Disclaimer: For the Tolkien_weekly "Shiny" challenge. MiddleEarth and its inhabitants belong to JRRT, not me.
Aragorn stared ahead of the boats. They had no pilot to guide them, but that willow branch had begun to drift faster. Here they must strike for the shore. It was death to fight these waters; none could prevail against their force.
The sound and fume of Rauros shimmered in the air. As they pressed the oars against the current, he glanced toward the precipice.
Sailing faster and faster, the branch neared the edge. There it lingered, foam surging against the black twigs, before it fell and vanished in the golden haze.
Later, he would marvel at his own blindness.