practically terrified of every shadow.
"I think," Merry said in a low voice, "that we shouldn't stay here too long. Frodo's already on his way to Rivendell – and I don't like the look of that bunch over there."
He nodded at a group of loudly-laughing humans. One wore a gold pendant, another a ruby ring. They all carried sword and none of them looked like savory characters.
Pippin nodded, then tensed as a rough-looking man from that group headed for the hobbits.
"What're you little folk doing here?" the man asked, hoglike.
"What we're doing is our own business," Merry responded, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on the silver-bound horn of Rohan given to him by King Eomer. The man grinned wolfishly.
"That's nice," he said on, innocent enough words but dangerous tone.
The stable-boy of the Prancing Pony looked up at the sound of muffled hooves, moth slacking open as he raised his head. A huge black stallion trotted into the courtyard, ridden by a midnight-cloaked figure. The rider stepped out of the saddle before the horse had quite stopped, stood by the horse's head for a moment, scratching the great animal behind the ear, talking to it softly while the stable boy watched.
"Ay, Mornie – your place for the night. Not much, I know," the rider said as the horse snorted, "But better than the road. And probably better than the inn."
Mornie whickered softly, nudged his master, who may have smiled. The cloaked figure patted the horse on the neck, led him into the stable.
The stable boy just stood there the whole time, totally forgetting to ask the stranger if he wanted help with the horse. Soon, the cloaked rider returned, striding silently past the boy and into the inn.
Both hobbits and the human looked up as the door opened. The man gave a little yelp of surprise, nearly dropped his mug of ale; both hobbits drew their swords.
"Is that a wraith?!" Merry whispered incredulously to his companion.
"I dunno, Merry. It looks like one."
For a moment they stared apprehensively at Mornie's rider as he walked over to the bench in the dark corner in which, six years ago, the halflings had first seen Aragorn.
Someone whispered in a hushed voice "Morandir." The dark rider had a long silver sword, black-hilted, bare, at his belt. Soon the name had spread around the little inn, "Morandir…Morandir."
He ignored it; Merry tried to go back to his belated dinner and ale.
"Morandir – Elvish…" Pippin said, and the rider's hooded head turned towards him.
"Yes," Morandir said in an expressionless voice, "Elvish for Dark Rider."
"Why that? And why are you in Bree?"
"Use your head, Peregrin Took," replied the distant voice.
Merry's hand tightened so hard on the handle of his ale that half the contents of the cup sloshed out.
Morandir had already gone back to staring into the fire.
He was hungry and cold, but not enough to order food or move closer to the fire. There were too many dangerous-looking people in the inn; he didn't want to show any sign of weakness.
There was also another feeling, one so long unfelt it seemed almost alien to Morandir. Loneliness. He had spent so many years alone, he had grown very used to being alone. He had Mornie, and that was all he needed. At first, though, when he'd first been alone, it had hurt. He'd cried sometimes in that first half-year, but he'd learnt to block it out. Then, after a while, he'd not even had to block it out. It just wasn't there anymore. Then, lately, it had come back, not as frequently as it had at first, but just as strong. Now he felt it coming again, put up the mental barriers. Unconsciously, his hand drifted to the hilt of the elvish sword. He wore another sword at his belt, back under the cloak. It had a cross- hilt with a black, engraved hilt, but he didn't use it. For nearly six years, it had been broken.
Morandir's eyes drifted over towards the hobbits, but he immediately tuned them back to the fire, staring into its heart.
Carangerial rolled over and over in the grass, grabbing at her 'sister's' big grey paws, laughing. The grass tickled her, like her companion's fur and she lashed out again, tripping her 'sister'. Both wolf and elf rolled down the hill; Anera, the wolf, was grinning all over, but Carangerial's laughter didn't spread to her eyes. After a moment, Anera noticed.
Carangerial, what is on your mind?
