Chapter One: Never Trust a She-Elf

            I walked along the narrow path without paying much attention to my surroundings. I was fuming . . . and with good reason, too! Here I was out in the middle of nowhere, when I should have been at home having some choice bits of bread. Mmm, I love bread. Especially with a little honey spread on it. But no, no, no, I have to run off and carry this hoity-toity princess through goodness-knows-what peril and . . . but I am getting ahead of myself. Let me explain. My name is Asfaloth and I am an elvish horse. For you ignoramuses out there, I will tell you exactly what that means.

            In the first place, I am fast. Not just ordinarily fast, like some nag from Esgaroth or Bree, but really fast. Of course, that is to be assumed, for Esgaroth and Bree are ruled by the humans. Men are stupid, and they do not know how to treat horses. Fortunately for my psychological well-being, I have never been forced to suffer the indignity of prolonged association with humans or humans’ horses.

            Being an elvish horse also means I am smart. All my stablemates and I understand elvish and some of the Common Speech that all races speak (despite what the Rohirrim claim about such an ability being unique to Felarof, Horse of Eorl. In truth, Felarof was the only horse dumb enough to reveal it.) Elves can speak with all animals, however. Now I am rather smart even for an elvish horse.

            A usual (though not inevitable) benefit of being an elvish horse is, in addition to being clever, I am rather handsome though I never flaunt that fact. I am a tall, white horse with a long, silky mane and tail. Since I am an elvish horse, I obviously belong to elves and therefore my rider is an elf. Now, this is where it gets confusing. My master is Glorfindel and he is the one who should have been riding me. But my rider is a “she,” not a “he.” Her name is Arwen Undomiel. She is a princess and the daughter of the Lord of Imladris - that is where I come from.

            It all started two days ago. I was in the stable speaking to my stablemates about the quality of the hay we have been receiving lately, (which, I may say, has left something to be desired even though they did not seem to agree) when several elf lords entered. I spotted my master among them. In my humble estimation, Glorfindel seems to stand out in a crowd. He walked over to me and produced some bread that I lost no time in demolishing. He smiled slightly and rubbed my jaw which he knows I like, but I could tell that something was wrong. I saw that the other elf lords were going to their mounts as well. All were armed and clad as if for a ride of at least several days. There was tension in the air. I was not worried though. I knew Glorfindel was equal to any task. He was a warrior and an elf lord, and I would stand with him against an entire legion of orcs if he bid me do so. He entered my stall and saddled and bridled me, but did not tell me what was happening—a sure sign that he was preoccupied. The other elf lords, so self-centered they rarely bring an adequate amount of treats for their horses, were already riding out. This was when things started to go sour. My master was just about to mount and ride out with the others when I heard a voice call, “Hail, Lord Glorfindel!”

            Glorfindel left my stall and bowed to a female elf who had entered silently (as all elves do. It is sometimes very disconcerting). “Hail, Lady Arwen,” he replied.

            As soon as I saw the one called Arwen, I knew there was going to be trouble. Females are always trouble, but my concerns were verified when I noticed she, too, was carrying a sword and was clad for travel, not wearing some long, gossamer dress (the kind that always seemed to be mysteriously drawn in the direction of my mouth for a good gnawing).

            “Is Asfaloth prepared to depart, Glorfindel?” Glorfindel nodded but did not speak. He seemed to be worried now.

            I had seen Arwen (who is called Undomiel) before. Few of those who dwelt in Imladris had not. She was said to be the most beautiful elf since her ancestor Luthien, daughter of Thingol. Like her ancestor, she was also said to be betrothed to a human. I had no little respect for her father and was surprised that he had allowed such a thing. Glorfindel had known her since she was a little child and cared for her greatly. I eyed the elf with some trepidation as she started to move towards me. I had a bad feeling about this.

            “What are you doing, Arwen?” called Glorfindel. Arwen Undomiel did not respond but walked over to me.

            “Shall we go hunting, Asfaloth?” she murmured quietly. Yes, I had a very, very bad feeling about this.

            “Arwen!”

            “Peace, Glorfindel,” she replied.

            “What are you doing? You are up to something,” Glorfindel said. His voice had taken on a perceptive tone that he only used with me when I had stolen part of his breakfast or done something similarly naughty that he had discovered.

            A half smile fleetingly crossed her face; thenArwen sighed. She seemed very sad. “I am worried,” she answered.

            My master’s expression softened. “Aragorn?” he asked.

            She nodded. “I must find him.”

            He motioned to her. She walked over to his side and they spoke in low tones. I knew the name Aragorn. I had heard the sons of Elrond and Glorfindel speak of him often, though who he was I had no idea. I had a feeling that Arwen wanted to go looking for him. Worse still, I was getting the feeling that she wanted me to carry her. Her grey palfrey was not suited to any kind of war-like situation, and I must admit thatI had a reputation for being fast, strong and brave. But no way was I getting anywhere near a human! Their conversation was getting a little bit louder, but still not loud enough for me to make enough out to understand it. I heard my master saying something about “nazgul” and “battle”. He was gesturing wildly (for an elf), but Arwen was just standing there with a stubborn expression on her face. Glorfindel looked more upset than I had ever seen him.

