Chapter XIII: Of Departures
Fielding awoke to the welcome weight of blankets around her. She felt peaceful enough, but beneath that, she found a gnawing sense of loss. Had it been a dream? The memories of her previous encounter with the Witch-king were drifting back, and they only served to fuel the confusing mess of emotions roiling beneath her ribcage. He kissed her, and she let him. Encouraged him. For a great deal of time, until she had become numb. She remembered the point where she had lost her hold on him because her arms were too cold for feeling or strength. He had carried her back to her own chambers… She remembered, with growing embarrassment, that she had asked him to stay. He did not.
For a moment, despite everything, she had forgotten where she was. Her mind had returned to warm taverns and dares among friends, where there were no consequences other than teasing glances and clever jests. She had forgotten that she was a prisoner, and that he was a wraith more blood on his hands than she had years in her life. And still, very few questions had been answered. If anything, she had more questions than ever.
She pushed herself up from the warmth and safety of her bed. It was only then that she noticed a bowl set beside her bed, filled with fruit of all things. It was the most color she had seen in Minas Morgul thus far. The small gift cheered her a bit, and she reached for one of the bright-colored morsels, enjoying a sweetness she had not tasted since her time in Bree-town. It gave her courage, and she finally found the strength to stand on the cold stone floor. At that moment, a strange sound registered in her ears, and she realized she could hear a multitude of voices from the other side of the door that led to the dining-chamber. Fielding made her way over on silent feet, attempting to glean some of what was being discussed. It was unusual to have a crowd in this part of Minas Morgul—at least in the time that she had been present there. Naturally, she was curious.
Unfortunately for her curious mind, she was not able to clearly pick out the words that were being spoken, muffled as they were. The voices had a familiar rasping quality to them, however. She backed away slowly, suddenly sure that she did not wish to be caught eavesdropping here. Instead, she moved to the table in her room, still covered with her preliminary notes for her "investigation." These she pushed aside, and then she began to practice her Númenórean until the conference beside her room was finished.
In due time, the door swung open, and the Witch-king entered her room. Fielding glanced up at him, gently setting down her pen. Her heart was pumping wildly, as this was the first time she had seen him since the incident. Both to her relief and disappointment, he betrayed nothing of their previous encounter.
"You are to be moved from this place," he told her.
"To a different room?" She could not think of any other place that he could send her, unless he returned her back to the dungeons at last. The thought made her shudder.
But the Witch-king held up a hand, indicating that he wished for her to be silent. "To Dol Guldur."
"What?" Fielding pushed herself up from the table, stunned. "But the one who conspired against you, did you not say he was sent there?"
"Yes."
"Then why…?" The wraith was clearly tiring of her blatant interrogation, but she was too taken-aback to care. She was being liberated, only to be sent to another prison. The prison in question, though, was under the watch of someone who she had clearly burnt bridges with.
"You have noticed the preparations in the city?" He asked her, though it was less of a question and more of a statement.
She attempted to quell her sinking feeling. "Yes."
"The time for preparation is nearly over. I have been ordered to move forces to maintain our hold on Mirkwood. This order includes removing you from a position that allows you to hear and understand what comes to pass here. It is no longer a place for guests."
Fielding knew in her heart that they had seen through her plan from the beginning. They would not allow her to stay and gain information. In her time as a prisoner in proximity to the King, she had clearly forgotten her expendability. "Did you have a say in this?"
"I had enough of one, yes. My deal with you still stands. Khamûl will behave himself," the Witch-king said in reply.
"Let us hope so," Fielding said, not at all comforted.
The wraith did not address this statement, but rather continued on. "We will depart at moonrise. You will be provided with the necessary means to make the journey."
Fielding did not miss the significance of what he said. "We?" She asked him.
The wraith inclined his head. "I have business in the North as well—necessary preparations." He watched her closely, eyes glinting. "You did not think I would allow you to travel alone? You are no fool, and neither am I."
She did not know whether to be pleased or terrified.