Does it show that much? the elf sighed. Yes…there are things around, I think, that should not be. Even the villagers, foolish things, have noticed.
Oh…we didn't know if you knew. Father said not to mention it to you, that you already had enough on your mind. We should have known better.
Father said that!? What does he think I am? Maybe I Should go down to the village – there's something going on down there.
Argh. You hate it and you hate them and we hate it when you go. Why go?
Because I am nosy. And because it might be something important.
With that, Carangerial sprang to her feet, silent and grey as a wolf, and moved off down the hill towards the village. Aside from her hair, she looked about fifteen and, unlike most elves, she was actually within twenty years of the age she looked. Her hair, nearly three feet long, was silver, very thick, shaded with black, like a wolf's. Carangerial was as fierce as she looked, and many of the villagers moved aside like frightened rabbits as she entered the village.
Ghostlike, she slipped into the crowded council hall. A few people looked up at her, and one hissed,
"We're sending someone to Rivendell. Someone got killed by a warg, and a lot of others are spooked."
"Who are you sending?"
"We don't know yet, that's what he meeting is about."
Carangerial had almost spoken before the man said half-pleadingly, "It would be good if we could send an elf…"
"I will go." Carangerial said loudly. It took a long moment for the noise to die down, and then for people to figure out who had spoken. The mayor looked at Carangerial and blinked heavily several times.
"You what?" he asked.
"I said, I'll go," Carangerial snapped, light-green eyes blazing.
"A-all right."
The wolves weren't happy. They felt very protective of and loving towards Carangerial; they had half-raised her since she was very young. Her adoptive family in the village had given up on her when she was just twelve; since then, she had lived with them. Now, they objected loudly to her leaving for Rivendell.
"I have to go! This evil, whatever is causing it, concerns all of us, and if I don' go, some villager will bungle it. They aren't' outside at night, won't know what to ask. and part of the problem is wargs; if I don't go, they might take it out on you."
After that, the wolves reluctantly shut up, and the next morning, their adoptive daughter set out for the fabled House of Elrond.
Chapter 2
The Road to Rivendell
"Merry, you know what?"
"No, what?" the other hobbit responded, in no mood for chatter.
"Back there in the Pony, with your sword and horn, you know who you reminded me of?"
"Not really," Merry replied, just wanting Pippin to shut up.
"You looked a lot like Boromir!"
Merry couldn't help but laugh at them. He couldn't think of very many people less like the hobbits' long-dead friend.
Suddenly, both hobbits hurled themselves to the side as an arrow swished past. Something heavy hit Pippin in the back of the head and he sprawled forward, his world swimming. Merry rolled over on the road, tripped over his feet, stumbled up, drawing his sword, but it was too late; already, the seven mean-looking humans from the inn had surrounded them. Pippin stumbled up, blinking, pulling out his own blade.
One of the humans laughed.
"You can give it up, little ones. Just give us anything of value you have on you and keep your fool mouths shut up, and you'll stay alive."
"Not a chance in Mordor, orc-breath!"
With that, Pippin made a lunge at the leader's horse. The human sent him sprawling backwards as another lashed out at Merry.
It didn't take the hobbits long to realize they were doomed, and that even giving their things to the robbers wouldn't help; Merry had cut one of their arms, and the humans were thoroughly infuriated.
Pippin stumbled and fell over backwards for the fourth time, a human charging down on top of him, when a horse screamed and fell, rolling over, panicked.
Merry and the two robbers on their feet lurched backwards as a silver elven-sword swished down, severing one of the outlaw's necks. In the center of the fighting mass, a black horse reared and one of the robbers dove in under its forelegs, trying to stab the black-hooded rider. Mornie crashed down, sending the man tumbling to the ground, and Morandir reined the stallion in a tight circle over Pippin, who was holding up one arm as if to shield himself.
