Flight to the Ford of the Bruinen

OOC Note:  This somewhat fragmented log is part of coordinated "flash-forward" event taking place over the course of a week.  I was lucky enough to get the opportunity to participate in it at the very last minute, only because the -real- Glorfindel needed sleep. ;)  But it was a fun experience.  The point in the scene where I joined in is marked in the log below.  For the scene that direction follows this one in the sequence (in which I also played Glorfindel), click here.

Western Shore of the Bruinen

You are on the mudflats in the flood plain of the river. Further east, close to the opposite edge, flows the wide but shallow Bruinen. This seems to be the only place one might ford it before it becomes mightier to the south, yet after it falls from the heights to the north. The forest to the west is full of tall pine, and the road seems to pass through a dark tunnel in their midst. To the north is a pleasant stand of oak and beech trees along the river bank. Across the river a small path winds into the trees again, and farther east the Misty Mountains rise in their splendor.

The sound changes. Gallopping hoves fly over soft ground. The company is only half-way over the flat when the first rider, as if called by Glorfindel's cry, appears between the trees, a tall black shadow, one they have all come to know, and fear. He halts, and sways for a moment in the saddle.

Another rider follows. Another. Another. There are five of them, but all halt on a hill, predators staring towards their prey, observing... perhaps only observing.

"Ride forward! Ride!" Cries Glorfindel to Frodo.

Merry bolts ahead as fast as his legs will carry him, doing his best to keep an eye on his young cousin, deeply worried that he might fall behind. Horror strikes deep as the Riders appear.

He feels it. Frodo winces as if a dagger of ice is being dragged along his side. Yet he does not obey at once, for a strange reluctance seizes him. Checking the horse to a walk, he turns and looks back.

The Riders seem to sit upon their great steeds like threatening statues upon a hill, dark and solid, while all the woods and land about them recede - at least to Frodo - as if into a mist.

Abruptly his hand leaves the bridle and grips the hilt of his sword. With a red flash he draws it.

Pippin is momentarily frozen in place, terror has captured him in every way imaginable. He does turn though..and slowly begins to find his legs....following in Merry's tracks as quickly as his little feet will take him.

Sam feels panic rise up in his gut as the elf-horse leaps forward. "What's happening," he cries in confusion. Any futher words are caught in his throat when he catches sight of the black riders. Fear for his master wells up in his gut and Sam reaches for one of his pans. "Leave him alone!" Sam shouts even though there was no way they could hear him at this distance. Merry and Pippin run past and he follows.

"Ride on! Ride on! Cries Glorfindel again, but as he notices Frodo's reluctance to go, he calls loud and clear, to his horse, in the elf-tongue:

"Noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth!"

"No Mister Frodo, No ride away!" Sam shouts frantically while waving his pan threatenly. "Leave him alone." There was little hope that a small hobbit could reach those who threatened Mister Frodo, but that didn't stop Sam.

At once the white horse springs away, speeding like the wind along the last lap of the Road. Frodo clings as best he can to the horse, right hand still holding his sword ready. . . .

Right when the white elven steed rushes forward, so do the black hores of the riders. Five they are, in wild pursuit of the Ringbearer.

A shrill cry echoes over the plain, shrill, threatening, fierce. It fills the air, the entire plain, with cold horror. Then there is another cry. And another.

Pippin cries out in terror as they pass by, clutching at his heart. The smallest hobbit runs as fast as he can too frightened to look behind him, and too frightened to look in front of him. He follows directly behind Merry, focused on his cousin.

From the trees and rocks to the left, four other Riders come speeding out onto the flat; two of them rushing towards Frodo -- two towards the Ford, trying to block his escape.

Frodo looks back for a moment over his shoulder. He can no longer see his friends. The riders behind are falling back: even their great steeds are no match in speed for the white elf-horse of Glorfindel. Breathless, he turns. . .and his expression registes immediate despair as the other four emerge abruptly. Silently he shuts his eyes tightly, clinging to Asfaloth's mane, the bells upon the harness ringing wild and shrill. . . .

Merry turns to look over his shoulder to find his cousin racing but a few paces behind. He slows his pace just enough to lessen the gap between Pip and himself. Placing a strong hand against the Took's back, he pushes the hobbit forward, if only slightly, urging him ever onward to whatever lie ahead.

The Riders after Frodo fall behind in their pursuit. There seems to be hope... hope...

But this same hope is frail in face of the two before him, the two that have laid the ambush at the Ford... there seems to be no way he will reach the river before they cut his way off. Again, there are the shrill, wordless cries... again.

Pippin needs no more encouragement than that though he does stumble a bit. As tired as he is, fear spurs him on enough that he does not fall or waver further.

"Onward, swiftly now!" Glorfindel urges the hobbits over the plain, his voice ringing out clearly in the night. With movements fluid and swift even in the face of peril, he sweeps together a collection of kindling, working quickly to build a makeshift fire. As soon as flames begin to rise, the edhel takes up two firebrands into his hands, then breaking into a swift run after the others.

