Chapter Seven

Greetings, Faithful Readers!

After months riddled with illnesses, unemployment, final exams, vacations to both sunny and snowy climes, and one spectacularly torn acetabulum labrum, we're back! We promise, promise, PROMISE that we will never leave you hanging like this again, and we'll be much better at posting regularly. Now please enjoy the long-awaited Chapter Seven.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

It was dim here on the South Road. Too dim, considering Andagora knew, knew it was still several hours before sunset. Her vision in the �real world� had greatly diminished the further she rode from Barad-d�r and Sauron. However, her �other� vision -- her ability to see energy and magic in the wraith-world, the world to where she and the Nine were condemned when they we deprived of their bodies -- remained sharp. She supposed Sauron must not have had enough energy to grant them true sight.

Their expedition to the Misty Mountains had been only moderately helpful. The orcs there were never terribly organized, and seemed to be more concerned going on raids with Wargs than retaining information about hobbits. Fortunately, they did have a good idea of where the Shire was, and at the rate the death horses were going, they ought to be there before dark.

Andagora had been furious when she had finally seen where the Shire lay on one of the orcs� maps. It was in Eriador, just a few leagues south of Angmar. How could that idiot Witch-King have missed an entire population that lay on the borders of a realm he had maintained for over six hundred years? Now she thought it was a shame that she and Gayawen had been too disgusted with the Nazg�l to leave Dol Guldur long enough to oversee the Witch-King's reign. Only a utter moron could have completely failed to notice an entirely new race of beings living on the borders of his land!

Andagora looked back contemptuously over her shoulder at the Witch-King, who was riding sullenly behind her. She had given them all such a verbal blistering in front of the orcs that they had not questioned her when she demanded to ride point until they reached this cursed Shire place. She turned to call out another scalding insult to the lagging Nine, only to discover that her normally raspy voice had dwindled to a strangled choke.

Damn she thought to herself, realizing that Sauron did not yet have the power to grant her sustained speech throughout the journey. She thought back to the Nine: Look, once we get there, let me do the talking this time, alright? She could feel eight of them giving their assent, inwardly groaning as she realized who was holding back. ANGMAR! she thought furiously. I'm fucking talking to you!

No you're not. he thought back sullenly. You're just thinking at me.

That was it. She pulled up the reigns on Hengest, halting them all in the middle of the road. So help me Melkor, if you even begin to argue semantics with me, I will obliterate you before you can draw your sword.

Andagora, he smirked, no living man can kill me.

She turned on him, the very image of wrath. Do I look like a living man to you, jackass? Now why don't you shut up so we can get down to business, ok? So, in a few more miles, we're going to come to a ford on the borders of the Shire. There are probably going to be D�nedain there, but they shouldn't be too hard to drive off. The point is, we can't just let them run away, or they're going to tell somebody where we are and what we're doing, and we can't have that.

Well, it's not like anyone could stop us, one of them ventured.

Andagora sighed, her patience running out. Granted, but we don't want anyone telling that stupid Baggins hobbit that we're coming for him, right? Then we'll have to chase after him. Look, what I was trying to say was that at least three of us are going to have to stay behind and kill the D�nedain that are there, OK? Maybe more than three, depending on the number of them.

Well, I'm going into the Shire, anyway, the Witch-King put in stubbornly. Technically I'm in charge of this group, and this mission, so I think I'm entitled.

"To do what?" Andagora rasped, mustering her strength. "It's not like you can talk or anything."

The Nazg�l collectively drew back at her words, shocked that she could still use her voice, so long after all of them had lost the ability to do so. But the Witch-King remained stubbornly undaunted.

Look Andagora, he huffed wordlessly. I am still the goddamned Lord of the Nazg�l, ok? You might be able to talk, but you are still under my command. I'm the leader!

Fine. she thought carelessly. What's your plan? You know, to get into the Shire?

Umm, well what you said about at least three killing off the D�nedain sounded good. We'll stick with that. Then, after we cross the Sarn Ford, we can . . . uh . . . well, we'll see how it goes from there.

Well, now that that's settled, thought Andagora, setting off at a brisk canter. But the Witch-King suddenly passed her, taking point with gusto.

Yeah, he thought smugly. I think it is.

Andagora sighed. After so many thousands of years, she knew better than to try and take him on when he was like this. It would be less aggravating to argue with a stone. Better just to wait and get him to admit that he couldn't lead this expedition without her voice. Better not to let him know how much her voice was fading!

