The night was falling over Amon Sûl, and the shadows of the ruins stretched across the ground. The ancient stones, marked by time, formed imposing silhouettes under the pale moonlight. The hobbits, exhausted from days of walking, dragged their feet as they reached the base of the tower. Frodo and Sam, their faces marked by fatigue, set down their packs with a sigh of relief.
"Finally, a place to rest," Merry murmured, sitting on a rock and rubbing his sore feet.
Pippin, meanwhile, unpacked the few provisions they had left, quickly pulling out some bacon and bread. "We're going to feast tonight!" he said with a tired smile.
Aragorn watched them for a moment, his gaze shifting from Calion to the hobbits. "Rest here," he told them in a grave voice. "I'm going to patrol the area to make sure everything is safe."
Calion settled near a pile of stones, his knife in hand, ready to stand guard. He briefly glanced up at Aragorn and nodded, a tacit sign of understanding. His gaze scanned the horizon, his green eyes catching the starlight. The air grew cooler, and he seemed to listen to every whisper of the wind.
As silence fell once again around Amon Sûl, Merry and Pippin, already satisfied with their meal, began to hum a ballad, their voices rising too loudly into the night. Their laughter and songs echoed, unaware of the danger.
Calion stood up abruptly, his jaw clenched, and rushed toward them, his eyes sharp. "Quiet!" he hissed, lowering his voice, urgency flashing in his gaze. He placed a firm hand on Merry's shoulder to make him sit.
Frodo, on edge as well, said, "You can't make so much noise here!" his voice betraying his worry.
The hobbits exchanged worried glances, and Sam whispered, "Where's Strider?" His voice was full of concern, but Calion remained focused.
The Nazgûl approached, their spectral forms moving with a supernatural fluidity. They seemed to draw in the light around them, casting shifting shadows on the stone walls. Calion's breathing quickened, and the air around him became dense, almost tangible. An invisible tension spread, as if a mysterious force was ready to burst.
Sensing the change in atmosphere, the hobbits huddled closer together. Frodo, observing Calion, noticed the intense gleam in his eyes, sharper than ever. He whispered, trying to hide his fear, "Why doesn't he draw his sword?" But none of them dared to voice the question out loud.
The Nazgûl launched their first attack swiftly. Two specters leaped at Calion, their blades slicing through the air. Calion dodged with agility, retaliating with a precise knife strike. He moved with fierce grace, every action calculated to fend off the assaults. One of the specters tried to bypass his defense, but Calion pivoted fluidly, forcing it to retreat.
The Nazgûl continued their assault, advancing toward Calion with calculated slowness. One of them attempted to move to the side, trying to reach the hobbits. Calion raised his free hand, channeling all his strength. A wave of pressure rippled through the air, briefly pushing the specters back. The hobbits, standing behind him, felt the air vibrate, a shiver running through them.
But the sudden arrival of Aragorn diverted Calion's attention. The ranger appeared, wielding a flaming torch, his long sword gleaming in the firelight. He charged into the fray, striking with precision. In an instant, the tension in the air eased.
Aragorn attacked the specters with determination, swinging his sword in a powerful arc, the flames illuminating his features. Calion joined him, their attacks synchronized to repel the Nazgûl. Together, they formed a protective barrier, defending the hobbits, who watched every movement with eyes filled with fear and hope.
As Calion sensed one of the Nazgûl closing in dangerously, he tensed, every muscle in his body vibrating with effort.
A sudden charge from another Nazgûl, faster and more vicious than the others, caught him off guard. Calion barely parried the attack, his arms trembling under the impact, his hunting knife clashing against the sinister blade of his foe. The eyes of the Nazgûl, hidden under its hood, seemed to pierce him, and a wave of cold ran through Calion. He stepped back, a shiver coursing through him, and a name escaped his lips, almost inaudible: "Sùladan..."
Shock appeared on his face; his features hardened, and his breathing grew faster. An uncontrollable rage overwhelmed him, transforming hesitation into blind fury. He lunged at the Nazgûl with heightened aggression, his attacks becoming frantic, each strike delivered with an almost supernatural energy. It was as if his movements were driven by an inner force, a wrath that eclipsed everything else.
Calion focused all his efforts on this specific Nazgûl, ignoring the other specters hovering around. His blows were more brutal, and the sound of his knife striking metal echoed in the night. He fought with such intensity that his breath turned into clouds of vapor from the exertion. The hobbits, terrified, watched in silence, sensing the merciless determination of the man fighting before them.
The Nazgûl seemed to retreat for a moment, surprised by Calion's sudden aggressiveness, but it only fueled his rage further. Calion intensified his movements, striking again and again, ignoring the pain in his arms and the cold enveloping him. His gaze, intense and relentless, never wavered from his opponent.
