By the time Glorfindel reached the downs, the sun was setting behind the hills, and the early autumn dusk was already drawing in. The tops of the trees were still tinged with a copper glow as the last rays of the sun slipped under a thick canopy of cloud. The only sound was the horse tearing the last of the summer grass. Asfaloth came at his whistle, his white coat glimmering in the twilight. Glorfindel felt the horse's velvet nose touch his cheek, and a gust of hot, grass-scented horse breath stirred his hair. He stroked the horse's nose, and whispered endearments to him.
They descended the steep slopes of the downs side by side, but Glorfindel did not need to lead the horse. At the road, he mounted, and urged the horse to a walk. If the travellers were concealed in the wilderness, then he had little hope of tracking them after two weeks. His best hope was to try and intercept them when they had to return to the road, and that, at the soonest, meant the Last Bridge.
His heart filled with dread, for suddenly the chance that Estel and the Ring Bearer would escape their pursuers seemed slender indeed. And if they did not, then would the Ring be once again on Sauron's finger, and the battle for Middle Earth lost before it had even begun. And Estel too would be a prize beyond measure to the Enemy. Glorfindel's busy imagination supplied vivid pictures of torment, punishment for the humiliation Sauron had suffered at the hands of Estel's forefather, Isildur. Then in his mind's eye, he saw the Nazgúl at Sauron's shoulder, as he sat on a great throne that seemed to be formed of the bones of Men. Estel knelt at the great black knee. Then Sauron tore the ring of gold from the finger of the Witch King himself, and forced it onto Estel's hand. The screams of the heir of Isildur and the shrieks of the dispossessed Nazgúl rent the air.
Glorfindel shook himself, to free himself of the power of the vision, hoping past hope that it had not been a prophecy. The night began to clear, and the half moon appeared between scudding shreds of cloud. Asfaloth at a word broke into a ground-eating canter, now that the light was enough to make out the road. Here, near the villages of Combe and Archet, the way was well worn, and rutted by farm carts. All could be lost if Asfaloth sprained a fetlock, or injured a tendon now.
The horse cantered smoothly, and Glorfindel began to enjoy the ride, despite his anxiety as the wind of his passing blew the last of the smoke of Bree from his cloak and hair. At last a grey dawn came, and Glorfindel dismounted by a stream that descended from the hills to the north of the road, to rest the horse. He himself could have travelled night and day, but the horse though was mortal, and in need of rest, food and drink.
-0-
It was two days of hard riding before Glorfindel found himself nearing the Last Bridge in the late afternoon. In the distance dark clouds hung over the hills of the Ettenmoors, and grey veils of rain fell from them. It had been raining in the valley too, and the road underfoot was miry, but the horse was sure-footed, even after many days of journeying. A mile or so before the bridge, he came upon footprints in the mud of the road. He dismounted, to look more closely and to his joy, there were several clear prints from a pair of boots, hoof prints from a shod pony, and even better, a number of different tracks from large, bare feet. Clearly he was now on the trail of his quarry. After the initial exhilaration faded, it occurred to him that only one set of boots meant that Mithrandir had still not met up with the others, and his anxiety rose again.
He followed the trail onto the bridge on foot, not wanting to lose it in the darkening evening. The beryl he had dropped had gone, he hoped into the right hands. Over the bridge, the footprints went for another mile so, before they veered off into a narrow ravine on the north side of the road. It was hard to tell how old the footprints were, but it was now six days since he had driven the three Black Riders from the bridge. He might not be able to track Estel and the hobbits in the wild country, especially since Estel was elven reared, and his skills in concealment fell little short of the firstborn, who could hide in plain sight, and not be found. Estel would have to rejoin the Road before the Fords of Bruinen, and Glorfindel thought that the Nazgúl, who he could not sense nearby, would also recognise that as the best place for an ambush. He remounted, and with a touch, brought Asfaloth to a trot.
It was the following day when he picked up the tracks again, now clearly following the road. The road here wound through the empty hills, purple with heather. Gorse bushes, still scattered with the occasional incongruous yellow flower grew on the banks which here rose high on either side. Glorfindel was ever more alert, as the land closed in around him and the light began to leave the sky.
Suddenly, he was aware of a flicker of movement amongst the sparse yellowing leaves of a hazel copse on the hillside above him. It was not the wind. Something was concealed there. He reined in his horse, and swinging his leg over the saddle, jumped to the ground, to investigate. As he did so, a man burst from the thicket, and leaped down the slope towards the road shouting joyfully. There was something very familiar about the way the figure moved. Suddenly he realised that it was Estel, and joy and pain trembled in Glorfindel's heart.
"Ah, at last, Dúnadan! Well met!" he cried in Sindarin, and, forgetting his dignity in the joy of seeing Estel again, he hastened through the knee-high heather towards him. As they met on the hillside, both suddenly drew back from the expected embrace, as if remembering themselves.