            Then Arwen said, “I do not care. I must go.” Typical female. I shook my head and grabbed a mouthful of hay. Glorfindel then said something I could not hear and they turned and walked over to me. She climbed onto my back, and if an elvish horse did not always have to maintain his composure, I would have turned my head and bitten her for her impudence.

            “I will tell Lord Elrond of your search,” my master told her.

            “My thanks, Glorfindel,” Arwen said. “I am sorry to cause you anxiety, but I fear for his safety and for those he guards.” She hesitated. “You may want to tell my father that Hadhafang is not lost if he notices its absence.”

            “Your pardon, Arwen?” Glorfindel asked, sounding slightly bewildered.

            “I lost my sword in the river yesterday and have not been able to locate it and retrieve it yet. I. . . . borrowed his. A sword from the armory would be missed, but my father has hardly used his sword since the Last Alliance.”

            Glorfindel sounded weary as he replied, “My horse, your father’s sword, and an elf warrior’s mission. Be cautious with Hadhafang. As you know, it is a valuable heirloom. Your father would be quite distressed were you to lose it, and I would not see you visit Mandos’ Halls before your time.”

            “Do not fear. I will be careful, Glorfindel,” she replied amusedly. “Though if it were not for Meglin, I would not have lost my sword at all. My sneaky brothers taught him that trick he used. It is not often that my sword is wrested away during sparring.”

            ‘No,’ I thought, ‘I wait until you have set it down to, uh, borrow it.’

            “Particularly on the bridge over The Stream,” Glorfindel finished with a smile. He appreciates irony, as any elf-lord should. “Your father will not be pleased, but I will tell him for your sake.”

            “Again, Glorfindel, I thank you,” replied Arwen. “You are a steadfast friend.”

            “You and your brothers always seem to need one,” he replied dryly. Arwen laughed merrily.

            Glorfindel smiled at her, then stroked my nose and whispered, “Good hunting, Loyal One.” He raised his head again and looked affectionately at the princess. “Farewell, Arwen. Be careful. May your journey be swift and your return safe.”

            I heard her reply, “Farewell, Glorfindel. Do not fear. I can defeat them should battle be unavoidable.”

            He grimaced faintly at the last part, nodded and stepped aside, motioning for me to leave which I foolishly did before I had a chance to express my opinion. I had said I would stand with Glorfindel against an army of orcs if he bid me do so. It was proven true by my carrying the princess, which in my opinion is a good deal harder. At least my master never rode another horse (I would not allow him to), so he would be staying out of danger. On the other hand, he had to explain Arwen’s absence to her father, Elrond. I was not sure which was worse since I did not think she was supposed to have anything to do with battles.

            We traveled the rest of that morning at a swift but steady pace, reaching the boundary of Imladris before Anar came fully overhead. It was not far from Imladris, but the terrain was mountainous. Arwen may have been in a hurry, but she should have known that horses should not be pushed for greater speed when they do not have the faintest idea why they are hurrying, and that they certainly need many more treats than I received from her.

            Still, I am very strong and rarely complain, so I generously refrained from throwing her in the Bruinen River when we arrived at its edge. Carrying her was better than carrying a human, after all. The Bruinen flowed at the outer boundaries of Imladris. It was the elves’ safeguard against invasion which, under Elrond’s authority, extended even to the waters that sprang down from the Hithaeglir. When Imladris was threatened, at his command they would rise and sweep away the enemy. He had never had to do it in my lifetime, but it was common knowledge that he could and the power he commanded was a subject for much speculation. Particularly when I was irritated with some exceedingly arrogant or insensitive elf, I would dream of what I would do if I could command water. The water was not terribly deep at the Ford, yet I eyed its ripples nervously. Arwen sensed my uneasiness and allowed me to pause, pawing at the water slightly with my right forehoof. Since it did not leap out of the river bed and swallow me, I started to walk across. I love to splash in puddles and made sure that the drops thrown up by my hooves went high into the air. I heard Arwen spluttering and decided it would be safer not to prance so much. The streambed and shores were lined with small, sharp stones compelling me to place my hooves cautiously. The water flowed around a bend between sheer rock faces that were a small extension of the Hithaeglir.

            When we reached the other side, she asked me to gallop, which I did not truly mind because I like to run. However, I could sense that she was growing impatient. She should take lessons from Glorfindel. Once I stole a valuable dagger that his father had given him and stuffed it down a rabbit hole, and he was completely unperturbed by it. Well, at least until I returned it and he saw I had slobbered on the handle just a little bit. Umm . . . there might have been a few teeth marks too. His reaction was undeniably very . . . interesting.

Chapter 2: Flying Squirrels and Flying Hooves

            Well, I have certainly been having a nasty time. When this is over, I am never, ever leaving Imladris again. The outside world is too perilous and unpredictable. Dark times have come to the land when an elvish horse can not even go for a little stroll without running into great danger. Literally so!

