The Knife Diverted
The days passed uneventfully as Strider led the party through the Chetwood and out into Midgewater Marsh. Branwen had forgotten how tedious this sort of travel could be, as she swatted ineffectually at yet another swarm of mosquitoes. She wasn't entirely sure why her master would deposit her so far away from his goal, both in time and space, but his full vision could not possibly be known to her. Though faithful, and obviously his favorite agent, she was not privy to all his secrets. It was certainly not the first time he allowed her to suffer. This was, by far, the least painful by comparison.
It was no matter. For whatever reason, he wished her to be here, among the eventual heroes of the coming war. Who was she to question his designs?
"What do they live on when they can't get hobbit?" Sam groused.
Laughing, Branwen said, "They do not only feed on hobbit, I assure you."
Another day of slogging through the midge-filled swamp brought little comfort, for the low-lying ground robbed even tall Strider of a view to its ending. Branwen kept herself to the rear of the party, careful not to engage too much in conversation with the stoic Dúnedan. He frequently stared thoughtfully at her, as if he could somehow detect her nature, perhaps guess at her identity. She had operated in the shadows for so many millenia, it was unnerving in the extreme to be back among those who might actually be capable of seeing through her guise.
In camp that night, the eastern sky was illuminated by an eerie light show. Tilting her head to the side, Branwen's eyes narrowed.
"What is that light?" Frodo asked nervously. Branwen shook her head, bewildered.
Strider turned his gaze to the east, and he squinted against the distance. "It looks like lightning flashing upon the hilltop. I do not know what that portends." Turning, he fixed Branwen with a penetrating gaze. "Do you know what it means?"
"What makes you think I know anything?" she asked evenly.
Arching an eyebrow, he replied, "You claim to know much of what is otherwise hidden, including the whereabouts of Gandalf. At least, you knew he was delayed."
"A reasonable assumption, you will agree, I'm sure."
"How did you know he was even involved in this?" the ranger countered. "That is not a reasonable assumption."
Sighing deeply with no little annoyance, she folded her arms defiantly over her chest. "I know much, but not all." She gestured eastward. "That little display is not known to me. Gandalf's current whereabouts, also unknown. His role, however, is known. Why he was delayed in meeting Frodo... that knowledge will be revealed in good time. It shall not come to you from me."
"If such information would aid us..."
"It will not come from me," she snapped.
Her tone and demeanor ended the discussion. Strider sighed and turned his gaze back to the mysterious lights on the horizon.
Another three days of travel finally deposited them in a hollow at the foot of Weathertop, remembered by Branwen and Strider as Amon Sûl. Remaining behind with Sam and Pippin, Branwen settled herself within the dell while Strider took the others to the top of the ruins.
"We should not light a fire," she said absently. "There may be unfriendly eyes about. We have been lucky thus far; I would not trust to luck for much longer."
"You sound as cheerless as Strider," Pippin said, sitting on the cold ground and pulling his cloak tighter about his shoulders. "Why won't you tell us what's going on? You obviously know."
Glancing at him, she shook her head. "No. The time is not right for me to...interfere."
"Will there be a time when you will interfere?" Sam asked as he unloaded the pony's burdens.
"Most definitely," she said simply, but did not elaborate.
The hobbits shared a bewildered look. "And when will that be?"
"When the time is right," she replied, suppressing a smile as both halflings sighed in exasperation.
Shrugging, Sam wandered off to explore the dell, but Pippin was not so easily put off.
"So...how will you know the time is right?" he pressed, eyes narrowed slyly.
"My gut will tell me," Branwen said with amusement. "Or happenstance will be my guide. I will likely not know until the moment is upon me. I can't tell you anything more interesting than that."
"You are a puzzle, Lady Branwen," he said, shaking his head.
"Just Branwen, if you please. Formality in the wilds is unnecessary."
Sam came trotting up a few minutes later. "There are footprints, over by a stream not far from here."
"Stay," she warned as Pippin rose to investigate. "Leave them for Strider. He is Dúnedan. He will need to read the signs, and the less you trample them, the easier time he will have."
Reluctantly, the hobbits sat down. Not long after, their companions returned. Pippin leaped to his feet.
"Did you find anything interesting?" he asked eagerly, only to falter at the expressions on their faces.
"The Enemy is near," Strider said grimly. "We saw them, gathering not far along the Road. I fear they will make for this site by nightfall. We should prepare ourselves."
Branwen gave a short nod. "Then a fire would be our best protection. Sam, Pippin – fetch firewood, as much as you can carry. There is likely enough hereabouts, fallen from the older trees. Strider – Sam found some footprints not far from here. You may wish to have a look."
"I would," he said. "Sam, hold. Show me these prints." The two hobbits and the ranger trotted off into the gathering gloom.
