The night grows older and the darkness fuller. The stars hide behind dense clouds that don't keep their promise of rain. It's as if Middle Earth is waiting on the edge of something spectacular, holding its ancient breath so Dinah can catch hers.
She's tired. It has been two days since she last ate, last slept. It's frustrating, never being quite human enough, but also still being a little too human for a world that devours vulnerability.
The Nazgûl move like rushing water. They rode all through the previous night at a hard pace across the sprawling expanse of Rohan and plunged through the Gap just hours before sunrise turned the flat short grasses into lively fields of gold-green waves. Dinah has never known the Nine to prowl in broad daylight – the brightness blinds them – but they didn't stop to hide in the grimy shadows of Isengard. The only time they paused their furious ride up Old South Road was at high noon, seeking shelter in the sparse trees near Greyflood, where the stout horses of Rohan watered and grazed.
Their stamina is impressive, unparalleled – no other creature in Middle Earth could ride so hard, so fast, for so long. There were times Dinah thought their hearts might burst as they tore across the Greenway – but they kept on. No wonder the Marshall of the Mark came for them.
Even now, after charging onward for hours, Firefoot's gallops are steady and sure beneath her. His thick grey coat is dark with sweat, but he still responds to her gentle coaxing, her soft murmurs of his name. She knows that no matter what becomes of the nine black horses, she will make sure that Firefoot roams the plains of Rohan again.
As they splash through the chilling Brandywine River, Dinah is careful to keep her distance. She doesn't want the Nine to know that they are being followed. It was easier during the day when they had a very poor chance of spotting her, but the night is when they are as sharp as their ill-fated blades. Sometimes she lets herself lose sight of them, trusting that her body knows where to guide Firefoot. Sometimes she slows and counts the Riders ahead of her, listening for the rustle of fallen leaves and the rhythm of approaching hoofbeats. Sometimes she thinks – she wishes – she hears voices in the trees.
But nothing ever comes down the trail of longing and loneliness she leaves behind as Dinah follows her duty deep into the Eastern wilderness of Middle Earth.
The nameless forest they wade through eventually gives way to broad stretches of gently rolling hills. They gleam with life even at midnight, even as the Nazgûl trample patches of wildflowers.
There's something so comforting about this place, where she can see far and wide all at once. It is so simple, so… pure, somehow. Dinah has never been here before, and she hopes she never returns, hopes that the Nine never again haunt this corner of the world where a bit of goodness still exists. It's no place for them. No place for Dinah, either. Surely killers don't deserve to know such serenity.
But she's always going to remember it. She might even visit in her dreams: the land that opens itself completely to her, with the damp smell of freshly turned soil hanging on the dreamy night air.
She slows Firefoot to an easy trot, taking in the idyllic little haven… and sees something flickering in the distance. At first she thinks it's a campfire, and she stills as she waits for the shriek of the Nine descending on an unexpecting party. But the sleepy mystery world stays quiet. Then she notices another light further down the way, then another, and another. Dinah frowns. Are there patches of grass… burning? The Nine have done many horrible things throughout the ages, but she doesn't think they've ever deliberately torched the land-
Not fire. Windows. There are windows in the sides of the humble hills, shining out into the thickening night, and the dirt road is neatly groomed with small gardens along the red edges. Even more peculiar are the circular doors beside those earthen windows, painted bright shades of yellow and blue, which slam shut with tiny echoes across the hilly flats.
Dinah has seen the towering mountains where Dwarves live, and the large old trees that Elves sometimes inhabit, and she herself has been inside the enormous castles that Men make for themselves. But in all her too-long life, she has never known a race that lives in holes in the ground.
She doesn't know where she is, and she can't even begin to imagine who might live here. She's puzzled by the lack of sadness more than anything else. War touched every part of Middle Earth – though it was ages ago, though it was fought on distant fields, a sense of mourning pervades the whole of the world, looming over the living. Or so she always thought.
But here it seems like the only darkness is the night, and the only sadness is when winter takes the blooming beauty of the orchard, and the only pain is when a gardener gets a splinter.
Then she hears it, faint on the breezes that teases the coming of autumn: a cold voice that rasps, "Shire? Baggins?"
A quivering voice replies, "There's no Bagginses around here! They're all up in Hobbiton."
She narrows her eyes and pulls Firefoot to a stop. He lets out a tired sigh, nudging the dusty dirt with one great hoof, and her heart squeezes. If only she could give him a longer rest – he deserved it. They both needed it. But she already hears the thunder of the Nazgûl's stolen horses, and then there's nine silhouettes darting across the dark horizon, disappearing over the hill for… Hobbiton, she thinks it was called. And this is the Shire. The Shire.
