Wander

V. Weathertop

"Rowan, wake up!" Pippin's voice reached into her dreams as something shook her hard.

Her eyes snapped open, and she shot up, alarmed by his urgency. She couldn't see anything threatening in the darkness.

"What is it? What's going on?" she asked.

"The Black Riders! They're here!"

The blood drained out of her face as dread seized her heart. What? But we aren't on Weathertop. She scanned the quiet trees; at least Aragorn was still with them, so he'd fight them back with a torch and Frodo wouldn't be hurt.

"Keep close to the fire, with your faces outward," Aragorn ordered. "Rowan, get ready," he said as he unsheathed his sword.

The hobbits did as he instructed. Rowan thought quickly: she only had one true weapon, so she needed to hold on to it—maybe she could trick the Ringwraiths by throwing her fake knives. She got one in her hand and mimicked Aragorn's defensive stance on the opposite side of the fire, facing the woods.

Nothing happened for the longest. Her eyes flickered from shadow to shadow, searching for the slightest hint of movement. In all appearances, it looked like a normal night in the forest: moonlight slipped between branches; stars twinkled. Except for the noise—there was none. The woods had grown abnormally silent.

Then all breath left her lungs, and she grew ice-cold, like something took the soul out of her body. Complete terror paralyzed her as a shadow moved—a Black Rider melted out of the darkness. Another form followed him, followed by another; soon, there were five Nazgûl and advancing.

Rowan wanted to fall to the ground and cover her eyes. She had never felt this kind of immobilizing fear before, scared beyond reason. What could she possibly do against these beings of pure evil?

But then she someone cried out in fear behind her. It snapped her back into place. The hobbits were the ones truly defenseless. She had training in weapons and fighting to provide some protection.

Or, at least, create enough distraction for Aragorn to handle the Nazgûl.

Coming up with a plan, she threw the knife in her hand at a Ringwraith's face. He effortlessly deflected it with his sword, but when it didn't ring like metal meeting metal, it drew his attention to the side. Seizing his momentary distraction, Rowan kicked at the fire to send embers his way.

It screamed as it beat his cloak, catching fire. Metal clanged and screeched as Aragorn fought the others. She next threw the rubber knife at another Ringwraith to distract him and do the same by kicking embers. With a scream, it also fled back into the shadows.

Rowan grabbed the knife Aragorn had given her for one of the Black Riders had drawn too close with its sword drawn—she would have to fight this one. She caught its blade coming down with her own. Being used to catching swings of swords like this in movie sets, the hit barely jarred her, so she pushed it up and kicked the Nazgûl back.

A gauntleted hand grabbed her throat from the side—one of the Nazgûl that had fled crept around. It lifted her off the ground as it hurled her into the darkness of the woods.

Her back slammed into a tree—white and black spots flashed before her—and she crashed into some underbrush covering the roots. She lay there for a few seconds to recover her breath. Being a stuntwoman meant she would get beat up so she could take beatings, but she usually had some cushioning. Rowan stumbled, getting to her feet.

A pain-filled scream echoed through the forest and she pushed herself to hurry to the glow of their campfire before her, knowing Frodo had been stabbed. She saw a Black Rider pull its blade out of a patch of air. It lifted a hand, drawing the Ring on an invisible-Frodo's finger to him, but then it screamed when a thrown torch stuck into its face under the cowl. It beat at the flames consuming its figure as it ran off, screaming the whole way.

Rowan made it back into the clearing to find all Nazgûl gone, Merry and Pippin getting up off the ground from where they had fallen, Sam clutching onto a now-visible-but-grimacing Frodo, and Aragorn striding toward them. She hurried over, too.

Aragorn checked him out as the other hobbits looked on. Sweat beaded on Frodo's face and he looked just as bad as in the film when stabbed by the Morgul blade.

The Ranger looked back at her; his sharp eyes searched for injuries. She waved off his concern. She was winded and her back hurt, but she'd survive.

The flickering firelight highlighted the sweat and anguish on his face. They had fought to prevent this from happening. Even with the expert swordsman and her helping, Frodo still got hurt.

"I suppose it was meant to happen," she said, hoping to soothe him.

He gave a grave nod. "Either way, we need to go."

Aragorn picked Frodo up in his arms, Pippin extinguished the fire, and they took off into the dark forest.