It's finally raining.
There's no need for rain here – nothing ever grows in these cursed lands – but it's a break from the foul stench that hangs over the endless stretches of ash and rock. It's a stink that can be seen, a thick smog that clings to cloaks and tangles in hair. There is no escaping the smoke of Mordor.
Except for when it rains. Even the briefest shower brings something pure to the Black Lands, just for a moment.
Dinah almost smiles when she feels the first cold drop. A storm has been threatening all day – thunder rolling across the dark sky, seeming to rage at the clear blue stretches in the East. Throughout her too-long life, she has seen many lands transformed by nature and time, but there is something so strangely beautiful about rain sizzling across Mordor. It's like stepping into a dream. A hazy, hopeful promise – nothing and nowhere is too far gone.
But then, that's just a dream.
Her legs are aching. She's held this tense crouch behind one of the many rugged boulders outside the gates of Minas Morgul for hours – sometimes she thinks she can hear the individual joints groaning in protest. She's been trying to find her courage, but she's afraid it might've gotten left at the last inn she stayed in, along with her favorite whetstone.
It's easier to be brave when she's with her friends. She doesn't have to think; she just have to move, and they move with her, a dance of death across the rolling plains and jagged mountains of Middle Earth, with no finale in sight. So comes the duty of the cursed daughters of the Nine.
Now there are three of them left to fulfill their mission, to rid the realm of their families' legacies, and to give their fallen sisters peace in their rest. Isn't it cruel, how they can only experience the Gift of Man if they are killed in battle? The Númenóreans feared the End, but she fears never knowing an End.
The rain comes down softly, sweetly. If Liesel were here, she'd probably squeal when the tiny droplets decorated her auburn hair like little wet baubles. Then Sage would harshly tell her to be quiet, and then the shoving would start. Their fathers hardly got along – why should they?
Because we're better than them, Dinah has always said. Because we have to do what they could not. Because it's our duty.
She shivers and forces her groaning knees deeper into the forming mud. Her lips almost touch the dark rock before her as she stares blankly at the ghastly gates, waiting. An odd grey-green glow oozes from the tower, like a beacon in the damp descending dusk.
When night finally falls, the gates will open. The Nazgûl will emerge – hopefully – and she will have to be quick to follow them.
Something sinister is brewing in Mordor. Dinah has known it for years now. She can feel it in her very being, the strange sixth sense she and her sisters were given with the curse. When the Nine are on the move, her gut twists. It will only go away if she paces, and the pacing will only stop when she begins to walk without knowing where her feet are taking her, only trusting that somehow, they know the way.
Liesel and Sage have gotten better at ignoring the signs. Perhaps they see them and don't want to believe them. Ever since the Battle at Angmar, where most of their sisters were slaughtered while fighting the Witch-king, it has been quiet. The Nazgûl have not been sighted for some time now, rarely leaving the confines of the Morgul Vale.
Liesel thinks that peace has finally, truly come to Middle Earth. Sage thinks the ferocity of their fighting has convinced the Nine to go into hiding. Dinah can't give herself the comfort of believing either of those theories, no matter how much she wants to, no matter how much she longs for a simple, human life. If their job was done, the curse would be lifted. Judging by how easily she can hunt despite not having eaten today, she isn't human again. Not yet.
It's more than the feeling of impending doom. Orcs have been seen roaming Isengard. Fumes hang over the valley, even shading parts of Fangorn and Rohan at times. And a whisper, a passing whisper she heard about the One Ring…
When she told her sisters this, they hadn't quite laughed but they hadn't taken it seriously, either. The three of them were alive during the War of the Last Alliance, they reminded her – they knew firsthand that Sauron had been defeated.
Not killed, Dinah had reminded them – and secretly reminded herself, too. Defeated. Nothing simply disappears, especially not evil things whose plans were foiled. They simply hide and they wait for the right time to strike again.
She was going to find proof. She would scout Minas Morgul, track the Nazgûl on their next errand, hunt all across Middle Earth for months if that's what it took to find something that would convince her sisters that she was right. Her pride wouldn't allow for anything else. She was right, and they needed to know. Not just because they were stronger together. She needed to be believed.
The rain comes harder as the last of the natural light fades from the shadowy places of Mordor, pelting her cheeks like little icy darts. The wind howls, teasing the fastening of her cloak.
Not long now.
Dinah curls her numbing hands around the hilts of the blades at her hips – twin killers, long and blunt, letting her use more of her strength to hack away at her enemies rather than letting the sharpness of the blade take all the credit. Each bears the mark of the Dark Herald.
She takes a deep, even breath. Closes her eyes. Wills her fearful heart to steady, her wandering worried mind to focus. The rain is crisp and musty, filling her lungs with a longing for the palace of her girlhood, where she'd dance in the rare summer storms that came to the South.
Her eyes open, and this time she doesn't see the faces she's lost or the places she's been. She sees the house of her prey.
Dinah grips her swords tighter and rolls to the balls of her feet, already knowing which boulder she will take cover behind next-
Hoofbeats.