            Arwen and I continued for the rest of that day and most of the next, but did stop and sleep for a few, all-too-short hours before going on again. Elves do not need much sleep, but they do have to sleep sometimes. I still didn’t know what we were doing or where we were going. You would think an elvish princess would have been more considerate of my feelings.

            It was nearing dusk when we finally stopped at the top of a small hill, adorned with a few tall fir trees. Arwen dismounted and told me I was free to graze though not to roll, so long as I did not go far. She wanted to try something new. Hmph! The first thing I wanted to do was go splash in the stream, saddle or no. I briefly considered doing it anyway, but decided to be a model of decorum. How could I teach the little twit good manners if I did not set her a good example? I decided to chew on some grass instead.

            Just as I was about to start on a stand of timothy grass, a branch and a bunch of twigs hit my ears. I leaped in fright. What in Middle-Earth was trying to destroy my peaceful life now? I looked up into the elm tree that was towering over me, and not surprisingly spotted Her Ladyship climbing it. I do not know what it is about elves and trees, but all of the elves I have ever known love to climb trees. Even Glorfindel does though he climbs a lot better than any arrogant princess. Well, I thought crossly, she can climb a tree if she wants to. Something new indeed! I shrugged and went back to my grass. This time an irate squirrel landed right on my head. That was it! I had had enough! I will live without treats. I will carry the female. I will gallop without rest. I will not splash in the stream. But when the malevolent princess resorted to throwing squirrels at me, it was the end! I was getting out of there! I turned to flee, but in my haste did not consider that despite all the times I had seen elves in trees, I had never seen one disturb the animal or plant life.

            I ran back the way we had come. All I wanted now was to get back to Imladris. I am not a very adventurous type, and this had never been the kind of thing I enjoyed. I had not gone far; in fact, I had barely crossed the next hill and was still well within sight of the tree Arwen had climbed when a wave of fear swept over me. I slid to an immediate halt, stopping dead in my tracks. I had never felt anything like this before. I was suddenly and inexplicably terrified. It was then that I realized that this little jaunt of the Princess was actually a serious matter. She was not merely impatient for the return of her betrothed. My fear grew. I tried to move, but found I could not. I tried to whinny, but my voice choked off in my throat. I could barely think. I, who am never afraid, found myself consumed with a terror I could not seem to fight. Vaguely, I wondered if this is what a carrot feels like before I eat it. Cold assailed me despite my recent exercise. It seemed that the day had grown dark; the sun shadowed. Then I saw IT. There is no better word to describe what was there. My panicking mind hardly even realized what it was, but this I knew immediately: IT was evil. Not far from where I stood, barely fifty yards off was a tall, black horse bearing a black cloaked and hooded rider. They appeared to be watching me.

            The horse was big, though not unusually so. Its gear was standard for a horse of humans, nothing seeming odd about it. However, the horse itself seemed odd, a creature of darkness. All this I noticed, though my focus seemed captivated by the dark rider. To the ordinary horse, it would have seemed human. Indeed, it almost did, but being an elvish horse, sometimes I perceive things closer to the way the elves do. I saw immediately that this being was the cause of my fear. It was not human or elf, or in truth, close to anything I had ever encountered before. Only a creature that came out of the black land of Mordor, domain of the Enemy, could inspire such horror. It was certainly not orc-kind, the customary servants of the dark lord. Actually, I could see no face beneath the hood. But the malevolence that I could feel had no other possible source.

            Once again, I tried to flee. Once again, I could not move. Although it was hard to see for certain, I am convinced the creature laughed as I struggled against the power that held me captive. Dimly I became aware of all the creatures around me fleeing, even the insects and spiders. Despite all this, only a few seconds had elapsed since I had seen it. Now the cloaked figure nudged the horse, and it began to move in my direction. I would have been doomed. I am as certain of that as I am that Sauron is evil, and humans are stupid. Except for one small thing I had forgotten: a little thing, and, to repeat myself, a twit. From a distance, I heard a voice call out, piercing the fear and darkness.

            “Hear my voice, Asfaloth! Come to me!”

            It was the voice of Arwen. I did not need a second invitation, but turned and fled back to where I had left her. I heard a call behind me. It sent a shiver down my spine, for it sounded like the call of a bird of prey mixed with the neigh of a horse. Whether it was horse or rider, I could not tell. Perhaps it was both. I will never know for I am a very fast horse and used all of my speed to flee from the abhorrence behind me.

            I could hear the pounding of hooves and realized that the dark rider had taken up the chase. My mind was clearer now and I recalled the conversation between Arwen and Glorfindel. The whispered “nazgul” that I do not think I was supposed to hear. Ringwraiths! The nine black riders that serve the dark lord. I tried to dredge up from my memory some of the stories I had heard about them. When they go forth, they wear the guise of cloaked and hooded riders in black. They have no faces that can be seen, for, in spite of the dark power they possess, they lack physical substance and are only apparitions of their former selves. Well, that is what I had heard anyway. I had always thought the stories were greatly exaggerated, but now I was not so sure.

