LOTR fan fiction: The Witch of Angmar - Part #11

The Witch of Angmar

Legacy of the Fellowship

Part Eleven

Not by the hand of man will she fall

R

ose stepped up to Rendur before the plinth. Her chin barely reached the rim of the black stone bowl. She peered over the edge and saw that the vessel was filled with nothing more than clear water.

Rose glanced up at the Chieftain of Farnost, confused.

He gave her a hard-edged smile in return. “The Waters of Skellith are far more than they seem. Watch and learn, halfling.”

Rose did as she was told, yet not before her gaze flicked back at where Salrean and Peri watched. Their faces were troubled, but they did not intervene.

Rendur leant forward and, with the tips of his left hand, stirred the surface of the water gently.

“The halfings have come,” he crooned in a soft, almost tender, voice. His gaze did not move from the gently swirling water as he continued. “The book is lost. The witch moves, and the way forward is not clear. Waters of Skellith, speak to me now. Show us the path we must take.”

Rendur withdrew his hand and rested it on the rim of the bowl, watching as the surface of the water continued to swirl. Instead of settling, the water continued to move. The liquid darkened then, and formed a vortex in the centre. Rose watched, transfixed. She wanted to look away, but found she could not.

At the heart of the vortex, images began to form. They were indistinct at first, but after a moment or two, Rose could make out the outlines of bleak, inhospitable mountains capped in snow against a monochrome sky, and the ruins of a great fortress made of black stone. She could see that the citadel wavering before her had once been mighty; one or two of the horned turrets still remained. A great, black tower rose higher than the rest, although most of the others had crumbled into ruin.

A chill went through Rose. Without needing an explanation, she knew that the walls of Carn Dûm lay before her. Her discomfort deepened when the view before her widened and she saw the land around the base of the ruins bristling with activity. The armies of Morwyn of Angmar, and those of the Goblin King, Targkok, swarmed over the hills.

Then, the landscape faded, only to be replaced by the image of a gaunt, ghostly face – a woman with long, dark hair and an iron circlet about her high forehead. The face was indistinct and rippled as though it lay at the bottom of a deep, clear pond.

Rose strained to make out the features. When she slowly stretched forward, a heavy hand grasped her shoulder and pulled her back.

“Careful,” Rendur growled in her ear, “‘tis not wise to stand too close to the Waters.”

Rose swallowed and nodded, her gaze still riveted upon the swirling vortex before her, and that ghostly face in its centre.

Then a voice, thin and cold, as if carried by the wind itself, echoed through the damp chamber.

“Pursue her at your peril! Vengeful, she has returned to these lands. She brings the world to the edge of doom, but not by the hand of man will she fall.”

Rose felt Rendur’s hand, which still gripped her shoulder, constrict painfully. She winced and tried to twist free, but he held her fast. Before them, the shadowy image disappeared and the vortex closed. The waters swirled, and gradually lightened – like ink washing away – till they became clear once more.

Only then, did Rendur relax his hold. He let go of Rose’s shoulder and stepped back from the plinth. Rose rubbed her throbbing shoulder and glanced up at his face.

She immediately regretted the action.

If Rendur of Farnost’s face has been formidable before, craggy and severe with a sharp gaze that missed nothing, it was truly frightening now. A strange light gleamed in his dark eyes, and when his gaze met hers, Rose knew that the words they had heard boded ill.

“Not by the hand of man will she fall,” Salrean’s voice echoed through the deathly still chamber, causing Rose to start slightly. “‘Tis a prophecy? I feel I have heard those words before.”

“You have,” Rendur replied, before bending down and retrieving his fur cloak from where he had thrown it carelessly to the floor, “or words very similar. It was in the stories your mother used to read you. A thousand years after the beginning of the Third Age, Eärnur, Prince of Gondor and the Elves of Lindon, defeated the Witch-King’s army. Eärnur attempted to follow the Witch-king and slay him but Glorfindel, the Elf-Lord, stopped the prince and prophesied: ‘Do not pursue him! He will not return to these lands. Far off yet is doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.’”

Rendur threw the cape about his shoulders and turned to face his daughter, ignoring the hobbits for the moment.

“In fact, it was Éowyn, a woman, and Meriadoc Brandybuck, a halfling, who brought about the Witch-king’s doom. As the prophecy foretold, it was many – indeed, a thousand – years, later.”

Silence followed Rendur’s words. There was something about that whispery, gelid voice they had all heard that had frightened Rose. Unlike Rendur, she did not trust it. Rose backed away from the Chieftain of Farnost until she was at Peri’s side once more. He, like Salrean, had gone pale and quiet at Rendur’s words.

“What does this mean, father?” Salrean asked finally. “What did you see?”

In response, Rendur turned his penetrating gaze upon Rose once more, pinning her to the spot. “What did you see, Rose?”

“The ruins of Carn Dûm with armies amassing before it,” she whispered, clenching her fists to stop herself from shaking, “and I saw her.”

Salrean turned to Rose, her eyes wide. “Morwyn of Angmar?”

