This smaller band clearly was a group of experienced desert fighters who understood each other with few words. Besides Elrohir there were two men and two women. All appeared to be of Númenórean ancestry; one of the women even had the grey eyes and pale skin that marked her as Gondorian.
The ride itself was punishing. The Umbarian traders had ridden during the daytime too, but on smaller even-footed pack camels and never at speed. This ride felt like receiving two beatings at once: one from the camel below him and the other from the burning Haradi sun directly overhead. He now fully understood the Haradrim fashion of covering the whole body including the face. As the sun rose, the intensity of its glare off the sand underfoot irritated Glorfindel. To Mortal eyes it had to be near unbearable. Elrohir and his companions handed a small jar around, its contents an inky black. They darkened the skin around their eyes with the mixture of ground charcoal and animal fat, which brought some relief. When Elrohir turned around and offered it to him he gratefully accepted.
Out here in the deep desert water was precious as life itself. Elrohir told him early on that they would not pass anymore wells or watering holes. They had only what their camels carried, and would find no more before they reached their destination, which he refused to name. Glorfindel observed Elrohir and made sure to drink less often and in smaller amounts than the Half-Elf did, which was hard enough. The constant gnawing thirst gave him a new respect for his mortal companions' ability to suppress the longings of their feeble bodies.
At high noon they took a short break, setting up a tarp to rest in the shade. The camels were hobbled, but they stayed nearby as there was nothing to graze in the vast sea of sand they had now entered. As the others lay down to sleep, Elrohir sat up to take first watch. He had removed his head-covering. His dark hair was cropped short, as seemed to be the custom among the Haradrim. Glorfindel could see the uneven bristles in his neck where one of his fellow warriors must have cut it for him with a knife. The sight gave Glorfindel unpleasant thoughts of thralldom, for no Elf would voluntarily allow such a thing.
It would be a long work, to bridge this gulf of strangeness that gaped between what Elrohir had become and what he was born to be. Suddenly Glorfindel doubted the wisdom of his council to Elrond, that the Peredhel stay behind in Imladris. Glorfindel himself had little fondness of Mortals, the esteem he had held for Tuor all but demolished by witnessing Isildur's weakness. Elrond, with his ingrained understanding of Elrohir's adopted people, would probably have had a far easier time building a rapport. A dear price the Peredhel had paid for safekeeping the burden that was Vilya. Glorfindel would see to it that it would run no higher.
When he was completely sure the others were asleep, Glorfindel sat down opposite Elrohir. He chose the spot both to scan the horizon at the young Half-Elf's back, and to see his face. Even with the black stripes around his eyes he was the spitting image of his brother.
"Will you not tell me where we are going?"
Elrohir smiled wryly.
"We are on a hunt, Master Glorfindel. Our prey hides in the sea of dunes. I did not tell you in Amuk's camp because I did not want to cause alarm to those overhearing our conversation."
Glorfindel carefully read what little emotion slipped past Elrohir's carefully maintained facade. To his dismay, it was pure and unadulterated fear.
"What is it you seek?" he asked, urgency in his voice.
"I do not know. We have no name for such a creature. It seems to be a man, and yet not. Fear is its weapon, and with that it causes a slow death without wounds. It sets itself against the Haradrim, aiding Umbar. It will be our downfall if we do not defeat it soon."
Glorfindel felt an icy fist close around his heart as he thought of Sauron, fled into the wilds after his downfall at the hands of the Last Alliance, when Isildur failed to deal him the killing blow.
He took Elrohir by the arm, his fingers gentle but firm.
"Have you seen this creature with your own eyes?"
"Yes I have."
"Show me."
Elrohir looked at him in confusion, thinking the question an ill-timed jest.
"I don't have it in my pocket."
Glorfindel did not even smile at the attempt at a light-hearted answer. His eyes bored into Elrohir's.
"You and I, we have an ability we call mind-opening. It can be used to share memories. You may never have experienced it among Men, but you are certainly capable of it. Allow me to see this being through your eyes so I may put a name to it, if I can."
Elrohir recoiled, backing away from Glorfindel with loathing in his eyes, his right hand moving towards the dagger in his belt.
"I have felt that before, too, and from the very thing we seek. It was not an experience I'd care to repeat. Are you one like him, perhaps given fair form to deceive us?"
Glorfindel raised both hands.
"No, not at all. Look into my eyes and you'll know I speak the truth. He may be capable of a dark and twisted version of mind-opening, but I am nothing like him and neither are you."
Elrohir relaxed somewhat. Glorfindel reached for him. With clear trepidation Elrohir let himself be touched. "Take my hand, this will make it easier."
As gently as he possibly could to avoid spooking Elrohir again, Glorfindel reached into his mind. That distinctive, almost-Elvish weave of it was instantly familiar from Elrond and Elladan. The contents were another matter. Glorfindel could feel resistance born of sheer terror. It was obvious that Elrohir wanted nothing more than to recoil at the unfamiliar sensation of another mind against his, but he wanted to learn what Glorfindel could tell him even more. Panic rose, its discord jangling the weft and warp of Elrohir's mind. Glorfindel could feel him suppress it with the skill of one used to their life depending on composure. It was only a moment before he regained his bearings and brought up the memory.
Elrohir stood guard over a sleeping encampment. It was a dark noontime, the air so saturated with the dust blown up by a hot southern wind that a permanent red dusk had descended. As people and camels slept, the only things moving were the billowing curtains of dust endlessly driven across the sky. There was nothing peaceful about the scene.
Even being only the recipient of the memory, Glorfindel could feel the unease and impending threat weigh as heavily on his mind as if he were there. Something wicked approached.