            My mind was still reeling from the events of the last few minutes when I arrived at the foot of the tree that I had last seen Arwen climbing. She had climbed down to the lowest branch and immediately jumped onto my back when I stopped. I was off again swiftly, but was more than content to let her direct me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another dark rider come suddenly out of the trees to join the one who was chasing us. Then I realized that the squirrel that had hit my head had probably had nothing to do with the Princess and everything to do with the presence of the Nazgul!

            The terrain we were being chased over was slightly hilly, although not steeply so. There were some trees but none were close together. More importantly, there was nowhere to hide. I thought longingly of my stall in Imladris. Even though most of my time was spent outside, it was a nice place to retreat to in times of great peril. Unfortunately, no amount of wishing could take me there.

            I glanced back and saw two more of the dark riders had joined those who were chasing us. I tried to increase my speed, but was spent from having carried Arwen far and fast just before my first encounter with them. With alarm, I realized I might not be able to outrun the dark riders if there were any more of them further ahead. I stumbled in a small hollow in the ground as I crested a hill and started down the other side allowing them to gain ground. Arwen bent forward and whispered a command which regrettably, I could not hear. I tried to run faster. Leaves and thin branches smacked my face as she turned me and I entered woods. I could hear the hooves of the Nazgul’s horses drawing closer. Then I heard another call. I shivered but did not slow. I thought Arwen said something to me, though I could not make out any words.

            Then I heard clearly, “Asfaloth! Asfaloth, halt!”

            I thought she was crazy. What was she going to do? Fight them? However being the good, obedient, elvish horse I am, I halted. I turned and saw then that the dark riders had stopped the chase. They were all standing on a hill facing us. Only now there were five. Then one of them turned and rode back over the hill the others following at once. I breathed a sigh of relief.

            Arwen slid off my back and walked to my head. She looked me in the eye but I quickly glanced away and lowered my head. She seemed reproachful and I knew I was in trouble. Elves have a way of looking at you when they are displeased that make you remember in minute detail everything you have done wrong since you were a tiny foal. I suddenly found the passage of an ant across a fallen leaf extremely fascinating.

            “That was not good, Asfaloth. You should not go looking for trouble, it will come to us soon enough.”

            She did not need to say more than that, I understood what she meant. I should not have run off and I knew it. I raised my head and looked at her. At least it did not appear I was going to be Warg food. After all, she was an elf and elves are always patient with their horses. Well, most of the time. For losing my never-ending composure and abandoning her, I probably deserved whatever she could devise. Such a thing could easily have resulted in her death or mine. I am an elvish horse of Imladris and I know better.

            “I am sorry,” I nickered and stared at the ground again. There was not much else I could do.

            She nodded slowly and I could feel her piercing gaze as she evaluated what I had said. Then she smiled and stroked my nose. “It is fortunate that they found neither of us important enough to continue pursuit. Nevertheless, you did well,” she murmured.

            I looked at her with surprise. She did not seem very angry. What's more, she seemed to find my expression highly amusing.

            “Are you ready to continue?”

            I closed my jaw which had somehow fallen open when I found that my time on Middle-Earth was not going to be prematurely cut short. I shook my mane and snorted my assent.

            She smiled again and then swiftly leaped onto my back. “Ride fast, Asfaloth.”

            And we were off again. Surprisingly, she wanted to follow in the direction of the black riders, though bearing slightly northward from their course. They had been heading west. I thought she was senseless, but am I going to argue with an elvish princess? Of course not, I am too smart for that. It is a well-known fact that females are hopelessly stubborn — especially elvish ones.

Author's Note: Some of the dialogue in this chapter was taken from the movie. Some of the other parts of this chapter were taken from the book, though I don't remember exactly what.

Chapter 3: Never Cross an Elvish Horse

            Hmph! Nazgul! Humans! Hobbits! What are they going to do next? Take a journey to Mordor? And do not even get me started on that fool of an elvish princess. Though perhaps not as bad as I had originally thought, she has all the tactical sense of a garden slug. I have shown a surprising amount of restraint on this trip but even I, Asfaloth of Imladris, have my limits. No more perilous journeys and no more helping strange female elves! Period! No discussion allowed! I am ready to. . . . never mind. What I was about to say would not be well received. Before I say it, I will clarify my traumatic experiences of the last day so that I am properly understood. Then you will see what I had to put up with at the hands of that female. I shudder just to think of it.

            Hmmm, I believe I left off on the second day of my journey and just after my little, ahem, pleasure jaunt and the ensuing chase. We rode hard. I did not complain because I felt sorry for leaving Arwen in the tree (even if she deserved it). Well, perhaps the fact that our ride was frequently disturbed with the sounds of the Nazgul calling to each other also made me a little reticent. A shiver went down my spine whenever I heard their calls and I dearly wished they would keep silent. I had determined that they had not pursued us because they had better game to chase. Probably that which we also sought, but I could not be positive since certain elves who shall not be named refused to enlighten me on the matter.