The riding outlaws tried to close in about Morandir; one swish of his sword killed their leader, and a quick stab sent another on his was to eternity. For a few heartbeats, the rest stared at him, then turned and fled. Morandir, too, turned his horse off the road, and vanished in the shadows of the wood.
"Pippin, are you okay?" Merry asked, breathless.
"Yes – that Morandir. He went in the woods; I don't want to be on the road. He could se us, we can't see him."
"Pippin, that's stupid! He saved us!"
"And why?"
Morandir hadn't meant to follow the hobbits. When he set out from the inn, he did not know that they had taken the road he followed. Surely these two could not be leaving on another long trip; they had already had one grand adventure, and generally even one is too much for a hobbit. At first, when he entered the woods, Morandir had paused to watch them. Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took…Merry and Pippin. No, don't think of them, dark rider, don't remember.
He was going to Rivendell, going to speak with Elrond of the evil creeping back into the world from the East. Morandir of all the inhabitants of Middle Earth should know of it, Morandir who rode equally in night and day, Morandir of the elven-sharp senses, Morandir who feared no living thing and whose curiosity drove him into the foulest places.
He did not want to go to Rivendell; that was yet another place with too many memories, to great a likelihood of meeting a familiar face. However, the elves who had befriended him, to whom he owed his life, had suggested that he go for them, though he was not one of them, and he could not turn them down.
Behind him, there was a long, cold howl, answered in the distance by another and yet another, til the night was full of wolfsong, but none of them were close enough to trouble Morandir or his steed. The night was growing cold, unseasonably so, and Morandir noticed, sniffing the wind and easing his hood back slightly to feel the air on his face. There was something wrong with the night. Mornie whinnied softly and shifted restlessly to the side as he trotted; Morandir gently signaled the horse back to the front, but got no response. Suspicious now of the cold night, he put more pressure on the rein, pulling Mornie back into a course parallel with the road. The stallion snorted and tossed his head, eyes rolling. Once again, Morandir reined him back, then, letting go of the reins, spurred Mornie forward. The Dark Wanderer was an extremely excellent fighter, but was not eager to do battle with what followed him, the source of the night's strange coldness. Bravery in facing foes one could not escape, or in defending something or someone loved, was a great thing to Morandir, but not the foolery of waiting for an enemy one has almost no chance of defeating.
In the forest a little behind him were five figures nearly identical to Morandir; tall, black-cloaked, mounted on dark charges. Their undead hands were encased in armored silver gauntlets and they strained sightlessly forward, guided unerringly by their uncanny sixth-senses. The Nazgul hunted again. With a whispered word like a sigh of wind, they leapt forward as one creature after their quarry.
Morandir did not know for sure what followed him, but he was fairly certain his hunters were Ringwraiths. If so, their mounts were probably horses of Rohan, in which case elven-bred Mornie should have a distinct advantage of speed and endurance. That should be enough to spare him a fight, unless there were more enemies ahead…
He leaned hard to the left, turning Mornie sharply. Not knowing how many were following was a disadvantage; so was the fact that the Black Breath was starting to gnaw at his heart. This is no time to despair, he thought as Mornie dashed into a large clearing where he could see the wraiths more clearly but, unfortunately, they could see him just as well. They want you to give in. don't let them have their way. He felt himself calming. As long as he didn't despair, even if they caught him they couldn't truly defeat him.
Anera had followed Carangerial as far as she would. It was with sadness that the elf bid her sister farewell, but, as she walked on, Carangerial felt her spirits rising. She had never been this far away from the pack or village. This was her first adventure, and it excited her to actually be going out on her own, exploring, as elves are born to do. She was a bit frightened, also; to be alone for the first time and going to someplace as far away as Rivendell was slightly intimidating, even to an elf.
"Why isn't Sam coming, again?" Pippin asked.
"Because he has a family," Merry told his friend with a sigh.
"But his life didn't stop him following Frodo last time! I wonder where that rider is!"
"I don't know, and I hope I never shall find out!" the other hobbit said fervently.