October 3, 3018
It was as darkness arose, with the fall of Anor in the West and the coming of Ithil in the East, that the once-great Watchtower of Amon Sûl was at once assaulted. Four servants of the Enemy, there were, his most faithful, hidden they had remained since the fall of Angmar and yet, now, they rode once more. Broad and tall their steeds were; black as pitch yet illuminated by the watchful eye of Eärendil, the Evening Star, and so were their riders, similarly cloaked in the shadow of night. Without a sound, they swept up the ramparts crumbling in their step, their horses left waiting behind them. Yet, unnoticed, their arrival was not, for their foe stood; the mighty Glamdring of Turgon's line shone in one hand and, in the other, a wooden staff, sparkling gently in the light of the stars.
"Khamûl, Shadow of the East," the Istari muttered, "So it is true. Once more do the Nine ride." And, as they approached, drawing forward rapidly, blades' silver unsheathed, The Grey called upon his inner fëa, for, no mere mortal was he! Olórin, he was named, student of the great Manwë and Varda and wielder of Narya, ring of fire, untouched by even the Enemy.
The great Nazgûl screeched and yet continued forth, pushing Mithrandir to arms as he brought Glamdring to his defense. But, even with swords of old, outmatched was he, and summoning strength from the stars above and the memories of the structure beneath his feet, for the first time since the evisceration of the Necromancer of Dol Guldur, Olórin was once more present on Arda! And nigh the great Khamûl could survive the flames and lightning which the Maia's presence wrought, and so the Nazgûl fled into the night, darkness covering their tracks.
The Istari, tired as he now was, leaned heavily on his staff, and, upon finding a small stone near his post, carved solely a stroke, a dot, and three more strokes. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Ranger of the North as he was and with the blood of the Drúedain in his veins, would surely understand.
"Come, Shadowfax of the great Mearas! Show me the meaning of haste. To Imladris!"
Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Imladris on The Nazgûl at Weathertop