            All the same, by moonrise, around two hours after darkness fell, little visions of a soaking wet elf who had been dumped into mud holes or tossed into brooks were darting through my head with increasing regularity. That is why I did not pay any attention to what Arwen was doing when we stopped. All I could think of was the delightful look of rage that would be on her face as mud got smeared all over her lovely dress in the shape of the Hooves of Asfaloth. Oh, bliss! That is why all I did when she dismounted and led me with drawn sword, was gnaw on the ends of her long hair. I did not even see the human until she stopped and I ran into her.

            “Silence,” she whispered.

            She crept forward towards the human. He was bent over, cutting at a small, white-flowered plant. Humans! Ugh! I do not understand how any elf, even Arwen can like them. They are ugly and they stink. Uhh, maybe you should forget I said that. After all, Elrond and his children are half-elves and they would not take kindly to it. Neither would my master.

            Nevertheless, despite their appearance and their low intelligence (Have I mentioned that humans are stupid?), it is not wise to sneak up on a human Ranger with a drawn sword. Unfortunately, that was precisely what Arwen was doing. At first I thought she was angry because he was destroying the plant life. Then I noticed she was smiling. Crazy elf! If he killed her, I had no intention of going to report her death to Elrond. I was going straight back to the stable and staying there! She crept up behind him and placed the tip of her sword at his neck. He could not see her but he froze instantly.

            “What’s this?” she murmured impishly. “A Ranger caught off his guard?”

            I did not have a great amount of confidence in her abilities as a warrior and barely resisted the urge to close my eyes and try to stick my hooves in my ears. It is fortunate I did, or I would have missed the human tilting his head up and giving her a slightly disgusted look. He stood up and Arwen withdrew her sword and sheathed it, still smiling delightedly. A smile suddenly flashed across his face as well.

            “Well met, Undomiel,” he said.

            “Well met, Aragorn,” she replied smugly. “It has been too long.” She paused, then said simply, “I have missed you.” Then she frowned. “You are gathering Athelas. One of the hobbits is injured?”

            He nodded grimly, his smile disappearing. “The Ringbearer was stabbed by a Morgul blade. His wound is beyond my skill to heal.”

            She nodded thoughtfully. “I will do what I can for him, Aragorn,” she promised. “Where is he?”

            “Behind you,” he replied. “By the stone trolls. There are three other hobbits with him.”

            My eyes were turning circles in my head at this point because I had recognized the human. My sire, Noladar, had pointed him out to me when I was young and told me horrible tales about when that dim-witted Aradorm son of Aritorn (or whatever his name was) used to ride him. Not only was he a terror, he was a human (though my sire said there was nothing wrong with that)! The nasty little fiend liked nothing better than bouncing around on my sire’s back, and pulling his mane. Although he had been called Estel (which means hope) not Ara-whatever, there had been nothing about the little monster that had inspired even the remotest spark of hope in me then and there still was not.

            Arwen walked to my side and climbed onto my back again. ‘Traitor,’ I thought savagely. Before I stopped to think, I did what I had wanted to do for a long time and whipped my head around and bit her leg. Surprisingly, there was no terrified scream of pain or fury. She simply nudged me, instructing me to move. Instead, I gnawed a little bit on what I was holding in my mouth. It was tough and unyielding. It was . . . . a saddle. Oh, that pestilent she-elf! She was just sitting in the saddle and snickering! She probably made me do it.

            I raised my head and pranced off, pretending that I did not care what she thought of me. A worthy effort on my part, but her giggling only grew louder.

            ‘Just you wait until I tell Glorfindel about this,’ I thought furiously. A slight movement caught the corner of my eye and I turned my head (I had long since mastered the art of looking at one thing but moving in another direction since it often helps with an innocent air and swift retreat) and saw Estel cutting the plant called Athelas. The problem was he had the impudence to be watching me with a smirk on his face. I was so thoroughly disconcerted by then that I bumped a tree slightly (all right, I ran straight into it) and was forced to concentrate on my forward path.

            I arched my neck, cantered forward and then turned slightly to my right. There they were:  three hobbits, and another one lying on the ground looking quite ill, who were underneath three large statues that upon closer examination turned out to be very ugly stone trolls. Not to say that another kind exists.

            There was also a chestnut pony with a white blaze on his face. Estel had not even bothered to mention the poor, hard-working beast of burden. We horses get completely disregarded all too often, though I was uncertain of how worthy of regard this pony was, seeing how he seemed perfectly happy despite the presence of a human. Since everyone was so worried about the hobbit lying on the ground, I suppose they just forgot us.

            As I paused and eyed them uncertainly, Arwen alighted from my back and approached the hobbits. They all looked at her with expressions of awe on their faces, even the unwell one who hardly appeared to be able to focus his eyes, but gasped at her approach.

            “Frodo, I am Arwen. I have come to help you. Hear my voice. Come back to the light.”