The camels could feel it too, and they started bellowing, trying to run despite their hobbles. All around him, men and women awoke and reached for their weapons. Every eye was trained on the invisible horizon and the dancing veils of dust, but nothing else moved there. Suddenly, on the edge of vision, something disturbed the pattern of the dust storm. There was a man walking towards the camp. No, rather than a man it was the absence of one, a man-shaped emptiness in the red dust. The crushing press of fear intensified. Somewhere behind him, Elrohir heard camels scream in blind panic. Some of the people did, too. One of the archers drew his crossbow to shoot an arrow at the thing. It was well-aimed but passed straight through the shape unheeded as it continued its approach.
Elrohir became aware of being touched, not physically but in mind as if another were with him in the darkness behind his eyelids. It was vile, a disgusting violation. He struggled with all his might to remove the thing as it clung to him with a grip of iron.
"You are not like the others!" The coldness of that hissing voice was torture in itself.
"What are you?! Speak!" The pain intensified. The creature used fear as its weapon, filling Elrohir's mind with it like a poison until it froze him like an ant in amber. There, just before the breaking point where the creature would destroy his mind and bring him under its shadow, a memory resurfaced from a time long forgotten.
"A Elbereth, Gilthoniel! A tiro nin!" His waking mind did not understand the words, but they had left his mouth nonetheless. It seemed they not only lifted the creature's hold on him, but struck fear into its dark heart.
When he became aware of his surroundings once more he was on his bedroll, concerned faces looking down on him. The creature had fled, hours ago as it turned out. Meanwhile the dust had settled and through a gap between the tarps he could see the stars.
Glorfindel let go of Elrohir's mind and hand. They were once more in the sea of dunes under clear blue sky and harsh midday sun.
Elrohir rubbed his eyes, seeming dazed. Passing the memory had been hard work, Glorfindel realised, for one not used to it from childhood. He touched the Peredhel's mind again. Elrohir was surprised, but allowed it once more. This time Glorfindel only gave of the strength he had aplenty, glad he could do at least this small thing for him. When he withdrew, Elrohir's mind felt clear and strong.
At his expectant look, Glorfindel answered, "As I feared, I do know him. He is not the one I dreaded most but a deadly adversary nonetheless. He is a Ringwraith, one of Nine. In the North we believed him and those of his ilk vanquished with the defeat of their evil master. I see now that we have greatly underestimated them."
"How did you do it?" demanded Elrohir eagerly.
"Do what?"
"How did you defeat them to begin with? If you succeeded once, it can be done twice. There is only one now and not the worst among them, as you said. Can they be killed?"
Glorfindel looked at the dunes stretching to the distant horizon and thought of Elrond, the White Council, and the many weeks of travel separating them. The magnitude of such an undertaking was daunting. He finally dismissed it as impossible. He was alone in this, with one far too young to be a threat to the likes of the Witch-King.
After a long silence, Glorfindel finally answered. "Not by mortal men. I believe that the time for this one to die will not come for many long years yet."
At Elrohir's look of desperation, he answered, "But he can be weakened, struck with terror, his own weapon, and driven far from here. Which is what we will attempt."
Elrohir did not seem convinced. "How?"
"Not by the sword or any other physical weapon. Some weapons are only of the mind. You remembered a little of that art when you first encountered him, and it saved your life in more ways than you know."
While speaking those words a terrible understanding dawned on Glorfindel. A cold sliver of fear of what might have been if their fates on this day had been even a little different slid across his heart when he realised the full measure of Elrohir's despair.
"Now I see why you, of all the warriors in Harad, and your companions have come on this hunt. All five of you have Númenórean blood, the blood of Lúthien. You directly, they through the Faithful of Númenor. With that comes at least some measure of skill in matters of the Unseen. You all have in the past resisted or survived the Ringwraith in some way. You were sent to make a final stand against him, and you came here fully expecting to die. That's why you aren't more concerned about water for the return journey, and why you refused to take me."
He searched Elrohir's eyes for confirmation, and knew his words to be the truth. With or without Glorfindel's presence, this hunt would have been the last mission Elrohir ever carried out for the Haradrim. The cruelty of him dying alone, in terror and without even knowing his father's name was beyond what Glorfindel could bear to contemplate.
"You see more than you are shown, Glorfindel. We have no desire to take our own lives. But knowing what we do, I can honestly say that I see no other possible outcome. We will try to stand against him, and be defeated. Harad will fall."
After Ruhiren's tales Glorfindel had expected to encounter darkness and despair in the desert. It was nonetheless painful to see Elrohir ensnared by it.
"Why? Why throw your life away on this desperate stand you have next to no hope of accomplishing? Do you not care for the life you have been given?"
Elrohir looked at Glorfindel and spoke plainly, as if explaining a simple fact of daily life to a child. "This may yet prove to be a selfish act, in the end. To fall under Umbar's iron fist once more… I have no desire to survive that day. Lord Zimrathôn is mighty and this abomination darkens the world at his behest. In the end the dead may be the lucky ones, to find themselves far beyond his reach."
Glorfindel knew he was treading dangerous ground. "You are not one of the Haradrim in sooth. I am not telling you to leave now, or even asking you to, merely offering. If you want to go north, we can. I know you believe yourself bound by duties and oaths, but in the eyes of your own people you are too young to be held to such responsibilities. I will lend you what help I can with the war, if that is your choice. But you only need to say the word and your part in all this shall end."
Elrohir was less offended than he could have been. "I am going to pretend you did not just propose me to commit desertion. That way we will both be spared the misery that will come from me trying to behead you, which is what our laws require me to do in such cases. For both our sakes I have only heard the part where you said you would defeat the Ringwraith."
Glorfindel looked at the bright young spirit before him. One fateful day he had stopped darkness from consuming the child's forefathers. He had brought down a Balrog then, and he would not cower before a mere Mortal now, Ringwraith or not.