It never occurred to Ithildin to wonder why she was suddenly able to ride a horse when she had never so much as touched one before. There were no horses in Mindon Enedh; indeed, there were almost no animals in that land, save for woodland creatures. Landalë rode swiftly, and a lesser rider would have found it very tiring to sit on his back for many hours. But Ithildin had no trouble at all. But so pressed was she to find the answers to her questions that she did not notice how her strength could now rival an Elven warrior. She did not notice that her mind was quite capable of knowing things before they happened and that many of her thoughts were tinged with a bit of darkness. This was unfortunate. Much of the danger she would face could have been prevented if only she had paid heed to the warning signs.
It took her many days to ride to the Ford of Isen. The road was treacherous, even for a horse such as Landalë and Ithildin began to suspect that a higher power might be working to slow her down, for often she would face sudden rain or snow when there had not been a single cloud in the sky.
When she reached the Ford, there was no one there. She searched the land far and wide, but found nothing. In fact, there was not a sign that anyone had been there as far as a month ago. Ithildin knew this with certainty, for the power within her, which she mistakenly believed to be intuition, saw the barren fields of grass, the small, withered trees and the dried up streams and the history of the Ford raced through her mind in a matter of mere seconds. No messengers had arrived at the Ford to await her. She was in a desolate land, but it never occurred to her that she had been deceived. Her good heart accepted immediately the explanation that the messengers had been lost and she decided, that upon the morrow, she would return to Edoras.
She made camp underneath a small forest. The night was cold and chilly. A harsh wind blew in from the east. Ithildin built a small fire and made a stew of herbs, but it did little to warm her. Landalë waited patiently by her side and when the wind blew out her fire, he sighed sympathetically and nuzzled her neck. 'Do not be troubled, Mistress,' said his eyes, for Ithildin could communicate with her horse on a level only Elves could. She reached out and stroked Landalë's mane, singing softly to him until his eyes closed and he slept. Then, she put away the wood she had used to burn fire, and buried the ashes, for her 'intuition' told her not to leave signs of her presence.
The sun had just begun to stir the darkness when Ithildin was awoken by a harsh cry. It was the cry of a wolf, and no ordinary one. The cry was answered by another and then another until a chorus of wolf cries filled the night. Ithildin stood up and in the shadows she could see many pairs of yellow eyes. She stumbled and backed away. Wolves, servants of the Dark Lord, surrounded her. There were at least six in the front and she could not count the number behind them. They snarled and howled and all the air was filled with their harsh breath.
Landalë awoke, reared, and raced in front of Ithildin to protect her. Before she could stop him, he had charged towards the leader of the wolves with a cry. The wolf leapt up into the air to meet him and they struggled and fought. But the power of Sauron's servants was greater than a horse's, and with a last cry of anguish, a fatal blow was delivered and Landalë laid his silver head to rest. Ithildin came quickly to his side, but the great horse was dead. Her tears flowed hot and swift down her cheeks, but an anger burned within her that was more powerful than her sorrow.
She turned to face the wolves, and they stared back at her with hateful eyes. There was an energy flowing through her veins and it filled her with light and warmth. She lifted her head towards the stars and allowed it to engulf her. A light began to emanate from her, a great white light that was almost blinding. Her deep eyes flashed and her silver hair shone. But the wolves were not so easily cowed. They growled and hissed at her until she spoke.
"Begone, foul servants of the East. You have killed my steed and torn apart my heart. Return to your Dark Lord and never trouble me again!"
Her voice was mighty and powerful and she walked slowly into the circle of wolves. Each step she took, the light about her grew stronger and the wolves saw that she could not be defeated. They retreated in fear and ran off into the night. Ithildin watched them go, not with joy, but with relief. The light faded and she returned to her normal self. But she was not herself! For something had overcome her just then and finally, she was made aware of the force growing within her. Why had she called these wolves servants of the East? How could she known that? And she was most disturbed at the change that had overcome her. She had felt the power surging through her blood and it had almost consumed her. She had looked into the hearts of the wolves and seen their evil purpose, but how, she did not know. The stone of mithril was heavy once again and finally she acknowledged its weight. There were questions that needed answering, and she had but one person to turn to: the white wizard whom Grima had called Saruman.
Ithildin spent the rest of that long, cold night creating a proper burial for her faithful horse. When she was done, she lay upon the mound, a leaf of the herb she had used in her stew, for it was all she could find to put upon it. "Farewell, loyal Landalë," she whispered through fresh tears. Then, she packed up her possessions. She had no horse, the road back to Edoras would be impossible, for it had been difficult to journey even with a horse. Isengard was naught but a few days' journey away and there, Saruman awaited her. So, she turned her thoughts to the North, and did not know that her journey became more perilous that night.