“Where are we, Elrohir?” Frodo asked the elf, trying to keep
his voice above the thud of their horse’s hooves and the whistling of the wind. “We are almost to Gondor. We are near the northren border, and we will not arrive at Minas Anor until
tomorrow.” Came the elf’s reply. Frodo yawned. ” I am tired, Elrohir. Asfaloth is probably tired as well. Perhaps we should camp at the border tonight?” “We will stop, for you are probably right.” They rode on until they reached the border.
They stopped. Frodo and Elrohir dismounted, and let Asfaloth
graze while they set up camp. Night came soon. They finished the tent preparations. “You go ahead and sleep, Frodo. I will keep watch.” The elf said. Frodo entered the tent and laid himself down. He fell asleep.
Shrieks of terror. Death. Horror. Burning… burning…
burning Valinor. Frodo raced about, Sting drawn, it’s blade blue. Orcs were coming. Sat upon a black throne, a black figure watched. An orc leaped at Frodo. He slew it with a stroke
of Sting. Something told him to look for his namesake… Frodo Baggins, the Ring-bearer. How would he help him?
He doubted the Ring-bearer was still alive. He ran to and fro, seeking help. Suddenly he stopped aghast. Bilbo lay skewered with an orc spear. Frodo Baggins was hewn in two,
burnt from head to toe. Frodo Gamgee wept in horror. Then he was grabbed by the black figure. It began to strangle him. He gasped for one last…
He awoke. “Frodo?” came a familiar voice. Elrohir’s voice.
“We must go.” He said. Frodo got up. Not an hour later, the camp was gone, and the two companions were riding to Minas Anor.
Thousands of orcs stood in ordered ranks. The Balrog looked with pleasure at his quick progress. Soon, very soon, they would release his master. But first, they must annihilate Middle-earth and everything in it!
Frodo and Elrohir rode into sight of Minas Anor. “Minas Anor… stronghold of Middle-Earth.” Elrohir announced to his companion.
To be continued.