True to his word, the Witch-king provided Fielding with everything she needed for the journey to Mirkwood. She wore a heavy traveling cloak over her shoulders, as well as a well-woven tunic that sat atop light chainmail. She was provided with a mount as well—a brown stallion that was well fed and strong. And, since she was placed under the Witch-king's watchful gaze for the entirety of the journey, she was allowed to travel unbound. It was a small blessing, but it relieved her not to have rope biting into the raw skin on her bony wrists.
They set out as the moon found its place into the dark sky above Minas Morgul. A larger company of soldiers, led by two ringwraiths, would set out on the same path upon the following night to join Khamûl in Dol Guldur. Fielding and the Witch-king were to travel ahead, however—an arrangement that she knew the Witch-king had most certainly made himself, since he did not seem the type to be slowed down in his travels. It did not bother her in the slightest. One wraith at a time was enough for her.
As they passed through the enormous gates set to guard Minas Morgul, Fielding felt her heart soar. At that moment, she did not think of what awaited her at the end of this particular trek. She was finally free of the city and its corpse-light glow. She would not see the dark bedchamber again, nor would she be haunted by its ghosts. Nevertheless, she felt a sliver of guilt upon leaving Vessë behind, despite her complicated relationship with the ghost-woman.
"I pray you find closure, my friend," She murmured, sending her thoughts back to the dark halls that the almost-wife of Gondor's fallen king roamed. And on they rode, leaving Nen Fielding's former prison behind.
The night was cold, but Fielding's traveling cloak was enough to keep the chill from her bones. She and her companion—or captor—traveled in silence, both keeping to their own respective thoughts. They followed the Harad Road from Minas Morgul, which took them through North Ithilien. To their right loomed the jagged mountaints of Ephel Dúath, which concealed Mordor beyond them. And, to their left, Fielding could just barely discern the lighted fires within Minas Tirith, the capital city of Gondor. So near her, and yet so far from her grasp. Fielding took her eyes away from the city, finding that its lights only rekindled the fear and sadness in her heart.
Before her, the wild landscape of North Ithilien unfolded, illuminated by the pale glow of the moon in the sky above them. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the fresh air that never found its way into Minas Morgul. It cleared her mind, and she smiled slightly despite herself. Their horses too seemed invigorated, and they carried along the narrow road at a steady clip. Fielding's stallion kept a surprisingly easy pace with the Witch-king's great black steed, and they rode abreast, nearly taking up the entirety of the old road.
After some time, when the lights of Minas Tirith were long behind them, she heard his cold whisper through the night air between them. "We will rest soon, lest the mounts tire too early for our journey."
No doubt he saw what she did as well: flurries of snow were beginning to drift into the darkness before them. The horses were capable, but she understood well the effort a winter ride could require. They continued for a while longer, until at last they came to a dark copse of trees—evergreens that still held their foliage. He signaled for her to leave the road with him, and they entered the copse until they were away from sight to any travelers. In the stillness of the night, Fielding heard the sound of a small brook not far from where they dismounted. The site was an ideal stopping-point, and the overgrowth above them shielded them from the snowfall.
Fielding turned her gaze to the Witch-king, finding him as tense as a coiled spring. He did not enjoy stopping, though he knew they had no other choice. It was either rest here or be forced to stop later in the unsheltered marshes and plains that awaited them further north. He motioned for her to find the stream, as it was not far from the clearing they had chosen. She followed the sound of rushing water, the pine needles crunching lightly under her feet as she found her way towards it.
The stream was indeed small, and ice-cold from snow runoff that traveled down the mountains. She plunged her hands into it, bringing a draught of the water to her lips. It was sweet and fresh, unlike that which she had been served during her time in Minas Morgul. She filled the cask at her side as well, unsure when they would run across another source such as this.
When Fielding returned to the clearing where they were to make their camp, she found it illuminated in the soft glow of witch-light. To her surprise, the light also offered warmth, though it held none of the comforting brightness of an open flame. It was enough, she supposed, remembering from her brief experiences on the Barrow Downs near Bree that wraiths and the undead did not particularly care for fire. At the very least, the witch-light was not enough to draw curious passers-by, if any happened upon the road at this hour.