            This she said as she approached; kneeling beside him. Apparently she was going to try to heal him or something. After all, she was the daughter of the greatest healer in all of Arda (my master said so).

            I heard one of the other hobbits ask in an awestruck voice, “Who is she?”

            “Frodo,” she said again. It was almost as if she were calling him.

            Another hobbit, who was slightly more well-built, replied in an even more awestruck voice, “She’s an elf.”

            That, at least, was obvious Ithought with disdain. Maybe not in the same class as Glorfindel, but an elf still and the hobbits should have known that.

            Estel brushed past me and crouched beside her. He was holding some of the Athelas, but surprised me by putting it in his mouth and chewing it. As I have said before, I do not have a lot of experience with humans, but they usually do not eat flowers (not that there is anything wrong with that, mind you).

            “He’s fading,” she said. “He’s not going to last.”

            Even more unexpected, was Estel’s then spitting it out and placing it on the shoulder of the hobbit called Frodo (Where had I heard that name before?) on what appeared to be a small wound causing the poor halfling to moan and convulse.

            “We must get him to my father.”

            My ears pricked up immediately. Father? Elrond? That meant Imladris! Oh, yes, yes, yes! At last! Home, sweet home! I felt like doing a little dance but restrained myself like the good, elvish horse I am. Maybe Arwen was not as heartless as she seemed. Estel scooped Frodo up into his arms and started to carry him in my direction. Uh-oh . . . . maybe not so good after all.

            As they reached my side, I turned my head slightly so I could watch them. Arwen stayed beside them.

            “I’ve been looking for you for two days. There are five wraiths behind you. Where the other four are, I do not know.” She told Estel as he placed Frodo on my back.

             Now before I continue my narrative, I need to explain a little bit about my opinion of hobbits. Unlike humans, I have had some contact with them, and I actually am fond of them to some degree. They understand that horses need apples and bread (and anything else the hobbit happens to be eating) to sustain them. Mind you though, hobbits are nothing like elves. But I stray from my point. My point being that Frodo did not immediately find himself airborne and the human remained intact.

            “Stay with the hobbits,” Estel instructed Arwen. “I will send horse for you.”

            I rolled my eyes back in my head and pawed at Arwen’s foot, hoping she would get the point. More explicitly, that if the human thought I was taking him anywhere he could think again. She placed her hand on my shoulder to quiet me (which only annoyed me), and shook her head at Estel.

            “I will take him,” she disagreed. “I am the faster rider.”

            “The road is too dangerous,” he countered.

            I mentally rolled my eyes. Humans always state the obvious.Hello? Nazgul are the definition of dangerous, human. Lamentably, he could not understand me.

            “What are they saying?” I heard the hobbit who had not spoken before ask.

             Arwen did not notice, her gaze being intensely fixed on Estel. “Frodo is dying. If I can get across the river, the power of my people will protect him.” She hesitated. “I do not fear them.”

            What?! What do you mean you do not fear them, you senseless she-elf?! It is their mission to inspire fear and they fulfill it well. We barely got away last time.

            Estel sighed, looking worried, but nodded. “According to your wish.”

             He gripped the hand she had placed against my side, and then released it, stepping away as Arwen mounted and gathered the reins. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was going home. No more hideous Nazgul, no more disagreeable humans. I looked ahead and prepared to set out.

            Then I heard Estel’s voice again. “Arwen, ride hard. Don’t look back.”

            I felt Arwen gather the reins, and heard her voice call to me as I had heard it call after we fled from the Nazgul. “Ride fast, Asfaloth! Ride fast!

            I cantered swiftly away through the ferns, gaining speed as I went; ready to break into a gallop as soon as we cleared the trees. As I ran, I heard the voice of the well-built hobbit echoing through the woods.

            “What are you doing?! Those wraiths are still out there!”

            I ground my teeth. So much for stealth.

            It did not take us long to leave the trees behind. Once clear, I galloped as fast as I could for Imladris. And despite what you are probably thinking, it was not just so I could get back to my stall as quickly as I could. I wanted to, of course, but in truth, I like hobbits and this one looked very ill to me.

            I galloped until Isil had set and Anar had risen far into the sky. I had not heard the calls of the Nazgul in some time, but I knew that did not mean they were not near. I galloped over hills and through fields. The Chithaeglir were visible, looming forebodingly at the far horizon. I entered a forest with numerous fir trees which was annoying since I kept getting whacked by low branches.

            It was there that, though I did not see them, I felt their presence closing in. As I galloped through the trees (the trees were sparse, making traversing the woods easy, if annoying) I noticed movement to our sides. Glancing from the corner of my eye, I could see two dark riders approaching. One was on either side, even, and drawing closer, attempting to intercept us.

            My heart jumped into my mouth and I snorted fearfully as I leaped forward, somehow finding the power to increase my speed yet more. I heard an increasing number of hooves drawing closer and surged forward again as we entered a small clearing. Horses have better peripheral eyesight than humans or even elves, so I was able to see that there were more dark riders coming to intercept us. Despite my fright, I couldn’t help feeling slightly smug as their attempted interception of us failed miserably.