Rose nodded.

“Morwyn grows in strength,” Rendur spoke up, his voice echoing in the cold chamber. “Already, she has power enough to crush our people. She must be stopped, and the Red Book retrieved.”

“I will gather a group of your best men,” Salrean stepped forward, her face resolute. “I will call your most skilled rangers. Your captain, Ethorn, shall lead us. We will travel north and enter Carn Dûm through the secret way that Barandur revealed to me. We shall slay her, father – I promise you.”

At his daughter’s impassioned words, Rendur scowled. Then, he regarded her coldly, with thinly veiled disdain.

“Did you not understand the prophecy?” he asked, his mouth twisting. “Did those words mean nothing to you? It is as before. Morwyn is like her brother; no man can kill her.”

Salrean stared back at her father, her brow furrowing. “I don’t…”

“You will go north,” Rendur interrupted her, looming over his daughter and glaring down upon her like a wrathful god, “but you will not be taking Ethorn or any of my men with you.” Rendur spat the ranger’s name out as if it were venom. “You will go alone – save these two halfings as your companions.

If Morwyn cannot be killed by a man then it is up to the three of you to slay her.”

***

“Madness!” Ethorn turned from the window, his handsome face contorted in fury. “He cannot command such a thing. He will be sending his only child – his daughter – to her death. Does he not realise this, or has he finally lost his mind altogether?”

“Ethorn,” Salrean’s face was taut as she battled with her own anger against her father, and her loyalty to him, “he can command it, he is the Lord of Farnost. We must obey him.”

They were alone, in a long, thin chamber with a small window at one end, and books lining one wall – a scholar’s chamber. It was the only place where they would be completely alone; the only place Salrean had deemed private enough to tell him of what had happened when her father had stirred the Waters of Skellith. Like her, Ethorn had escaped the skirmish with the goblins with only minor injuries. His right wrist was bandaged, but apart from that, he was unhurt. Ethorn had listened intently to her news, until Salrean delivered the news about her father’s decision.

“You know the Waters of Skellith cannot be trusted,” he replied, his voice strained from the effort he was making not to shout. “Time and time again, people have heeded your father’s advice, only for events to go ill.”

“But the prophecy…”

“And what is that? Cryptic words that Rendur sees meaning in, where others do not.”

Salrean turned away from him, struggling to keep her composure. “You don’t understand,” she said finally, forced to repeat her earlier argument for none other came to her. “He’s my father. I have to obey him. He is your Lord, you must also bend to his will.”

Ethorn stepped up behind her, so close that Salrean felt his breath feather her hair. “But what if his will is wrong?” he asked quietly. “Things have worsened since you travelled south, Salrean. You saw how the goblins now lurk around our walls at night. They have also forced us to evacuate the nearby villages and the fields that provide food for our people. I asked him to send for reinforcements to Annúminas, and to the Dúnedain settlements further south, but he refused. He was so sure you would return with that book; so certain it would hold all the answers.”

Salrean turned to Ethorn, her face troubled. “Tell me he did not.”

He shook his head, exasperated. “Are you really so surprised? I know you desire for nothing more than to please him, that you seek his approval in all you do – but when are you going to realise that the man is unpleasable.”

Salrean’s mouth compressed and her cheeks flushed in response, but Ethorn continued nonetheless. “No, ‘tis not as you think. He does not wish he had a son in your place. There is only room for one person in his world – and that is Rendur, son of Gildur, Chieftain of Farnost. You are merely a means of getting what he wants. He will use you and then discard you, like he does everyone else. If you really mattered to him, if he truly loved you, he would not send you – and two hobbits – alone into Angmar.”

“Enough!” Salrean shouted, stepping back from him. “How dare you!”

“I tell you this for your own good,” Ethorn countered. “Too long have I seen your father treat you like his pawn. Too long have I watched you turn yourself inside-out to please him. Nothing you do will be enough. Do you have to die to learn this?”

“I told you to stop,” Salrean rasped, her anger simmering. “I won’t tell you again.”

“Do you even listen?” Ethorn threw up his hands. “I feel as if I’m talking to a wall. I only bother because I care what happens to you – but you never stop to consider that.”

“I don’t need your counsel,” she replied, managing to maintain a stony façade so that he could not see the hurt raging within. “And I wish I had never spoken to you of this. Leave me be.”

Ethorn stared at her – and the look on his face made Salrean’s chest constrict. He was right – she knew it. But she could not tell him so. She could not defy her father.

“So be it,” he ground out, stepping backwards, his gaze searing hers. “But when the time comes; when you are alone in Carn Dûm, with no one to watch your back. When the hobbits, who you swore to protect, lie dead at your feet and Morwyn of Angmar lets you draw one last breath – I hope you remember this conversation. I hope you remember that one person, at least, wanted to keep you safe.”

With that, Ethorn turned on his heel and strode from the chamber, leaving Salrean in desolate silence.

End of Part #11

Be back for Part #12 on 22 November!