A storm is coming.
Dinah can taste it on the dense night air as she rides through the dark trees. Everything has gone so still, so quiet. She feels as though she's passed through some invisible veil of waiting, where the world has paused while the clouds fill and fill. How much of this ominous shadow is truly from the freshly fallen night, and how much belongs to the thunderclouds softly rumbling overhead?
A sharp, distant cry echoes from somewhere in the gloomy maze of moss and dead leaves and great old trees. Her heart races as she thinks of the four little boys.
What could they possibly have done to make themselves the prey of the Nazgûl?
There's only one thing she's ever known to make the Nine – now the Eight – this persistent, this vicious. Though it has been lost for an age, the whispers she heard that one night while scouting, the whispers her sisters scoffed at, the whispers she hears again and again in the darkness of her dreams…
No. They couldn't possibly carry-
Voices. High and fearful, arguing off the road to her right.
Dinah guides the stolen black horse of Rohan, gently nudging with her knees. He huffs and shakes his great head. Still, he changes direction, stomping off the muddy road. Not as easy a ride as Firefoot. Wherever that wonderful speckled silver steed is now, Dinah dearly hopes he's getting the rest he deserves. She hopes he knows his own way home.
When she comes closer, she hears snatches of their conversation:
"What is going on, Sam?"
"That Black Rider was looking for something… or someone. Frodo?"
"Shush! Here comes one now!"
She stops abruptly. She never considered how her taking the fallen Nazgûl's horse would be perceived, especially by scared children. Thoughtless, thoughtless wretch, she scolds herself bitterly. If Liesel were here, she would've known better. Liesel is always so conscious of how she makes others feel.
Dinah swallows hard and calls out into the great black, "I am no Rider. I hunt what hunts you. You have nothing to fear from me."
There is no reply. The shades of the trees stare blankly back at Dinah, revealing nothing and no one.
She takes a deep breath and shakily dismounts. Her head rushes, but she tries to stand tall like her vision isn't rapidly tunneling. After a moment, the immense midnight of the forest is restored. "I know they hunt someone named Baggins. That must be one of you. I offer my swords in exchange for information."
Auburn curls emerge from behind a tangle of roots, then two wide green eyes peer at her in earnest. "What information? We don't know any information."
"Pippin." Someone grabs the boy by the back of the neck and pulls him down.
Dinah bites her lip. "I want information about the Riders, why they hunt you. My life's purpose is to rid Middle Earth of the Nazgûl, and for decades they had laid dormant in the Morgul Vale. I want to know what brought them from their solitude."
She can hear them furiously whispering to each other. They need another small, firm push.
"If you tell me what I want to know, I promise you my full protection until I can return you safely to your parents."
Here comes the curly head again. "Our parents?"
"Yes," she says. "You're children. You should be with your parents."
Now comes another curly head, one with golden hair and furrowed dark brows. "We're not children. We're Hobbits."
Dinah blinks. "H… Hobbits?" She tries. Though she's never heard of them before, she supposes they must be telling the truth – she just left Hobbiton, after all. It makes sense that those little hole-homes in the ground belong to a race of physically smaller beings.
She studies their solemn little features. Through the shadows, she sees their faces are round with consistent meals – not boyishness. They have the slight scruff of early whiskers on their chins, and they carry the heavy weight of hard decisions in their steady gazes.
"Yes, yes, Hobbits! And we don't need your protection, because we don't need to go home to our parents! We make for the village of Bree-"
A third head appears from their hiding place. His honey-brown hair gleams in the faint light, and his sweet round cheeks are flushed. "Merry, don't you tell her everything!"
"But we can trust her, Sam!" The first one – Pippin, she thinks – insists. "She attacked the Black Rider outside Farmer Maggot's! She helped us get away!"
Three sets of eyes pierce her with their wariness, their hope.
She inclines her head. "Your friend is right. I am no threat to you. But there are many things in this forest that are – if you would go to the village of Bree, I will accompany you. When I can ensure your safety, I will take my leave. My condition remains the same: I want to know why the Nazgûl hunt you."
Those three sets of curious eyes dart to the side of Sam. The fourth boy – rather, the fourth Hobbit – must still be hiding.
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam asks softly. "What do you think?"
Slowly, rich brown curls and bright blue eyes peer over their refuge of branch and mud. He regards her silently, with the suspicion of a startled young deer. She tries to relax the rigidness of her shoulders, her natural grimace. She tries to look friendly. She tries to be like Liesel.
"What is your name?" He asks softly, firmly.
"I am Dinah."
"Why do you hunt the Black Riders?"
Her eyebrows raise. "That is not something that can be discussed here," she says evenly. "Nor was it part of my offer."
Frodo lifts his chin. "We must get out of the Shire. We go to the Prancing Pony, in the village of Bree. Our friend is waiting for us there. I would very much like it if you came with us… And when we are there, we will tell you our tale, if you would tell us yours."
Dinah bows her head. "It is how you would have it." She rests her hands on the twin swords at her hips, more out of comforting habit than any real sense of danger. "I am not familiar with this part of the world. How far is Bree? How do you plan to get there?"