It hadn't occurred to Glorfindel that Estel would have aged, for in his mind's eye, he had remained a boy. What he saw shocked him. Gone was the boy with the beauty of the Eldar. Under the dirt of the road he could see that Estel's face had hardened. Fine lines were drawn round his eyes, and deep furrows ran from his nose to the corners of his harsh mouth. His body had thickened with muscle, too, and worst of all, coarse whiskers sprang from his cheeks, chin and neck But most disconcertingly, the clear grey eyes that looked at him out of that ruined face were those of the beautiful youth he had loved, that enchanted summer in Imladris, and Glorfindel's heart broke anew, for this man, Aragorn, seemed a stranger.
"Oh Glorfindel, I am so pleased to see you, " said Estel. His voice had roughened with the passage of the years, but was still recognisable. Something quivered in Glorfindel, but Estel continued, "I was beginning to think we would not reach Rivendell."
So, he thought, Estel was only glad for his strength and power, and nothing else. It was hard to understand the disappointment he felt, since this man was a stranger. He schooled his features into an expression of indifference, for he had a task to complete that was greater than his own woes, and said, "We may not yet. The Nine are abroad and may well hold the Ford against us. I was afraid I would miss you, and you would be left to face the Nine alone."
Estel looked grim. "We have faced five already, twelve nights ago. And the Ring Bearer was sorely wounded."
"That is ill news indeed. Let me look at him." Estel beckoned to the copse of hazel where he had hidden, and Glorfindel watched as four halflings and one heavily laden brown pony scrambled down the hillside.
Frodo suddenly clutched his shoulder, went ash white, and fainted. Glorfindel, with quick reflexes, caught him in his arms as he fell, and laid him gently on the heather, his self-indulgent reflections forgotten. Already he could see that the hobbit was being drawn into the shadow-world of the wraiths. To his dismay, Frodo's fëa was shivering in that dismal place, its link to his body increasingly frail. In the world of flesh, the hobbit's small body felt icy to his touch, even through his garments and he could sense the creeping chill inside his left shoulder.
Estel told the tale of their narrow escape on Weathertop, and held out the hilt of the blade that had made the wound. As his fingers touched the metal, Glorfindel felt the same bone-deep, creeping coldness touch his own flesh. He shuddered, and returned the blade to Estel.
"Touch it as little as possible," he said, and began to open Frodo's jacket. As he unfastened the waistcoat, his fingers brushed over something hard and circular, concealed in a pocket. He drew in a sharp breath, knowing instantly what it was he felt there. Isildur's bane. And it was under his very fingers. He drew back at once, for he could feel the lure of the Ring, hidden only by a layer of cloth. A vision of himself leading the last of the exiled Noldor back to Aman, came into his head. How fair he was. How golden his hair. Manwë himself would be grateful for the intervention of one as great as he. Fëanor would be released from Mandos's Halls, and Estel would kneel at his feet.
Suddenly he recognised the wrongness of the vision, and drew back from the Ring. Long ago, he had talked to Mithrandir about Isildur's weakness, exclaiming that surely he would be able to resist its power. He could still see Mithrandir's eyes, sad and wise, as he had said, "Glorfindel, I would not have the power to resist its blandishments for long myself. So even you can be deceived and the greater your arrogance, the less likely you will be to able to withstand it."
He took care then not to touch that pocket again, though still he could hear the ring calling to him, with its promise of love fulfilled, and the forgiveness of the Valar.
Under the waistcoat, Frodo's shirt was torn and stained with blood and other fouler fluids, which had leaked from the torn flesh. The wound still looked raw and angry against the bloodless skin. After twelve days, it had not even begun to heal.
Glorfindel laid his fingers against the wound, and again felt that deadly chill creep into his flesh. In the wraith world, he was aware he shone with a white flame, and he struggled to bring Frodo's fëa back into his body. Though it yearned blindly towards his warmth, like a moth to a flame, it was lost and confused, and could not find the way back, even with his help. When he stood up, he knew he had not been fully successful. But a little colour had returned to Frodo's face, and he sat up, although still weak.
"I regret I am more a warrior than a healer," said Glorfindel, "We must get you to
Rivendell as quickly as possible, Frodo Baggins. Elrond's skills are greater by far than mine. You shall ride Asfaloth. If danger approaches, he will carry you to safety."
"I do not wish to be carried away from my friends, seeking safety while they face danger."
"You are carrying a burden that must be kept from the hands of our pursuers. And your friends' danger would lessen if you weren't with them."
"Come on Frodo. Now is not the time for stubbornness. You are grievously wounded, and likely to fall from Bill," added Aragorn.
"Unlike your pony, Asfaloth will not let you fall if you faint again," added Glorfindel. He felt a sudden closeness to this new, strange Aragorn, arguing with Frodo together. You could injure yourself further if you fell and none were on hand to catch you."
It took some persuasion before Frodo would agree, weak as he was. Glorfindel bent and shortened the stirrups up to the saddle skirts. The others packed as much of their travel gear as they could onto the pony, Bill. It was fortunate, he thought to himself, that Lindir, in his wisdom, had equipped Asfaloth with a saddle, for the halfling would never have stayed mounted on an elven blanket. They set off on the last weary part of the journey to Imladris.