Fielding made herself comfortable beneath one of the surrounding trees, spreading her cloak on the pine needles below it to create a surprisingly comfortable resting place. As she pulled a bit of bread and dried meat from her travel-pack to dine on, she kept her gaze on the wraith who stood several strides away. His eyes were directed upwards, perhaps watching for the first rays of sunlight to break through the branches. He was the picture of caution and discomfort, having calmed very little from the moment they had arrived at their place of rest. He had a long-fingered hand resting ready at his side, upon the hilt of a short dagger. Even from her spot beneath the tree, Fielding glimpsed the red glint of the ring upon his finger.
Stretched thin… How strong the pull of the magic around him must have been, in order to drag him beyond the veil of the living though he was not truly dead. He had mentioned rings of power to her in one of their conversations, long ago. It must have been the source of his power, she thought. Or the source of power for the One who had power over him. Though she was not especially cold, she shivered nonetheless.
Her thoughts returned to their kiss, and the ice that had immediately sought to travel deep into her bones. She wondered how she felt to him—if her skin was fire to his touch, or if it was a memory of life long spent…
The Witch-king turned his gaze upon her, before she could hide the fact that she was staring.
"I oft forget that you see what others do not," he said. Though whispered, his words carried easily to her. "It is an…unfamiliar experience."
Fielding managed a bit of a smile. "I forget too, to be entirely honest with you."
He did not smile in return, but she thought she saw his shoulders relax somewhat. There was an ancient heaviness in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. "I do not yet know whether or not I wish to welcome it," he told her. His hand had dropped from the dagger, but he still cut an ever-imposing figure. In the cast of the witch-light, his gaunt features appeared even sharper to her, and his hair gleamed like the snow.
"I understand," she said, having had similar conversations with ghosts as well. She often felt as an intruder might, gazing into a world that she was never meant to see. "If it helps you, I have no greater power for it.
"I do not need your consolation, nor do I believe you truly know what you are saying," he retorted.
Fielding turned her eyes back to her half-eaten bread, busying herself now by rewrapping it in cloth and returning it to her pack. She did not know how to answer, and she did not think he wanted one. As it had been quite consistently since the night before, the memory of the kiss returned to her. He had forsaken life for something greater. He both wished and did not wish to be reminded of it. That was the only thought that continued to run through her mind. Perhaps she did have a power over him. If that were true, her hold on life was more fragile than she had thought.
"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it.
"Sleep," he answered, after a pause. "We will not remain here long."
Fielding lowered herself onto her cloak, closing her eyes but unable to follow these orders just yet. Her mind was roiling, and it was not yet ready to stop. Her mouth moved to form the words before she was truly aware of it: "I did not mind your answer. From before…"
"There are those who did," he hissed in reply.
Fielding awoke to the pale light of dawn filtering in from the cover of pine needles above her. It appeared overcast, but she was relieved to find that she had not been buried in snow during her slumber. When she sat, she found the Witch-king waiting beside his steed, now wearing his heavy robes of black. Though he could still travel beneath the sun, he did not especially welcome its touch.
She sensed his urgency again and returned her traveling cloak to its place on her shoulders. As she hoisted herself back onto her mount, she felt his eyes upon her. When she turned to face him, he indicated for her to raise her hood and she did so, obscuring her face. She was still a prisoner, and he would not allow for her to be recognized.
They set out from the clearing at a steady trot, leaving the camp and their conversation behind. Beyond them, past the turn of the Harad Road, loomed the gray marshes and the battle plains of times long past.
So Fielding traveled North, at last, away from her prison and to another.
Author's Note: Confusion and drama! Nen and Angmar really have no idea how to deal with what happened, and to make matters more confusing, they are stuck together for quite a while. At the very least, Nen gets some fresh air and a change of scenery. But traveling, as we have learned from LOTR, is never a completely calming experience.