The riders and Mister Frodo were now out of sight, but the sound alone filled Sam's heart with dread. His breaths were now ragged gasps, but he kept running. Fearful thoughts filled his mind. Fear of what he would find and a fear of doing nothing.

The elf's voice ringing in his ear, Merry presses ever onward, his head deaf to the pleas of his aching muscles, the pain outweighed by the utter terror that pulses through his body like a sickening wave. From time to time he glances at Pip, concerned about how long the little hobbit's stamina will hold out.

Passing the foremost Rider, Frodo whitens, going bloodlessly pale. . .his breath seems almost to stop, as if his chest were being crushed with some unspeakable pain and chill, tears brightening his haunted gaze. . . .

Frodo hears the splash of water. If foams about his feet. . .then there is the quick heave and surge as the horse leaves the river and struggles up the stony path, climbing the steep bank.

He is across the Ford.

Yet at the top of the bank the horse halts and turns about, neighing fiercely. . . .

The Riders halt their horses as they reach the Ford. There are Nine of them, now standing at the water's edge, and they are aware of little else but the small, weak hobbit on the other side of the River. What could keep them from crossing the Ford, and at last finding him... what could...

The foremost Rider urges his horse forward and into the Ford, a long, pale sword in his hand. The beast rears, as if afraid of the water itself.

Frodo turns, dismayed, quailing before the threat of their uplifted faces. With a great effort he sits upright and brandishes his sword, the effort nearly too much for him to sustain.

"Go back!" he cries. "Go back to the Land of Mordor, and follow me no more!"

The leader of the Nine urges his horse forward. Followed closely by two others, he begins to cross the Ford.

Golden hair streaming behind him, fire now blazing from the torches he holds, Glorfindel sweeps over the ridge of the riverbank. Keen elven eyes, always focused, now flash against the night, looking across the river to Frodo. Yet as his gaze sweeps over the Black Riders, now at the water's edge and pressing foward, the elf's feet fall to stillness in the cover of shadows. Behind the enemy he lingers, statuelike in countenance, yet ready to spring to life should opportunity present itself.

"Go back!" whispers Frodo urgently. But it is of no avail: he has not the power of Tom Bombadil, and on they advance. . . .

With a last effort, he lifts up his sword.

"By Elbereth and Luthien the Fair, you shall have neither the Ring nor me!"

The foremost Rider stands up menacingly in his stirrups, raising his right hand into the air in silent command. He is already half-way across the Ford...

Pippin pauses to catch his breath for a moment...as they reach the river...staring in horror at the nine riders he cannot do more than stand there...frozen in panic.

Suddenly Frodo seems stricken dumb, his tongue cleaving to his mouth. Breaking with a resounding snap, his sword falls out of his shaking hand.

The elf-horse rears and snorts.

The Riders advance. They are about to reach the eastern shore of the ford...

Merry's breath catches in his throat as he watches the nightmarish scene unfolding before him. Halting beside his cousin, his brow furrows, feeling more helpless than ever in his sheltered life.

Few sounds now pierce the tension of night. Quiet splashes mark the Black Riders' forward march into the river, and the cold wind howls over the terrain, chilling all. Though from the fearful silence a sound now grows....water crashing against stone and riverbed. It is now that the Bruinen surges forward, no longer passive to the intrusion it suffers. A powerful deluge bears down on the Riders standing within the river's reach.

If the riders are surprised, they have no time to express it... or to flee. The raging waves of the Bruinen tower above them, then collapse above them, burying them in their watery depths. They disappear nearly instantly.

The six remaining at the shore draw back, confused.

Frodo watches. . .but sways, falling from his horse to the ground, broken sword useless beneath him.

From within the angry wall of water, the faint forms of white horses lift up from within the foam, riding forward and over the enemy, overcoming them and sending them into the watery unknown.

Amidst the chaos of the rushing waters and enemies overcome, Glorfindel finds himself at the backs of the six remaining Riders as they make their retreat from the Bruinen's sudden fury. Sparing only a moment, he lift a hand to the hobbits, perhaps silently bidding them to stay back. Then quickly he animates, powerful arms thrusting out the flaming torches they grasp. His fair voice lowers to a guttural growl under his breath, the fiery weapons sweeping menacingly toward the six shadowy figures. "You shall join them!"

The black horses are filled with mad fear at the sight of the fire that is wielded towards them. They break out of control, storming blindly towards the river and into its raging waters, fleeing before the white, shining figure of the elf.

Screams of utter hatred -- the light that was before they were, it burns, it destroys -- anger and defeat ring over the river, drowned out only slowly by the roaring of the water.

The Ringwraiths, most terrible servants of the Dark Lord, the shadow of the past weeks... are defeated by the force of the angered river. Dead -- or one would hope so.

But so too, it seems, is their prey. . .the Ringbearer lies lifeless beside Asfaloth, face down, his small form still and cold.

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