            We exited the clearing and branches whipping at us from the sides forced me to stop gloating over their typical stupidity and concentrate. I am not used to being smacked by branches since Glorfindel is always very careful of my well-being. My poor, tender, sensitive nose! It will probably never look the same again.

            Now mind you, I would not have lost any ground if it were not for the distraction, but when my eyes stopped watering and I managed to pay attention to my path again, two of the dark riders were almost upon us. They were so close that if they had tried, the horses’ heads could probably have touched my flank.

            Then we were out into a field. The way before us was clear. I stretched my neck out and fled for all I was worth. The river Bruinen was not far ahead. Once through it, we would be in the outer boundaries of Imladris. I thought of my nice soft straw, my stable mate Sailandil, bread rolls and apples slathered in cinnamon, a nice, tasty book (mmm, paper), my master . . . . Glorfindel. I could not let him down! Irritating or not, the elf princess was not actually that bad a rider. I could not go back and tell him the dark ones had claimed her. The problem was, the horses of the dark were fast. Not as fast as I am, but too fast to claim an easy victory over.

            Despite my desperate endeavors, one of the dark riders drew nearly even with me. I briefly considered turning my head and biting him, but Arwen sensed my distraction and twitched the reins to keep my attention on the path. The rider beside me shrieked in triumph as he reached toward Frodo.

            “Ride fast, Asfaloth!” Arwen cried to me just as we entered . . . what a surprise, more trees.

             I felt a sudden dread of our path further on as I sensed the presence of another servant of Sauron in the trees ahead, directly in our path.

            ‘Ride fast,’ I thought, for Glorfindel. If the dark ones had their way I would never see him again.

            Suddenly, I was filled with a deep and unreasoning rage. This was so unfair! How dare they chase us? How dare they disregard the authority of Elrond and threaten his daughter and her charge?! There is not much for which I would fight, but I respected Elrond (my master spoke often and highly of him) and would do anything for Glorfindel. Arwen did not deserve this fate. Neither did I, but that is hardly consequential. My fear vanished completely in the wake of my wrath. They wanted a chase; I would give them a chase.

            I increased my speed still more and this time, started to leave them behind. The other dark one was still in our path, but I no longer cared. They might still catch us, it was true. However, I was going to make it just as hard for them as I possibly could. I requested my head from Arwen, asking her to allow me to choose my own path. She seemed to have sensed my change in feelings, and granted my request instantly. I held my course for another pace, and then dived to the left, swinging tightly around a small pine, briefly surprising them. I had thrown them off now and they struggled to regain the ground they had lost. I tossed my head and dove to the right, feeling triumphant. They were not quite as taken aback this time, but they gained no ground back, and every foot we traveled brought us closer to home and safety. I swerved left and then right again, making sure to kick dirt in the faces of those who were closest. To her credit, Arwen stayed with me during my display of superior speed and agility almost as well as Glorfindel would have. He must have been the one who taught her to ride.

            Then, approaching from my right, HE appeared. I was dismayed and almost stumbled, but just as quickly recognized him, the last rider to have appeared in my previous encounter with them, their leader. All tales told of the one who commanded them, the captain of the Nazgul. My fury again overcame my fear and I swerved to the right, easily avoiding him. I clenched my teeth as I ran, considering turning around and stomping him into the ground. He would make a nice rug for my stall doorway.

             I felt the reins twitch as Arwen tightened her hold on me again. The problem with being able to communicate with elves is that they can often tell what you are thinking. I let her guide me and jumped over a fallen tree. I laughed inwardly as I did so, for it was wide and had been a great tree in its day.

            ‘Just try to jump that,’ I thought to the dark horses. With great satisfaction, I heard them jumping over it after me, then sliding and slipping in the mud. I, Asfaloth the Agile, never slip. I am an elvish horse after all.

            The path turned slightly to the left and down a bank which I followed without thinking, and almost before I realized it, I was splashing across the Ford of the Bruinen. Bruinen means Loudwater in the Common Speech and I do not believe I have ever heard a more welcome sound in all my life.

            I had to slow down as I entered the water and be more careful of where I placed my hooves. Arwen stopped me as we neared the far bank, and turned me to face the dark riders who had stopped at the far shore. I was rather surprised, for I had not believed that she would take such a course of action, but I was not complaining. I was trained by Glorfindel of Imladris. I never run away. Well, almost never.

            Now that I could see them I saw that all nine were there, the horses neighing and their riders shrieking, for neither wished to enter the water. They were probably more powerful when together, for that is the way of such creatures, but I was not unduly worried.

            I snorted a challenge and shook my head trying to appear a ferocious warhorse. Despite the fact that there were few battles to be fought in Imladris (who gets to eat the rose bushes first and who gets to chew through the elf-lord’s bowstring before he turns around and sees basically summarizes the total excitement) and since my master was an elf-lord and might be required to command on a battlefield, he had trained me for years on how a warhorse is supposed to act. But my poses did not really help much. The dark riders paid me no heed whatsoever.