The four Hobbits look at one another.
"Well, actually, Miss, we were sort of still figuring that out when you came," Sam says sheepishly. "Hobbits don't leave the Shire often, see."
"Buckleberry Ferry," Merry exclaims. "It's not far; I know the way – just follow me!"
His suggestion is eagerly taken, the Hobbits all falling neatly in line behind him. It comes just in time, too – as Dinah moves to remount, she suddenly hears the rhythmic pounding of hooves.
She glances over her shoulder at the stumbling little Hobbits. They carry sacks which look as though they are full of food and bedding. No weapons. She remembers the Shire, its unusual serenity. Remembers her first thought when she saw it: a peaceful place with no warriors to defend it.
She's on her own again.
"Miss Dinah?" Sam pauses his careful steps, frowning. "Are you alright?"
"You need to run," she says as she draws her swords. "I'll give you time."
"But… but I thought you were coming with us," Pippin chirps.
She takes a deep breath. "I will. First, I must ensure that I am your only travel companion this night." The Dark Heralds gaze up at her with keen amethyst eyes as she swings the steel blades lazily, rolling her wrists, loosening her stiff aching joints. She uses the flat of one sword to swat at the broad behind of the black horse of Rohan; he snorts and walks off into grassier areas, bobbing his head. Hopefully he knows the way home, too. Don't all creatures, deep down?
"Right," Merry agrees. Now they can all hear the gaining gallop from just over the high bend. "The ferry is due west. You can smell it before you see it. We'll wait for you there."
Dinah tears her eyes from the road to give him a serious look. "You will do no such thing. If a Rider comes, you sail, with or without me. I'll find a way to meet you in Bree."
"But you don't even know where-"
The Nazgûl charges over the crest of the hill. It rides in easy lopes, like it knows – it knows the hunt is over, the prey is just ahead.
The Hobbits don't need her to tell them to run – she hears the heavy flop of their large feet scattering fallen leaves and squelching in mud, and soon they are swept into the safe embrace of the impenetrable night.
Dinah's body feels heavy. Her eyes burn and the insides of her thighs are sore. Every step she takes feels like a punishment. But she still feels that familiar rush she always does when the Ring-wraiths are near, the strange surge of energy which makes her blood sing and her senses sharpen.
As the Black Rider approaches, she steps into the road and holds up her swords. "You will not find an easy path here, old man."
The horse rears in fury. Dinah doesn't so much as blink. She stares dead at the dark hood of the Rider, willing it to see her, but also hoping it doesn't recognize her – and if it did, that somehow things would be different. Somehow.
Fluidly, the Nazgûl slips down the horse's back and stands before her, as tall and black as the awakening thunderheads booming above them. It raises its long sword with both hands, almost as if asking her to be ready.
Dinah raises her blades behind her, settling on the balls of her aching feet, preparing to fly forth in righteous fury-
"Frodo!"
The shout stirs the sleeping wood. Flurries of birds shoot across the sky like a shower of feathered stars.
She looks at the impassive Nazgûl. It waits. The folds of its cloak don't even rustle in the new autumn breeze.
Then she runs. It feels like a betrayal of herself, of everything she stands for, everything she is – after all, she's spent months angry at her sisters for turning their backs on their duty as daughters of the Nine, but here she is, ignoring the curse's task for perfect strangers.
Merry was right – the further west Dinah plunges, the more the air turns thick and musty. When she finally breaks through the trees, she's greeted by the wide expanse of the Brandywine River. She's crossed its chilly waters before in the heat of high noon, but at night, its natural beauty and breadth is almost eerie. It stretches many misty miles with no end in sight. The choppy surface is oddly luminous too, like liquid moonlight.
There's a rundown boathouse just ahead, and through the rolling fog Dinah can see her new friends hurrying down the dock. A wooden raft waits for them. It's small, but surely it can hold the five of them, she thinks – she hopes. After all, the Hobbits are so short in stature, and Dinah is on the smaller side as far as humans go…
But then she notices there are only three Hobbits aboard. Their golden heads shine by the dim torches as they frantically wave – not to her, but to Frodo. He's still on the shore, stumbling over roots as he tries his best to get away from the prowling predator at his heels.
Dinah pants as she throws herself into a hard sprint, swords swinging beside her with audible slices. Her feet hammer like her anxious heart, and she wills herself to go just a little faster, just a little farther. If she dies tonight, nothing will hurt anymore. If she fails the Hobbits, it will hurt forever.
With a grunt, she leaps and lands where the dock meets the marshy shore, and her ankle nearly twists as she crouches low. Frodo is behind her – the Nazgûl in front. At the sight of Dinah, exhausted, determined Dinah in the soft lamplight of the pier, it shrieks, louder than ever before.
"Oh," Frodo yelps and trips, dragging himself backward with his hands as he stares at the looming shape of the wraith.
