They made it to the palace in time and Iorkann carried her to a chamber where the elvish medicine was kept. He gave orders to the remaining guards in the palace and they brought forth hot water and cloths. Then, they bathed her wound and tried their best to cleanse it; but Iorkann knew what blade had pierced her and hot water would do little to comfort her. Already, her skin had become cold as ice. There was a shard lodged somewhere in Ithildin and slowly, it would make its way into her heart. Ithildin's eyes were closed and her breathing was ragged. But she was a strong woman, stronger than most elves in fact, and she could fight the shadow for many days. Yet, even she was no match for the spells of the Dark Lord and eventually she would fall.
Ithildin opened her eyes to see Iorkann and the guards peering worriedly at her. She did her best to smile, though it was more of a grimace of pain. "I am all right," she said. "It is not a deep cut and the wound has already closed. You needn't look so worried."
But Iorkann shook his head. "Nay, lady," he said, "That was a Morgul blade that marred your skin and it is no ordinary weapon. Already, its poison is working its way into your heart. It will try to take you into the shadow world of the Dark Lord. None of us have the skill to heal you, not even the King. You must be taken to Rivendell, to the house of Lord Elrond, but that is a perilous journey of many weeks. Rest now. Tonight, I and a dozen others shall prepare for the journey and tomorrow, we shall make our way to the Lord's house."
His voice was calm and soothing, but Ithildin saw his mind and knew that he was worried. The battle had not gone as they had expected and the enemy seemed to have no end. Already, the elves were growing weary. They needed the strength of Iorkann and could not afford to give up even a dozen of their men. Ithildin closed her eyes but her plan had been formed. She would not wait for day, nor risk Iorkann when the people of Mirkwood needed him more.
When finally, the elves left her to sleep, she got up silently. The wound had closed, but oh, she was colder than she had ever felt in her life. And the pain at her side flamed like a fire that would not be put out. She gathered some clothing and food and put these into the pack she had carried with her throughout her journey. Then, as quickly as her wound would allow, she made her way out of the palace and towards a small stable. Times had changed and even the woodland elves had begun to keep horses. She harnessed the swiftest one, Rohkeleg, tied her pack to its saddle and then mounted it and rode off into the night.
She rode for many days, out of Mirkwood and south, making for the Gap of Rohan for she could not cross the Misty Mountains. As each day went by, her strength began to fade. At night, she was plagued by nightmares of a horrific kind. She dreamed of nine black riders and always, they seemed to be searching for her. Their cries chilled her blood and always she awoke screaming, not knowing that her screams began to sound much like theirs. Light began to fade and even in the clearest sunlight, she could not make out the images before her. It seemed as if she looked out through a curtain of darkness and nothing could lift it. Also, her body had begun to grow cold despite the endless blankets she wrapped around her. Rohkeleg tried very hard to protect her, for he had come to love her as most animals loved Ithildin. When night came he would allow her to rest her head on his great grey body, hoping that some of his warmth would pass on to her. But it was no use. Ithildin grew weaker. The power within her flared. It was almost at its peak. If she gave in to the darkness, all would be lost.
One night, she had a dream that determined the future of Middle-Earth. She was lost, lost inside a shadow world where there was no light. Suddenly, she was shown an image, a beautiful image: She stood tall and proud, bathed in silver splendor amidst a beautiful green world. People of all races bowed to her and hailed her as their queen. Then, a soft voice whispered to her: Give in to the shadow and all this shall be yours…You shall rule and all the world will fear your wisdom and power. It was so tempting and the evil side of the power flared. Suddenly, she was consumed with a lust to make that image come true. But goodness could not so easily be destroyed and the two sides fought for her soul. In the end, goodness won. "No!" she replied to the voice, "I was not meant for so great a glory. I will not make myself the key to the destruction of this world."
Then the voice laughed and its laugher was terrible, for it sounded like the screams of a thousand innocent people. Against the Dark Lord, there can be no victor. Join me now or else feel the wrath of the Lord of Mordor! But still Ithildin held on, resolute; she would not be swayed. "The light shall pierce the darkness!" she cried. The laughter stopped, and the evil was filled with rage at her refusal. Her wound began to burn and hurt more than a thousand needles. Ithildin screamed and Rohkeleg awoke. With a gentle nudge, Ithildin came out of her dream and her brow was bathed in sweat. A weariness overcame her such as she had never known and when her eyes closed a moment later, the last of her strength left her.