Aragorn, observing Calion's fierce struggle and his companion's relentless focus, realized there was a connection between Calion and this particular specter. Calion, his teeth clenched, showed no sign of backing down, striking without pause, as if this enemy represented more than just a threat.
As the two rangers fought side by side, the air around them grew oppressive once more, almost suffocating. Calion seemed to concentrate all his will to repel the specter. The Nazgûl finally retreated, and Calion, panting, stood upright, his eyes still fixed on his enemy.
Calion fought with a beast-like intensity, his blade clashing with that of the Nazgûl he seemed to recognize with unprecedented violence. His green eyes, usually calm, burned with a supernatural glow, as if an inner flame fueled his rage. Aragorn had never seen his companion fight with such fury. Every strike from Calion echoed as if it carried the weight of an ancient anger.
The other Nazgûl, witnessing Aragorn's fierce resistance and Calion's uncontrolled rage, began to retreat, their ethereal forms fading into the shadows. Calion, however, was not finished. He took a step forward, ready to pursue, but Aragorn held him back, firmly placing a hand on his shoulder. "Calion, that's enough. We must protect the hobbits."
Calion turned sharply, his blazing gaze meeting Aragorn's. For a moment, he seemed almost unrecognizable, his posture tense, his eyes glowing with a dangerous light. Aragorn felt the weight of that rage and power—something older and darker than he had ever perceived in his companion. "They flee," Calion muttered, his voice rough.
"And they will return," Aragorn replied calmly, not releasing his grip. "But not tonight. We have a duty here."
Calion, still catching his breath, remained frozen, his hands still gripping the hilt of his knife. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath labored, showing the effort he had just expended. His eyes, still glowing with that strange light, seemed fixed on a distant point, as if he struggled to return to reality.
Slowly, he closed his eyes, seeking to calm the storm within. His muscles, taut like bowstrings, took a long moment to relax. The air around him, charged with tension, gradually returned to normal, but the process seemed arduous, as if his body resisted releasing the energy.
Aragorn, staying close to him, watched with concern but remained silent, allowing him the time he needed to recover. Calion eventually took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, his breathing still labored, and avoided meeting the hobbits' eyes, who were staring at him with a mix of fear and curiosity.
"I'm fine," he finally murmured, his voice rough, though it seemed as if he was reassuring himself as much as the others.
"He's... frightening," Merry whispered, casting a wary look at Calion. Sam nodded, his face pale. Frodo, on the other hand, couldn't take his eyes off the ranger. Sensing their concern, Aragorn offered a reassuring smile as he approached the hobbits. "You are safe for now," he said. "Calion is a powerful ally. You can trust him."
Despite his words, Aragorn couldn't help but glance one more time at Calion, still tense, his face showing an anger he couldn't quite understand.
The hobbits, exhausted and panicked, ran behind Calion and Aragorn, their feet sinking into the damp forest floor. Darkness pressed heavily around them, and every shadow cast by the twisted trees felt like a lurking threat. Branches snapped beneath their feet, and the whispers of the wind sounded like hushed warnings.
Calion, pale-faced and with a determined stare, led the way. His hands trembled slightly, and his expression was strained from the effort and the shock of his own ferocity in the recent fight. His breathing remained irregular, as though he was struggling to find the calm that continued to elude him. Every muscle in his body seemed coiled, ready to spring at the slightest impulse. His eyes, usually sharp and alert, looked distant, staring into nothing.
Aragorn turned back several times to ensure the hobbits were not falling too far behind. "Calion, slow down; they can't keep up at this pace," he called out, his tone grave.
Reluctantly, Calion slowed down, glancing back. The hobbits, panting and stumbling over roots and stones along the path, struggled to maintain their pace. Sam, always protective of Frodo, helped him up after each fall. Pippin and Merry, equally fatigued, cast nervous glances around, bracing for an ambush.
The forest seemed to close in around them, with gnarled branches forming a natural tunnel overhead. The ground grew slippery, and each step felt like it was pulling them deeper into the dark. The distant cries of the Nazgûl still echoed in their minds, a constant reminder of the danger that pursued them.
Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed behind them. The hobbits jumped, turning in alarm. "What was that?" Merry exclaimed, gripping his short sword with trembling hands.
At the front, Aragorn raised a hand to signal silence. "Calion, take the lead. I'll stay behind and check." Calion nodded, gripping his hunting knife tighter as he resumed guiding the group through the shifting shadows.