"Get up!" Dinah orders, but she's not sure if he can hear her through his terror. The other Hobbits cover their ears at the shrill, bone-chilling cry of the Nazgûl. "You're almost there! Get up!"
When he finally rises, his run rattling the rotting boards beneath her, she almost sighs in relief. He's going to make it.
The Nazgûl draws its sword and steps forward, an unfeeling statue of an evil warrior from long ago suddenly come to life.
Dinah plants her feet and readies her dual blades, pulse steadying as she lets curse-given instinct take over her body, command her mind…
"Come on!"
"Miss Dinah, run!"
She meets her enemy's swift stoke with her swords in a cross. The contact zips up her tired arms like the distant flashes of lightning, but she scarcely feels it, slowly sinking into her adrenaline. Neither of them relinquish their hard press, sending bright sparks through the gloom.
"Hurry, Dinah!"
The next blow she takes with only one of her blades, guiding the tip of the frigid Morgul sword to the ground. Then she spins, swinging her left around in a high arc. The Dark Herald winks at her as she slam the glinting steel hilt against her enemy's bony elbow.
Though the Nazgul are no longer truly human, they still feel pain – proven by the sharp scream of rage and hurt it lets out.
Dinah doesn't hesitate. In those few precious seconds of its agony, she turns and sprints down the dim dock, her feet thundering across the boards rivaling the rumbling skies above them. The wind is picking up. The water is seething below. She can hear other black horses arriving, can feel one's furious gallop gaining on her. The little raft the Hobbits sit on has drifted too far for her to make the jump; still, they wave to her, shout for her.
Three steps left, two steps, one…
Dinah takes a deep breath. She dives.
The cold Brandywine River rushes all around her, filling her ears with the churning of storm-bound waves and the strong natural current. She fights through the brisk cloud of bubbles, struggling to keep from gasping at the bitter chill. Her swords feel so heavy underwater – have they always been this heavy?
She forces herself to kick through the vastness, following the faint cast of the boat's shadow, lungs straining. How long has it been since she swam? The desperate motions come gracelessly, muscle memory from at least an age ago, when the little lakes near the castle of her girlhood gave her relief from the relentless South sun.
When she comes to the surface in a froth of waves, she's almost embarrassed by how raggedly she gasps.
"Dinah!"
Her hair falls across her face in a suffocating dark curtain. "I'm here," she chokes out. "I'm fine."
Sage is an avid swimmer: her father was Lieutenant of Dol Guldur, close to the winding Anduin, and she used to love regaling the Nine girls with stories about jumping into the Great River from the high cliffs of its pass. She and Dinah swam together once. Sage taught her to always turn her head to the side with each stroke so that she could breathe easier. "You'll drown yourself, Dinah," she had drawled. "You're always looking forward – you need to look back every now and then."
Sage thinks she knows everything, which is why she and Dinah are no longer close.
Her advice comes to Dinah now as she struggles, and when she stretches her body out for longer, deeper strokes, turning her head from side to side with each powerful sweep, she's annoyed to find that it helps. When she looks behind her, drawing one sputtering breath, she sees the Black Riders gathered on the pier, watching them drift further and further out of their dark grasp.
When Dinah finally reaches the raft, the Hobbits desperately grab at her heaving shoulders with their small hands, and they accidentally tug off her sodden cloak instead of pulling her aboard. Pippin tosses the damp garment to the edge of the tiny flat vessel. Dinah watches, alarmed. Thankfully, it clumps in the corner.
"Here, I'll pull myself up. Just take these, please." She drops her dripping swords into Sam's lap, who jerks away, sending them sailing across the deck. She lunges against the ledge, barely steadying their tumble before they slide overboard. She looks up at Sam with a brutal glare, ready to snap-
The pureness of his fear is breath-taking, almost contagious.
Dinah settles for a deep sigh instead. Hobbits are skittish around weapons. She should've known – this is new to them. She'll have to do better in the future.
With a grunt, she hauls herself onto the raft. It rocks dangerously, violently, but it doesn't capsize. The Hobbits stare down at her as she lays flat, shuddering and staring up at the storm clouds.
"Are you… alright?" Pippin finally asks her.
"Yes," she breathes. "I just haven't swum in a long time."
"You did a great job. I don't know how to swim at all. None of us do," he tells her cheerily.
Merry scowls. "I can swim if I need to, Pip," he says as he rows the single great oar. "It can't be that hard."
Dinah forces herself into a sitting position, blinking away floating spots. Her long hair is almost entirely out of her braid, sticking to her face and neck in thick ropes. "Frodo, are you-"
"I'm fine," he says quickly, with a quake of fear still in his voice. As fine as he can be, then, given the situation. He turns to Merry. "Where is the nearest crossing?"
"Brandywine Bridge," he reports. "It's about twenty miles at least."
"And you're all wet," Sam remarks, looking at Dinah. She's surprised to find genuine worry on his full face. "You'll catch a cold."
A large clap of thunder shakes all Middle Earth, and at long last, the downpour begins.
"Oh, that's nice," Pippin grumbles. "Very nice."