At Barad-d�r, Gayawen was sipping tea on top of the tower with her husband, who was on the palant�r with Curun�r, er Saruman. It was going to take her a while to remember that the Istari was calling himself Saruman. What a stupid name, she thought, staring intently at the picture on the box of tea. The girl on the dragon looked unspeakably stupid to her. The curly brown hair suggested that she was a Gondorian, but the style of her dress was all wrong, and really more favored the Rohirrim. Even still, it was a strange form of dress, and it didn't look right at all. Her crown and jewelry looked early � very early � dwarven. And that wasn't to mention the dragon, whose huge, luminous red eyes made the creature look like it had spent the better part of a year inhaling that pipe-weed that Cur- Saruman had been going on about earlier. It was a sickly emerald green color, and its little silly-looking wings were impossibly small; they would never carry such a creature through the air. Disgusted, she tossed the box down. It just made her miss her own dragon.

Delgirith's hide had been a glittering black, and Gayawen had cared for him so diligently that his scales had shone like meteorite. The span of his wings was so wide that an entire troop of orcs could shelter under it. Gayawen could have spent hours gazing into his beautiful golden eyes. She had commissioned a breastplate of gold armor to protect his tawny underbelly, though in the end, it hadn't saved him. She had a nasty suspicion that Elrond had been responsible for his death, though she could never prove it. Her last memory of him had been in the final moments of the war.

She had been flying on Delgirith's back, shouting commands to the army as the Nazg�l marshaled the foot troops. All across the Gladden Fields were long charred patches of earth, dotted with the bodies of elves and men turned to ash where she had swung Delgirith low enough to scorch the enemy. She was riding low again for just such another attack when three bow shots rang out in quick succession. The first shot hit Delgirith in the eye, causing the dragon to scream, belching fire as he did so. The second shot hit him only a second later in the neck, and his poor, hurt body convulsed at the blow, knocking Gayawen from his back. As she fell she saw the third arrow already protruding from the dragon's chest as the poor beast reared back, straining to gain a few hundred feet before he plummeted out of the sky. Before she could see him land, she hit the earth and blacked out.

When she came to, the battlefield was empty, save for the dead who littered the ground everywhere. She slowly propped herself up, gasping for air as she did so. Clearly, she had cracked several ribs, sprained her left wrist, and broken her right leg. Her head sported a large egg, which oozed a little blood. Child of immortal parents, she had never imagined she would ever know such pain. She knew it was a miracle to be alive at all, a miracle that Delgirith had been flying so low when she was tossed from his back.

With great effort, she dragged herself to the nearest corpse. It was an elf, judging from the armor, a pikeman who had been deprived of his head. His dagger and flask were still at his side. Greedily, she emptied the flask, then used his dagger to cut off his armor and his clothes. She took some of the leather fastenings from his uniform and used them to brace her wrist. Using the shin guards, she made a brace for her leg, binding the two pieces together with lengths of the dead elf's clothing. She tore strips of the remaining clothing and bound her ribcage as best she could, before hauling herself to her feet with the pike. A few yards away lay her dragon, headless. She hobbled over, weeping, and lay in the crook of his dead front legs, too weak and sad to go on. It was days before she made it back to the ruins of Barad-d�r where the shade of her husband hovered.

Gayawen pushed the memory from her head, angrily refusing to examine the heartache of those early days when they were mired in defeat. She would not trouble herself with those thoughts now when they teetered on the edge of victory. Instead, she focused her mind on Andagora, who must be near the Shire by now. She sat up, suddenly giddy. It might only be a few more hours until the Nazg�l had the ring, and then . . .

And then she could make them all pay for what she had suffered, every last man, woman, and elf in Arda. Oh, they would pay, all right! How they would pay!

She barely noticed the Eye swivel and focus on her as she laughed insanely, paying no heed as she knocked her teacup off the tower, allowing it turn over in the air several times, spilling tea into a thin ribbon, only to shatter on the jagged rocks below.

If Andagora had what could properly be referred to as blood, it would be singing in her veins. She and Hengest pounded along the path at the front of the troop of four Nazg�l. After the crushing defeat of the sizable number of D�nedain at the Sarn Ford, he had not argued as she took the lead. The other six Nazg�l had remained outside the Shire to pursue the remaining meddlesome Rangers, and would meet up with them later. In the meantime, they were approaching a small farmstead set into a hill. A little Man-like thing was working a hoe in the front yard as his dogs capered around him, barking madly. Andagora supposed it was a hobbit. Odd-looking thing it was, huge feet. She swung up in front of his gate, and Hengest whinnied furiously as the hobbit's dogs ran yelping into the little hill-house. The hobbit looked up at her cloaked figure, terrified. Andagora could tell that its flesh was covered in goose-bumps, and it shivered as she glowered down on it.

"Shiiiire. Baaaginssss." She commanded, her voice so strained she could only get out those two words. She restrained herself from giggling as the hobbit worked his frightened little mouth, looking as though he were about to shit himself.

"T-there's no Bagginses around here," he said, trying not to stammer. "They're all up in Hobbiton. T-that way." He raised a pudgy little arm and pointed north on the road. Andagora screamed, and the other three shrieked horribly in reply. Turning back, Andagora saw the little hobbit dive into its burrow as she and her troupe galloped up the road.