They were hard pressed to reach the river. Each quarter hour brought another line of exhaustion and concern to the faces of the small band. Frodo hadn't stirred since Strider had applied the Athelas leaves and put him on the pony, merely stared straight ahead and ground his teeth against the darkness and pain worming its way to his heart.

Lady Beriadanwen hadn't spoken either, focusing all her energy on keeping moving forwards. Her entire left side was cold and numb, making it hard to breathe. She had ignored Aragorn's furtive looks over his shoulder at her, merely pushing onwards.

A shadow was growing behind them. As the skies overhead darkened and swelled with oncoming rain, the wraiths were regrouping and riding fast.

"We must push faster." Strider said, barely audible above the rolling thunder. The rain would reach them soon. Sam nodded and coaxed Bill Ferny's pony on, offering it a bit of swamp grass as a reward. The pony was more than happy to oblige, but it did little to aid their pace.

Finding the road some time later gave them all little comfort, but made the going easier. Beriadanwen could feel the relief in the soles of her boots, but it was masked by the growing pain in her arm.

"Frodo, are you well?" Pippin's thin voice was the loudest thing heard on the plains, but then was completely eclipsed by a massive clap of thunder that startled all of them. Everyone's focus went to the ring-bearer, who was slumped in the saddle, eyes closed.

A screech rang out through the rain, echoing across the now drenched heather. Frodo gasped as a bolt of pain arced through his body in reply. Lady Beriadanwen moaned as her wound's pain echoed Frodo's, her knees weakening but not faltering. She waved Strider's worried look away, forcing her feet to keep moving.

Then, another sound came lightly on the breeze towards them; the sound of bells. And not just any bells.

"Praise the Valar." Beriadanwen breathed. It had been many moons since she heard the tinkle of elven bridle-bells, but there was no mistaking the sound.

"Mae govannen!" Strider called through the brush to their left. The bells grew louder and the lithe form of an elven rider appeared over a near rise. The group let out a collective sigh.

"What news?" Strider asked, coming forwards to take the arm of the rider once he dismounted. They began to speak in hushed tones. Sam took the opportunity to pass out a small snack to all the gathered Hobbits, pressing particularly hard on Frodo, who had regained a sort of dazed consciousness. Beriadanwen walked to the men, listening to the conversation.

"My Lady." The elf, recognizable as her third cousin Glorfindel, murmured to her as she settled at Strider's right. His eyes clouded with concern, he could sense the darkness brewing in her injuries, but he did not pause in conversation long.

"I was sent from Rivendell to look for you. We feared that you were in danger upon the road."

"We have been met with trouble." Strider replied. Glorfindel nodded.

"Elrond received news that troubled him. Some of my kindred, journeying in your land beyond the Baranduin, learned that things were amiss, and sent messages as swiftly as they could. They said that the Nine were abroad, and that you were astray bearing a great burden without guidance, we were sent immediately to search for and retrieve you."

"Has Gandalf reached Rivendell?' asked Frodo from the saddle. His voice was weak.

"No. He had not when I departed; but that was nine days ago." answered Glorfindel uneasily.

Frodo felt a great weariness come over him, and slumped back, waving away Sam's attempts to coax him to food. The sun was beginning to sink since the sun and the mist before his eyes was darkening. He could tell from the slump of Beriadanwen's shoulders that she felt the shadow as well. Now and then pain assailed him, but mostly he felt cold.

"My master is sick and wounded," said Sam angrily, addressing the men and woman. "Shouldn't we rest or get on?"

Glorfindel broke away from the group and approached Frodo, lifting him off the pony and laying him down on the ground as if he weighed nothing. His nimble fingers probed the wound. Frodo felt the chill lessen ever so slightly at the warmth in Glorfindel's fingers. The pain became easier.

"You shall ride my horse," said Glorfindel as he stood. "I will shorten the stirrups up to the saddle-skins, and you must sit as tight as you can. But you need not fear: my horse will not let any rider fall that I command him to bear. His pace is light and smooth; and if danger presses too near, he will bear you away with a speed that even the black steeds of the enemy cannot rival."

"But my friends!" Frodo protested.

Glorfindel smiled indulgently. "I doubt very much," he said, "if your friends would be in danger if you were not with them! The pursuit would follow you and leave us in peace, I think. We will keep pace behind."