Dinah takes a deep breath and counts the circular doors, the suddenly dark windows dotting the earth. At least five little homes; there may be more house-holes deeper in the countryside. Whoever lives in these parts is peaceful, maybe even naïve – they didn't question the Nine, didn't resist their intruding inquiries. They just shooed them with information.
This is the place Liesel wanted to visit most.
Dinah combs her trembling fingers through the thin tangles in her noble mount's mane, and she thinks – something that Sage says she should never do, because when Dinah thinks, she worries.
When she last saw her sisters a month ago, when they had the fight that caused them to go their separate ways, Sage was adamant that the Nine were permanently in hiding: "If we want to skewer the heinous wastes and be done with it, we need just enter the Morgul Vale. That's where they are, that's where they've always been, and if we leave well enough alone, that's where they're going to stay." Sage planned to drink to the apparent demise of their wraith-fathers in every inn of Middle Earth.
But Liesel felt that peace was finally here. The thing that every race longed for, died for – it was here, as good as it was ever going to get. "Nothing can be perfect, so we must make the best of what we have – and we have been given something very good," she had insisted. "Maybe… maybe even they want peace." For that reason, Liesel wanted to find a permanent place to live, a mark that their long days as huntresses were finally over. The most peaceful place she could think of, one of the few places in Middle Earth that they hadn't visited in their seemingly endless chase for justice – which felt more and more like revenge with each passing day – was the Shire.
From what Dinah could see, she knew that Liesel would love the Shire. She'd like all the sweet-smelling flowers, and the simplicity of the homes, and the starry skies that weren't obstructed by trees or mountains or battlements. It was truly lovely.
Even if she'd never mentioned it, the Shire would remind Dinah of Liesel. Its light-hearted nature, even after a visit from the Nazgûl, was so like her. The War, the curse, had changed most of the daughters of the Nine. Sage drinks. Dinah is anxious. Liesel endures, and she does so with grace. Stubbornly gentle and kind, even after killing orcs, goblins, and evil-doers alongside her sisters. Liesel would feel at home in the Shire.
She might even be here now.
Dinah scans the dark grasses with the clever eyes of her namesake. Watching, waiting, almost like she expects to find her friend standing in the shadows, smiling and ready to run under the sun and the moon without end again.
Sometimes she thinks the innate need to move as a unit is fueled by a curse-given instinct. After all, their whittled group doesn't like each other, not really. If it weren't for the sins of their fathers, it is likely that they never would have met. They became close against their will, sharing the same dark, damning secret. Not sisters by blood or by choice, but by inescapable duty. So why does she suddenly have a lump in her throat as she searches for someone she knows isn't there?
This is the first time since the Second Age that the three of them have been apart. It feels wrong, so wrong.
But Dinah can't let that sense of being off-balance stop her. The Nine are after someone named Baggins. She has to find out why, and the only way to do that is to find Baggins. Offer protection for answers. Hope she isn't too late.
The clouds rumble overhead. Dinah nudges Firefoot forward.
Hobbiton is much closer than she expected, hardly a few hours' ride. A cheery hand-painted sign welcomes her as the sun blurs starlit black into deep purples and budding blues – but just as quickly as she comes, finding the snoozing village as quaint and charming as the larger Shire, a sudden jerk in her gut tells her to turn and go west. The Nazgûl must not have found Baggins here.
The trees hang low, dipping in her face every time the wind blows its soft song. Dinah leans close to Firefoot as they navigate twisted roots and animal burrows. They change direction for the fifth time since the sun rose – either the Nine are separated and the curse wants her in nine different places at once, or Baggins is quite the elusive prey. They haven't gone far into the latest forest when she hears lilting voices in the distance. Arguing, she thinks, about… mushrooms?
Dinah snorts. Travelers, probably, who didn't pack enough rations for their journey and are now struggling to find things to eat. She's never been that hungry, but today might be a day of firsts. Her temples are starting to pound in time with Firefoot's weary gait. Soon she might be debating which mushrooms are edible, too.
As the voices get closer, her pulse starts to race. Her vision sharpens, her nose clears, her blood hums. Every part of her being lets her know that the Nine are closer, now, too. They're somewhere in these trees, clinging to the pockets of darkness. Some of them, one of them, all of them might be watching her.
Dinah's right hand leaves its sweaty grip on Firefoot's braids, her stiff fingers shakily dragging across her pants leg before gliding around the familiar hilt of one of the twin swords she wears on her hips. That small gesture alone gives her courage, gives her strength. These blades were masterfully crafted just for her, just the right length and weight for her slender build. They are solely steel, were cooled in the purest waters of Middle Earth. Perfect weapons, designed to kill the unkillable.