Tension hung in the air as they moved forward. Even the night birds' songs had gone silent. The air was cold, almost freezing, and the mist from their breaths added to the unease. Calion, still trembling, kept his eyes fixed ahead, moving quickly, but his tense movements revealed his anxiety.
"Keep moving," he murmured, his voice strained, as they climbed a steep trail. Sam and Frodo struggled to keep up, slipping on the roots and stones.
The forest grew denser, and the sound of their footsteps echoed eerily, fading into the vastness of the woods. Calion gritted his teeth, his eyes scanning each shadow for signs of danger or escape. He had to protect the hobbits, no matter what.
Days of flight blurred into an unending stretch of harsh, inhospitable landscapes. They crossed steep hills with rocky slopes where every step felt like a monumental effort. The biting mountain winds whistled in their ears, piercing their worn clothes and chilled by the endless nights. The dense forest provided temporary shelter, but its winding paths slowed their progress.
The hobbits, unaccustomed to such terrain, often stumbled over roots and stones, their faces showing the strain of exhaustion and lack of sleep. Sam, the most resilient of them, tried to lift their spirits with a few jokes, but even his smiles faded in the face of such hardship. Merry and Pippin, usually so cheerful, lost their enthusiasm, their faces growing gaunt with hunger.
Calion, leading the way, kept a steady pace, his features hardening with each obstacle. The cold, dry air parched his throat, but he paid it no mind, focused on every sound and movement around them. Occasionally, his face tightened with pain, but he never slowed, pulling the others onward. Aragorn, following behind, watched his friend, concerned that even Calion, used to endurance, was beginning to show signs of strain.
The hills sometimes opened into misty valleys, where the dampness weighed down their clothes and seeped into their bones. Dark forests enveloped them, their gnarled branches reaching out like claws. At each stop, the hobbits collapsed, exhausted. Frodo's pale face searched for comfort, his eyes reflecting doubt and fear. Sam, as always, stayed close to his master, though his shoulders sagged more with each step.
Calion stood guard, appearing still but fighting his own exhaustion. His constant vigilance wore on his nerves. During his watch, his green eyes scanned the horizon, bright in the darkness, as he tried to pierce the night. The cold night air bit at his fingers, but he continued, refusing to give in to weariness. Aragorn often joined him, sharing the silence but respecting the moments when Calion got lost in thought, staring into the dark with an intensity few could understand.
As night enveloped the camp, Calion, seated by the fire, suddenly lifted his head. A faint sound, the quick breath of something approaching, barely audible. His eyes narrowed, and he strained to listen. His hand slid slowly to his hunting knife, which he drew with care. Silently, he slipped into the darkness, moving with fluid grace, his eyes locked on the approaching figure on horseback.
Tension mounted. Calion positioned himself, ready to strike, every muscle coiled. The figure approached, but before he could act, a firm hand gripped his wrist. It was Aragorn, who met his gaze steadily.
"Not this one," Aragorn whispered, his voice low but firm.
Calion froze, his green eyes glinting in the shadows, a mix of confusion and suspicion lingering. Slowly, he relaxed his grip on the knife but stayed alert, his senses on edge.
The rider approached, moving gracefully. When the flickering flames revealed her face, Calion watched warily, noting the serene glow in her features. The gentleness in her eyes contrasted with the darkness, and her presence seemed to momentarily lift the oppressive atmosphere.
Aragorn gently released Calion's arm and turned to the rider, a relieved smile forming on his face. "Arwen," he said softly, relief evident in his voice.
Arwen stepped forward into the firelight, her delicate features illuminated. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a radiant, almost ethereal face. Her deep blue eyes shone with gentleness and resolve. Her presence, calm and reassuring, stood in stark contrast to the harsh surroundings. She wore a dark tunic embroidered with elven patterns, and her light cape fluttered behind her, adding an air of mystery and nobility.
Calion observed her, still holding back, trying to understand the nature of this encounter. But Aragorn's tone and the way he greeted her left no doubt: this woman was an ally.
He sensed immediately the familiarity and tenderness in their exchange, gestures and looks that spoke of a bond much deeper than mere friendship. Arwen gracefully dismounted, her face glowing under the starlight. Her ethereal beauty captivated everyone, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, and her eyes shining like stars.
"Mae govannen, Estel," she murmured softly in Elvish, her voice soothing and gentle.
Aragorn smiled, his eyes softening as they met hers. "Hannon le, Arwen," he replied, his tone full of gratitude.
The hobbits watched the scene, awestruck. Sam whispered to Frodo, his voice quivering slightly, "She's an elf… I've never seen one so close. She's beautiful."
Arwen then turned toward them, her eyes warm and kind. She offered a small bow, a peaceful smile gracing her lips. "Mae govannen, perianath," she said in Elvish, greeting them with respect.
