Disclaimer: I own nothing that is recognizable to the Lord of the Rings franchise. The languages used in this story are Quenya, Primitive Elvish, and Sindarin. These are all owned by J.R.R. Tolkien.

What ARE mine are the original characters and the Darkmen tongue

Black Rider

"Something is coming, Celeborn."

He placed a gentle hand on her arm, comfort in his eyes.

"What have you seen?"

"A rider...garbed in black."

"Nazgûl?'

"No, I know their presence. This is something more different that anything I have seen."

"Are there any emblems, markings?"

She closed her eyes, trying to recall the vision of the black rider, the sweeping cloak darker than night, the speed of the horse. Stunned, the blue orbs sprang open, her tone disbelieving:

"I saw no signature, Celeborn, yet there was something I recognized: an essence I knew, yet 'twas not Eldar."

Celeborn reeled back, his expression thunderstruck and his mind staggering.

"Avari?"

"Yes," she said, her voice unsteady, "and moving swiftly. Whomever rides pauses only to rest and feed their horse, a descendant of a mearas. I do not know how long they have traveled, but they will have reached our borders in three days' time."

Thunderstruck, the Lord of Lórien unceremoniously dropped to a nearby bench; so stupefied was he his seating did not have his usual grace and a soft thud! was heard.

Neither spoke, so unusually engrossed in their own thoughts. The turmoil of Celeborn's mind lessened, at length; the spirit of the woods soothing him, allowing him to truly think on what this latest development would mean.

Time passed for them, sitting in the glade and thinking. At long last, Galadriel stood.

"It has often troubled my heart to remember the days of the war with Sauron."

As she looked at him, he understood and felt her pain along with his own. At length, he remarked:

"Not all the darkness of those memories was caused by Sauron alone ... some was of our own making, and now it has returned to cast its light to all."

His wife bowed her golden head over her mirror, her eyes closed as she recalled those days after His defeat. At her voice, Celeborn looked up:

"Come, my husband," she smiled sadly, holding out her hand to him, "Let us walk awhile beneath the lights of Elbereth."

He took her hand and placed it on his arm; they both watched as the stars above them sparkled and cast shadows upon the ground.

Together, they walked along the moonlit talans, both in pensive thought; after a time, Celeborn spoke:

"What shall we do now, my wife?"

Galadriel sighed, resting her head upon his shoulder. Gently, he took her in his arms, causing her head to shift to his chest. Tucking her hair beneath his chin, he held her beneath the stars of their Golden Wood. In a quiet voice, he answered for her:

"I take it that you do not know, either, melethen."

Grass of the lands she traveled whipped at her horse's legs as they raced toward their goal. Her black cape flew behind her, trailing in the whistling wind.

The beat of her heart grew feverish, her blood pounding through her veins as her spirit melded with that of Hravan. /Na tyelca, meldenya, na tyelca!/ she cried into the void /Na tyelca nauva wilmë!/

The horse screamed in response and she felt his muscles tightened between her thighs as he added another burst of speed to their haste. Joining her spirit with that of the horse, she poured all she could into his heart, giving strength and endurance. He neighed once more, charging his head forward as the wind screamed at their approach.

Faster than time they flew, riding for hours past nightfall and before the sun had risen; they thundered past the Mountains of Ash and the Dead Marshes, so fast was their pace the stinking marshland did not have a chance to force its stench upon them. Past the Sea of Rhûn, they had paused only refresh the horse's strength.

Sálindë hurried the process by using the technique her father had taught her brother before his death, who had in turn instructed her. Thoughts of anxiety and despair were forced from her mind as she immersed herself in her surroundings, drawing the strength through her body in to Hravan.

That first time she had used this trick in the Western lands, the readiness of life had knocked her off her feet quite literally; she hadn't had time to realize her home and this land were so very different. Yet with each taking of spirit, Sálindë knew she had to give it back: after each rest, she returned the life, as it had nurtured and strengthened their own enough.

The rise of each morn saw her riding hard and swift; the setting of the sun would find her unchanged. Ever quickening, ever hastening, she and her companion never strayed from their course.

A.N.:

Translation:

Melethen my love

Na tyelca, meldenya, na tyelca Faster, my friend, faster!

Na tyelca nauva wilmë Faster we must fly!