I frowned watching the speck of white gallop until beyond my eyes lost sight of the White Rider. Gandalf has need of haste? Mind you, he always had. Wizards were a constant riddle. It would still puzzle me as to why I thought of this one so fondly. Ah well. He shall return. He returned from the deeps of Moria, and he shall return from what errand he dashed towards now. The White Rider, Middle Earth’s one hope, excluding the Ringbearer of course.

The Ringbearer. As our company increased speed, racing madly towards a place I had heard only in legends, Helm’s Deep, my thoughts crept towards the Halfling and I began to wonder wherever his cruel journey had placed him at this moment. He was strong against the evil, of both the seemingly innocent trinket he carried and of the Dark Lord, and Frodo’s common sense was beyond that of most Halflings I had met. I supposed that he would survive the cursed temptation of taking the ring as his own. But with a golden band twisted with mystery and evil, one could never tell. Its spell could trap any. Yet the Ringbearer was odd, differing from most, excepting his companion, the faithful Sam. I knew not what fate lay in the paths of either; I never could foresee what was to come to pass. Black flames of ash would surround both on their mission, yet if they would conquer, or fail, I knew not. Riddles of the dark…

The dark. I despised the dark; the ones in black; the servants of the merciless one. My knuckles turned furious white at the memory of those monsters, trapped in the world of slavery to the Dark One. My eyes glinted at the thought of Saruman, traitor to his allies. I shook with rage at the recollection of the Ringwraiths. The wraiths of ill. The wraiths of hate. The wraiths of doom. The Nine. Damned be they all! Curse them to their very destruction, their fall! There were no beings that I despised as much as the Black Riders. Nightmares they brought to reality, pulling victory and hope to bitter fall. They are the very beings that prove that power corrupts. And the innocent lives they took. I swore under my tense breath that I would ensure that for every life they snatched, they would feel the same pain, the same loss and the same terror filled last moments. The very same. The white would conquer the black. The white shall.

White. Pale. My vehemence intensified as the pitiful image of my deceased sister appeared in my mind and grew clearer. It took over my thoughts, covering all else. Her waxen face, her pale lips, her still pulse. Anguished feelings of loss threatened to sway my anger, yet I knew the weakness in such. War approached, this was not the time for tears. I forced the picture from my thoughts and focused onto the road ahead. I would gain revenge. Revenge for the pain. Revenge for the heartbreak. Revenge for the taken. Revenge for the lost. Revenge for my sister. Revenge for Arwen.