Writer note: This story was inspired by a chapter in shirebound's story "For Chance or Purpose" and my weird thrill from angst. Enjoy!
* * *
"Noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth!"
The great white steed flew off at maximum speed carrying the small figure
that held a short sword upright. A horrible shrill echoed through the
forest, and five Black Riders came racing up from behind then four more
followed. Frodo glanced to his side, and to his horror two of the Riders
were racing from a fair distance beside him. He could feel what their
plan was - to cut him off at the pass.
Frodo's heart wrenched and he clutched the horse's mane like it were his only
life-giver. Asfaloth rode on, faster than the wind. It wasn't long before
Frodo could see the Ford of Bruinen, but horror awaited him there. The
two Riders who had charged in front of him anxiously awaited his arrival.
He could see them in their raw form. Their night-dark cloaks were cast to
the ground, revealing white and gray-blurred figures - gnarled and
twisted from years of evil dwelling inside them. Pale, steely swords were raised high in their naked hands. Helms stood avoid their cold, glittering eyes.
"Come back! To Mordor we will take you!" they chanted to him. Frodo could
hear them in his ears and inner chambers of his mind, grabbing viciously
at him even though they were still yards away. Frodo closed his eyes shut
and yearned for Asfaloth to stop or turn away, but the white horse kept ahead.
The foam of the River hitting Frodo's feet gave him slight relief, but
all too soon, the relief was extinguished. An icy hand had seized his
waistcoat, spending Frodo into the River with a hard splash. He gasped in
water, and felt it flood down his throat. He squirmed frantically to
escape the enveloping horror. As quickly as he had been flung into the
water, he was at the surface again - the icy hand clenched tightly, but
not suffocating, around the back of his neck. He was raised high from the rush River into the air. An arm wrapped around his waist, holding him securely to a sunken, lifeless body.
Frodo knew who had seized him. It was a Black Rider, one of the two that
cut him off at the Ford. His mind was screaming, but no sound reached his
mouth. They have me! They have me! - was all he could comprehend in his startled mind.
"The Ring! The Ring!" the Riders unyieldingly chanted. Frodo, with eyes
still closed shutting out the terrible misshapen beings, could feel
himself being turned around. He struggled to keep control over his own
conscious. They would search him and find It.
NO! a clear voice screamed, breaking through the Nazguls' searing iron
grip. They will NOT have IT!
With one painful, swift move Frodo pulled out the gold chain which the
One Ring hung from, from under his shirt and yanked it from his neck. The
chain snapped. The Ring, too, had been calling to him all along. It urged
him to slipped It on. It burned his hand and cursed him when Frodo
rejected It's impulsed desire. With a weak cry, he uncurled his clenched hand and the Ring dropped to the ground.
The long, skulked fingers released Frodo's neck and curled under his
legs, pulling him even closer to the lifeless body. Frodo desperately
tried to keep his eyes shut. He felt the deadly black breath on his face.
Raw fingers ran over his brow, and a foul language Frodo did not
understand was spoken, not in his ears but in his mind. It called to him
to reveal the Ring, to join the Ringwraiths in the Shadow Realm where
they dwelt.
"To Mordor we will take you!"
His will failing like the last beats of a heart, Frodo felt lightheaded
but heavy with cruel weight. He realized the cold hand of the Nazgul was
upon his chest. Frodo heaved an agonizing cry. Then suddenly a great,
suffocating force pierced his chest, sending all breath from his body.
He knew no more.
* * *
"Noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth!"
The great white steed flew off at maximum speed carrying the small figure
that held a short sword upright. A horrible shrill echoed through the
forest, and five Black Riders came racing up from behind then four more
followed. Frodo glanced to his side, and to his horror two of the Riders
were racing from a fair distance beside him. He could feel what their
plan was - to cut him off at the pass.
Frodo's heart wrenched and he clutched the horse's mane like it were his only
life-giver. Asfaloth rode on, faster than the wind. It wasn't long before
Frodo could see the Ford of Bruinen, but horror awaited him there. The
two Riders who had charged in front of him anxiously awaited his arrival.
He could see them in their raw form. Their night-dark cloaks were cast to
the ground, revealing white and gray-blurred figures - gnarled and
twisted from years of evil dwelling inside them. Pale, steely swords were raised high in their naked hands. Helms stood avoid their cold, glittering eyes.
"Come back! To Mordor we will take you!" they chanted to him. Frodo could
hear them in his ears and inner chambers of his mind, grabbing viciously
at him even though they were still yards away. Frodo closed his eyes shut
and yearned for Asfaloth to stop or turn away, but the white horse kept ahead.
The foam of the River hitting Frodo's feet gave him slight relief, but
all too soon, the relief was extinguished. An icy hand had seized his
waistcoat, spending Frodo into the River with a hard splash. He gasped in
water, and felt it flood down his throat. He squirmed frantically to
escape the enveloping horror. As quickly as he had been flung into the
water, he was at the surface again - the icy hand clenched tightly, but
not suffocating, around the back of his neck. He was raised high from the rush River into the air. An arm wrapped around his waist, holding him securely to a sunken, lifeless body.
Frodo knew who had seized him. It was a Black Rider, one of the two that
cut him off at the Ford. His mind was screaming, but no sound reached his
mouth. They have me! They have me! - was all he could comprehend in his startled mind.
"The Ring! The Ring!" the Riders unyieldingly chanted. Frodo, with eyes
still closed shutting out the terrible misshapen beings, could feel
himself being turned around. He struggled to keep control over his own
conscious. They would search him and find It.
NO! a clear voice screamed, breaking through the Nazguls' searing iron
grip. They will NOT have IT!
With one painful, swift move Frodo pulled out the gold chain which the
One Ring hung from, from under his shirt and yanked it from his neck. The
chain snapped. The Ring, too, had been calling to him all along. It urged
him to slipped It on. It burned his hand and cursed him when Frodo
rejected It's impulsed desire. With a weak cry, he uncurled his clenched hand and the Ring dropped to the ground.
The long, skulked fingers released Frodo's neck and curled under his
legs, pulling him even closer to the lifeless body. Frodo desperately
tried to keep his eyes shut. He felt the deadly black breath on his face.
Raw fingers ran over his brow, and a foul language Frodo did not
understand was spoken, not in his ears but in his mind. It called to him
to reveal the Ring, to join the Ringwraiths in the Shadow Realm where
they dwelt.
"To Mordor we will take you!"
His will failing like the last beats of a heart, Frodo felt lightheaded
but heavy with cruel weight. He realized the cold hand of the Nazgul was
upon his chest. Frodo heaved an agonizing cry. Then suddenly a great,
suffocating force pierced his chest, sending all breath from his body.
He knew no more.