"Get off the road!"
The shrill shout rings out, sending dozens of birds flying from their late afternoon perches. Rabbits dash, lithe deer scramble.
Mindlessly, Dinah shoves Firefoot into a sprint. They leap over fallen logs and soar through patches of warm, waning sunlight. Drooping tree limbs whip around them, tearing at her bare face and hands. The wind no longer serenades – it howls.
Firefoot breaks onto a dusty road, churning up clouds. Her knees instinctively clench in guidance, and he turns to face their foe.
There – just ahead – one of the Nazgûl. It has been years since she saw one this close. It kneels at the edge of the path, scenting, stalking. Baggins must be near.
Dinah swings her left leg over Firefoot's bobbing body, heart pounding, muscles tensing, lungs filling. She jumps as she draws her swords, holding them high behind her like avenging wings as she descends.
It raises its hooded head, as if suddenly sensing her coming – but it's too late. Her feet land square on its back, and they topple over the ledge, down into the valley below.
She rolls to her feet; there's hair in her eyes but she just moves into the attack. She swings her blades in a deadly arc, and the Black Rider drifts away, then slashes with its long sword. Dinah ducks, narrowly missing the smooth stroke, then twirls her own blades. As they dance across the forest floor, the Nazgûl is constantly forced away – from the road, from the horses, from Baggins.
She can hear the hunted behind her, gasping. She risks a glance over her shoulder, hoping to see that this prey is smart enough to run when a larger predator intervenes-
Children. The Nazgûl are hunting children.
Dinah has never felt rage like this before. A rabid kind of heat unleashes from deep within her chest, pounding in her ears, blurring her vision. It engulfs her, breaks her. Haven't they ruined enough childhoods? Torn apart enough families?
Through her stinging eyes, she sees one of the little boys looking at her. His soft amber curls are a mess, and his face of full of fear – for her or of her, she can't tell.
"Go!" She barks, barely blocking the Black Rider's next blow. "Get away from here!"
The child doesn't need to be told twice. He scurries after his friends, tripping over his feet in his haste.
Dinah slams against the parry of the Nazgûl with a grunt. She only has one Rider here with her – there are eight more roaming Middle Earth, eight more in these woods, eight more hunting those four little boys.
Little boys. They're only little boys.
She roars as she thrusts her right sword forward, and while the Nazgûl swats it away, her left blade comes down hard, slicing through its arm as a flame eats through a feather. With a wail like shattering glass, the Black Rider wavers – but Dinah is faster. She spins into her next cut, and with the combined force of her swords and her fury, the invisible head of the first of the Nine to die drops to the ground with a dull thud.
Smoke rises from its fallen form, gathering in a thick and rapid whirl that stirs the dead leaves. Then it dissipates, leaving nothing but a limp robe crumbled on the forest floor.
The world suddenly comes back to her in a rush. There's no sound but the dying breeze and her own heavy gasps for breath.
They must've been fighting for hours and she didn't even know. At least a hundred exchanges, and she only remembers three.
Dinah is the first of the cursed daughters to kill one of the Nine. She did it. She actually did it.
Numbly, she drops to her knees and shoves her hands into the folds of the crumpled cloak. Perfectly ordinary now that it's not giving shape to a Ring-wraith. She fumbles, trembling hard, and all she finds is the freezing hilt – the Morgul blade itself has faded, just like its master.
She kneels in the dirt, suddenly feeling very nauseous, and stares blankly at the black remains.
Dinah doesn't know what she's supposed to feel: happy, relieved, sated. But she does know that in this moment, when she has finally done what her entire life has been devoted to, she doesn't feel anything at all.
Her face is wet. Was she crying as she fought?
The wind kisses her soaked neck, whispers against her damp brow, tosses stray strands of hair to curl with her sweat. She sucks down gulps of the crisp September evening, staring up through the trees at the pink sky.
Eight more Riders. Four little boys. One huntress.
Dinah gets to her feet and staggers to the road. Firefoot is gone – she glances up and down the darkening dirt and doesn't see the flash of his familiar silver. Through the all-consuming sense of shock, she feels a prick of regret. She had come to really like that horse.
The stolen black horse of Rohan is still here. He's happily grazing under a tree.
Dinah slides onto his strong back. The world spins in smears of grey and green and brown. She shakes her head, rubbing her dry eyes. She doesn't have time for exhaustion.
She has to find the children.
