The Raven | LOTR

chapter 1: the hunt

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 Western 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.