Frodo gave no other protest, and he was persuaded to mount Glorfindel's white horse. The pony was laden instead with a great part of the others' burdens, so that they now marched lighter, and for a time made good speed; but the hobbits began to find it hard to keep up with the swift tireless feet of the unweary Elf. On he led them, into the mouth of darkness, and still on under the deep clouded night. There was neither star nor moon. Not until the grey of dawn did he allow them to halt. Pippin, Merry, and Sam were by that time nearly asleep on their stumbling legs; and even Strider seemed by the sag of his shoulders to be weary.

Frodo sat upon the horse in a dark dream and Beriadanwen walked alongside, holding onto the packstrap so that the white horse could take some of her weight as well. She felt the exhaustion of her wound acutely.

They travelled through the night, not wanting the black riders to gain any more time on them in the shadows. When the sun broke over the distant mountains, they laid down on the side of the road and took a quick, dreamless rest.

While resting, Beriadanwen let her mind wander once more. Her vision from Weathertop revisited her, but through a veiled eye. The wound's darkness was taking a toll on her mind. She saw again the group of nine, traveling a long road. On the horizon, darkness and turmoil. The group disappeared, and the darkness grew deeper. She was caught, black smoke cloying her nostrils and dragging her down, choking-

"Anwen." She was roughly shaken awake. Her eyes opened, but the black veil did not lift. Strider's face swam in front of her eyes.

"Thank the Valar you are still with us." Glorfindel said, kneeling next to Strider. He rested his hands on her shoulder, alleviating the black numbness for a short time.

"Thank you, cousin." Beriadanwen said, her voice weak. She looked at Aragorn, who was clearly discomforted at her peril.

"Peace." She said. He set his lips in a tight line, then turned and accepted some bread from Sam, pressing it on her. Beriadanwen ate, though she did not taste the bread whatsoever. She wiped her forehead, which was still damp with the rain and cold. Thunder rolled, not as close now as it had been before.

"We must ride. I think it best you join Frodo on the horse." Glorfindel said, his eyes casting the way they came, at the shadow that was lurking on the road behind them. Beriadanwen did not protest, merely pulled herself up on the seemingly tireless horse behind Frodo, letting her mind drift from there.

They set off at a quick pace. The road began to slope downhill, but that meant only that the enemy could catch up the quicker. And catch up they did, just as the sun began to go down. Glorfindel heard them first, his hearing much more acute to that of the others. He heard an echo of hoofbeats on the road behind, barely perceptible to the ears of the hobbits.

"Hobbits, to the trees! Frodo, ride! The enemy is upon us!" He cried, unsheathing his sword and turning to face the way they came. Hoofbeats pounded louder. Frodo froze, reluctant to leave. Beriadanwen slapped the horse on the rump and it dove forwards. The last thing she saw was Aragorn's hand reaching out for them and three pairs of terrified Hobbit eyes before they were around the bend and the wind took them.


Strider had only a moment to brace himself before the black riders surged around them. So great was their haste and desire for Frodo that they paid no notice to the two men in the middle of the road.

"We must to the ford!" Glorfindel yelled, taking off. Strider beckoned to the Hobbits, vowing to keep pace with their much shorter legs. He knew that Glorfindel would do all in his power to protect Frodo and the Lady, half-dead though they were from their wounds.


Water pooling around Frodo's feet awoke him to the fact that they were crossing the deep ford of the river. He also noticed that he was now alone on the horse. Frodo tried to look around for Beriadanwen in vain, his head and limbs would not move of his own volition, such was his fatigue and pain. But he could sense the presence of the riders on the far bank.

The horse finished pushing across the ford and wheeled, turning and neighing defiance to the black riders' mounts. They chaffed and bit back, stamping on the bank. They could not touch the water.

"Go back!" Frodo cried, barely finding his voice. "Go back to the Land of Mordor, and follow me no more!" His voice sounded thin and shrill in his own ears.

The Riders halted, but only long enough to laugh.

"The Ring! The Ring!" they cried with deadly voices; more screeching and screaming than words at all. Their terrible and familiar leader urged his horse forward into the water, followed closely by two others.

At that moment there came a roaring and a rushing: a noise of loud waters rolling many stones. Dimly Frodo saw the river below him rise, and down along its course there came a plumed cavalry of waves. White flames seemed to Frodo to flicker on their crests and he half fancied that he saw amid the water white riders upon white horses with frothing manes. The wraiths on the shore disappeared, buried suddenly under angry foam. With his last failing senses Frodo heard cries, and it seemed to him that he saw, beyond the Riders that hesitated on the shore, a shining figure of white light; and behind it ran small shadowy forms waving flames, that flared red in the grey mist that was falling over the world. Then Frodo felt himself falling, and the roaring and confusion seemed to rise and engulf him together with his enemies. He heard and saw no more.