Her head jerks up in surprise, and her long braid falls down her back, a damp mess. She can see well in the encroaching darkness, another trait given by the curse. There is a large grey horse, splashing through the newly formed murky puddles, offering a companion rhythm to the steady weeping of the world.
There's a rider, too – a Man of Rohan, judging by his armor. His wet hair falls around his broad shoulders like a silken golden veil.
He can't be here. Not that he shouldn't be in Mordor – though really, he shouldn't be – but he can't be. His presence will interfere with her ability to spy and to stalk. It might even distract the Nine, should they emerge tonight, and then she won't have anything of substance to bring back to her sisters.
Dinah waits until he comes closer, then stands. "Rider of Rohan."
He startles more than his horse does – the animal merely huffing at being stopped so suddenly. Dinah doesn't step back as it stomps in place, just watches the creature snort and buck with dull eyes.
She raises her chin to look at the rider, fighting the urge to flinch as the cool rain hits her cheeks. "State your business."
"My business is mine, and you are in my way."
Dinah sighs and grits her teeth to keep her patience. The stubbornness of Men – there's nothing like it in all Middle Earth. The most unkillable thing that ever was and ever will be. "State your business, Rohirrim."
Now the rider raises his haughty chin, too. She doesn't like how he looks down his nose at her through the slits of his helmet. "I answer to no one but Théoden, king, and you are not him."
"I am not," she agrees. "But I am a Watcher of the Pass to Minas Morgul, and anyone who comes to aid the evils of Mordor must first deal with me."
To her surprise, the rider's mouth curves in a mocking smile. "I am not here on any errand of darkness, Lady. I come to retrieve the horses that were stolen from my people."
Dinah's dark brows raise. "Horses?" She echoes. Of all the things the Man of Rohan could have said, this was not an answer she would have ever anticipated.
"Yes. Eorlingas breed horses to ride hard, long, and sure through battle and across the vast expanse of the Mark, our homeland. My people have reported all black horses missing from the stables. They were nine in number. A child claimed to see them being led here by an invisible force. I have come to find the thief and bring home our steeds."
"And you believe the child?"
"I do."
The rain drips in her eyes, but Dinah doesn't bother to wipe them – she embraces the gritty feeling as she blinks, staring up at the strange Man of Rohan. She doesn't know what to say. It can't be a coincidence that his people had exactly nine black horses, and that all nine were now missing.
He stares back at her, gaze just as steady, just as unyielding. His grey eyes have the same look that she knows her brown ones have, the look that makes Sage jostle her shoulders and Liesel pause her bell-like laugh. It's the look and weight of duty above all else.
He must be a commander of some sort. What does Rohan call its head soldiers? Marshalls?
"I'm afraid your horses are lost," she tells him. The words are flat, emotionless, but they deserve kindness and sympathy. After all, this Man must care deeply for his animals if he is willing to travel into Mordor to find them. But Dinah is anxious – for him to leave, for her scouting to continue, for the Nine to come out. When will they come out? "They have been taken by the Nine, who will use them for nefarious purposes, then kill them."
"You can't know that."
She clenches her jaw.
"You must give up this foolish errand and return to your lands. I'm sure you're needed in the stables." His brows furrow at her sharp remark. Definitely a commander – used to getting his way, driven by an unshakeable sense of duty. Not able to accept defeat. "This is no place for you, Rider of Rohan."
"And it's one for you?" He asks gruffly. The thunder matches the bass of his voice. His helmet gleams in the lightning. "Who are you? Why are youhere?"
The shrieking starts.
It comes so abruptly that Dinah jolts, even though she's been waiting for this sound all day, has heard this sound all her life, this wretched, wretch sound that haunts her dreams and races her blood.
The cry of the Nazgûl preparing to hunt is an ominous thing. They never linger long after emitting their wail – they'll be moving soon, and Dinah will either be ready or be left behind. Her mind speeds through her possibilities: protect the Man, charge the Nazgûl, let the Nazgûl pass and hope that she can catch up.
The grey horse whinnies, splashing in the mud.
Dinah sees her best chance.
"What's your horse's name?" She asks.
The Man of Rohan looks at her, incredulous. "Do you know what that sound is?" He doesn't wait for her response. "It is the call of the Nine. We have to hide. No Man can defeat them with an ordinary blade. Especially not here."
"Your horse's name?" Dinah repeats, checking the front gates. Still shut, though the screaming has grown louder.
"Firefoot," he finally says. "We have to-"
With the next flash of lightning, Dinah draws her knife and slices away the fastens of the saddle. The Man topples over the side of his horse, and Dinah has mounted before he can get to his feet. His pretty golden hair is thick with mud. He gapes up at her. She imagines that the Riders of Rohan are not often unhorsed.
The gates finally open, and within seconds, the Black Riders pour from Minas Morgul like starving leeches, riding with a hellish fury for the dark mountain pass.
"I'll see that Firefoot is returned to you," she tells him as she laces her fingers through the horse's long, wet braids. "You'll have your black horses back, too."
And with those parting promises – which she does not know if she can keep, but she means to try – Dinah charges into the night after the shade of her father.