Frodo and the other hobbits exchanged glances, their fascination evident. Pippin leaned closer to Merry, whispering, "She seems so... unreal."
Meanwhile, Aragorn explained the situation to Arwen in Elvish. "The Ring-bearer is Frodo. We need to get him to safety. If you take him with you, the Nazgûl will lose his trail."
Arwen's expression grew serious as she stepped closer to Aragorn, her eyes shining with determination. Her hands tightened around her horse's reins. "Nan ú-cheniel," Aragorn repeated, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder to calm her. "Frodo must be brought to safety. If you take him, the Nazgûl will follow you, giving us some respite." His voice softened, almost pleading.
"Egor ú-esteliach anim?" she asked, her voice filled with emotion as she searched his face, trying to gauge the gravity of the situation. She stood close, her fingers brushing the fabric of his sleeve in a gesture that was both protective and intimate.
Aragorn remained silent for a moment, his gaze hardening as if he were weighing the danger. "I trust you more than anyone, Arwen," he finally whispered. "But if you go alone, you'll be able to outrun them. You're the fastest rider, and they won't be able to catch you."
Arwen hesitated, the conflict clear in her eyes. She tightened her grip on Aragorn's arm, a gesture filled with tenderness but also tension. "Gwanno le," she finally said, her voice nearly breaking. (May luck be with you.)
Having concluded her conversation with Aragorn, Arwen turned her attention to Calion, intrigued by this man she had yet to meet. She approached gracefully, her movements elegant despite the tension in the air. "I haven't had the chance to greet you properly," she said softly, a kind smile on her lips.
Calion straightened slightly, his green eyes catching the flicker of the firelight. He remained silent for a moment before simply replying, "Calion." His tone was neutral, reserved, and he avoided holding her gaze, preferring to scan their surroundings. Arwen studied him, noticing the odd glimmer in his eyes and the aura of mystery that clung to him.
The hobbits, still mesmerized by Arwen's presence, whispered among themselves with wide eyes. Pippin, visibly astonished, asked Sam, "Do you think her hair is made of light?"
Sam shrugged, looking serious. "Maybe. Or maybe it's starlight magic, like in the stories." Merry, smiling, added, "You think she knows what a second breakfast is?"
Frodo, trying to keep a straight face, whispered back, "If you want a taste of elven food, Pippin, don't mention your pies." They stifled a laugh, still awed but amused by their own wonder.
Arwen approached the hobbits, her expression both calm and resolute. "I will take Frodo," she said. "I'll divert the Nazgûl. You will be safe with Aragorn and Calion."
The hobbits immediately protested. Sam positioned himself in front of Frodo, looking fierce. "No, I won't let him go alone!" Merry and Pippin echoed his sentiments, their voices laced with panic. "Why separate us? That's madness!" Merry added.
Aragorn raised a hand to calm the uproar. "Listen to me," he said, his voice firm but steady. "If the Nazgûl follow Frodo and Arwen, we will have time. We can continue our journey without being pursued. Frodo will reach Rivendell in two days, while it will take us four to five days on foot."
Pippin frowned, looking confused. "But why must she go alone with him? We should stick together!"
Arwen placed a reassuring hand on Pippin's shoulder. "You have to trust me. I'll be faster alone with Frodo. It's our best chance."
Calion, standing back, watched the scene without any visible emotion, his gaze drifting toward the horizon, indifferent to the hobbits' protests and anxious looks.
With a practiced gesture, Arwen lifted Frodo and placed him in front of her on her gray horse. The hobbit, still in shock, cast one last look at his friends. "We… we'll see each other soon," he stammered, a note of fear in his voice.
"Take care, Frodo," said Sam, his eyes shining with concern. Merry and Pippin waved, trying to mask their anxiety.
Arwen looked at Aragorn, her eyes reflecting a mix of determination and tenderness. "Aniron garo estel, Estel," she whispered (Keep hope, my love). Aragorn nodded, his expression serious, but a slight smile softened his features. "Go, Arwen. We'll catch up."
She gave a final nod before urging her horse forward. They raced off, the wind lifting strands of her dark hair as the horse's hooves thundered on the ground. The hobbits stood still, watching their friend disappear into the distance.
Sam, clenching his fists, whispered, "May the Valar protect him…"
Aragorn placed a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. "He'll be safe, Sam. We must stay strong."
Calion, still silent, gave a slight nod, his eyes fixed on the path Arwen had taken. "She knows what she's doing. We have to trust her."
The hobbits, though still anxious, seemed to find some solace in his words, drawing closer to Aragorn and Calion for strength before they resumed their march.