"Frodo," Branwen said sternly, "I would remind you again. No matter what the temptation, do not put on the Ring. As I said before, you will become known to them, and the attention of the Nazgûl is not desired by anyone, least of all yourself. Make sure you secret it away where you cannot easily get to it."
"Why don't you carry it?" Merry asked as Frodo fumbled the chain bearing the Ring deeper beneath his clothing. "It doesn't affect you, and you shield its presence."
"I am already known to the Nazgûl," she replied patiently. "I am no protector. And I am not the Ringbearer, nor do I desire to be. I can act as a distraction only. Trust me, I will likely be as much a target as Frodo when they come. With luck, moreso."
"That does not sound 'lucky' to me," Frodo said uncertainly. "Do they not... frighten you?"
"No more than any other true servant of the Enemy," she said dismissively, then smiled. "Which is to say, yes, Frodo, they do frighten me."
Upon Pippin and Sam's return, Branwen busied herself building up a roaring fire. Strider informed her and the two hobbits of the signs they discovered upon the ruined crown of the hill. "Those lights we saw a few days ago must have been from Gandalf, if I read the message right. Though why he needed to blast the hilltop with fire, I cannot be sure."
"Should be obvious," Branwen snorted. "There is no better vantage point for spying the East Road than Amon Sûl. It is a wonder we did not find the Nazgûl waiting for us. Were I a Ringwraith, I do believe I would attack anyone I found here, particularly if that person was a wizard."
"That much, I could guess," Strider replied stiffly. "What is not clear is what attacked Gandalf, I should say." Branwen merely shrugged.
The hobbits huddled together in the hollow as the man and the woman stood resolutely just within the dancing firelight, their eyes turned toward the gloom. Supper had been a meager affair, lightened only by ancient tales related by the Dúnedan. One passage in particular haunted Branwen, clutching hard at her heart in remembrance.
One moment stood she, and a spell
His voice laid on her: Beren came,
And doom fell on Tinúviel
That in his arms lay glistening.
Faithful she was, but there would ever be a cold place left in the wake of his loss, and the part her master played. But even in this, it was not her place to question.
She could not indulge thoughts of her lost love for long. Her keen eyes caught movement in the darkness.
"They come," she said softly, calmly, and drew her swords.
"Take up a flaming brand, each of you," Strider ordered, casting his eyes about. The shadows began to take shape, yet he still could not be sure how many were there.
"Stay back," Branwen hissed when Merry advanced. "Shield Frodo."
The shades approached warily, and Branwen took several steps forward to meet them.
"What are you doing?" Strider cried.
"Mal brus-izgu tul?" one of the Nazgûl hissed, its voice hollow, malicious, and mocking. "Ghung ta narkul shaûk-golug-hai. Nar hon-izgu lat kûr. Mol kul-lat?" [What have we here? If it isn't the elf-friend. We have not seen you in a long time. How fare you?]
"Mol maath lat-ob shagat," Branwen sneered. [How sweet of you to ask.] She flexed her shoulders, spun her short swords, and assumed a fighting stance. "Nork gakhat, Angmar. Ta ghashnat za lat nar lûmpub naakh-sharla-irzi. Lat narkul zam sharkû za lat narpaash honat ur kul-izg." [Take care, Angmar. It is said you will not fall by a man's hand. You are not such an old man that you cannot see what I am.]
"Ghashanuzu," the wraith scoffed, drawing its sword and a long knife. "Fûru ghashnuzut darûkûrz-irzi." [Stories. Lies told by the weak.]
"Ghung za kulat ogh lat nargzab-ta...," she said with a shrug, then leaped forward. [If that is the way you want it...]
Strider was stricken with shock at the exchange, and slow to react when the woman launched her attack. A torch in each hand, the ranger worried the creatures' flank, catching their robes on fire. Branwen remained locked in battle with the leader. To his dismay, Strider saw the small figures of the hobbits joining the fray, waving their own brands about and crying out the names of Varda in their wrath.
The Dúnedan was helpless to prevent what happened next. Though he and the hobbits kept the others at bay, the tall wraith took advantage of a brief crack in the woman's defense. It drove the knife into her arm, wrenching it hard. Crying out, Branwen retreated, clutching her injury and glaring in fury at the Nazgûl lord.
"Honub-izgu lat urzkû. Aarûrz." Bending in a mocking bow, the wraith retreated, followed by its fellows. [We will see you again. Soon.]
"Bastard," Branwen muttered, then slid to the ground, her knees giving way.
"Are you well?" Strider cried, rushing to her side and embracing her before she could collapse completely. "Sam, Merry, build up the fire." The hobbits hastened to obey.
"Athelas," Branwen murmured, her hold on consciousness slipping. "Then we must fly. Rivendell. As quickly as...we...can..." Her voice trailed off to a whisper, then she slumped in the ranger's arms.