            The dark captain stilled his horse and called to Arwen. “Give up the halfling, she-elf!”

            I snorted again and half-reared (as a warhorse would), pretending the sound of his voice had not sent chills down my spine. Undomiel drew her sword. If nothing else, she was brave. No fear was evident in her voice as she cast forth her challenge.

            “If you want him, come and claim him!”

            The nine riders drew their swords and spurred their horses into the water. I smirked inwardly. Now they are encroaching on elvish ground and, evil though they may be, the battlefield is ours now, not theirs. Perhaps arrogance clouds their wits. After all, they were once human.

            I prepared for the coming attack, but I felt Arwen shift as if her concentration had faltered and she was paying them no heed. Glorfindel never lost his focus, and once again I started wondering why I had to be the one she chose to carry her. But then I understood what she was doing as I heard her voice, quietly at first but increasingly commanding as it echoed off the surrounding hills.

“Waters from the Misty Mountains, listen to the great word;

Flow waters of Loudwater against the Ringwraiths.

Waters from the Misty Mountains, listen to the great word;

Flow waters of Loudwater against the Ringwraiths.”

            Again I reared and snorted. The foremost of the black horses was over half-way across the ford. At that moment there came a roaring and a rushing: a noise of loud waters rolling many stones. The River rose and down along its course there came a plumed cavalry of waves. White flames seemed to flicker on their crests and it seemed that I saw amid the water white riders upon beautiful white horses with frothing manes. The black horses were filled with madness. Leaping forward in terror they bore their riders down the stream, but were swiftly overtaken by the fast flowing water, and their piercing cries were drowned in the roaring of the river as it carried them away. I splashed in the water with my forehooves while briefly considering chasing them down and gloating over their destroyed bodies. But Arwen indicated that I should hold my ground. Frodo was moaning again and seemed to be worse.

            I could feel Arwen starting to sheathe her sword as she turned back towards the bank. With that in mind, perhaps I should have been more careful since the water was still flowing swiftly. Instead, I tossed my head and jumped in the direction of the bank, nearly turning completely in mid-air for I was feeling rather gleeful that we had put the black riders to flight. As I did so, I felt Frodo starting to slide off my back. Arwen jerked, I suppose trying to catch him, and I saw Hadhafang fly over my head, arcing gracefully in the air and then vanishing under the waves. Not good. Not good at all. Arwen had not seemed to notice, being preoccupied with Frodo, but I was not looking forward when she did. I remembered clearly that Glorfindel had particularly asked her not to lose Hadhafang. I groaned inwardly. I was going to be orc-bait, I just knew it.

            Arwen was starting to become rather impatient with me, for I was simply standing in the water, staring downstream at the path of the departed sword. But being the good, elvish horse I am, I turned away and scrambled up the bank at her insistence. At once, Arwen pulled me to a stop. She dismounted, pulling Frodo off after her, laying him on the ground. Horses do not study the healing craft, but Frodo certainly appeared to be dying. He was making some odd sort of choking, squealing noise and his eyes (which looked very odd) were glazing over.

            “No!” Arwen cried. “Frodo, no!” Her eyes filled with tears and she shook him slightly. “Frodo, don’t give in! Not now!”

            Arwen’s grief-stricken voice tore at my heart. I felt terribly saddened as Arwen held Frodo close, shutting her eyes and allowing a tear to trickle down her cheek. For a moment, it almost seemed to me as if she glowed. The wind blew over us, ruffling my mane. As it whispered by, I thought I heard words murmured by it, indistinguishable. Perhaps they were no more than a figment of my already overwrought imagination. But it seemed as though I heard, “What grace is given me, let it pass to him. Let him be spared. Save him.”

            I shook my head vigorously as I tried to regain my breath from the run. ‘Stop it, Asfaloth,’ I scolded myself. ‘You cannot let your mind gallop away with you now. Arwen needs you.’

            I heard a muffled sob from Arwen. She was still kneeling and clutching Frodo. I walked over and nuzzled her hair. In my experience, this never failed to get a reaction out of a person--either affection and appreciation, or complaints about horse slobber. In this case, it got neither. Arwen took a deep breath and rose. She said nothing, but turned and lifted Frodo up onto my back and mounted after him. I felt her pick up the reins and nudge me in the direction of Imladris. “Ride on, Asfaloth,” she said. “Ride home.” I needed no further encouragement.

Chapter Four: Home Sweet Home and a Lost Sword

            Well, I am glad that isover. I do not care how long I live; I will be completely content with an occasional hunting trip to supply the fare for the numerous elvish feasts. I will no longer be a warhorse either. I do not care if the steed of Fingolfin, King of the Noldor was a great and brave warhorse, or if the steed of Turgon, King of Gondolin was the wisest to grace Arda; I am staying in my stall. All right, it is true, they were valiant and courageous, and they were horses to be admired, but I would much rather admire such feats of bravery from a safe and comfortable distance than perform them myself. Fortunately, I have a very kind and compassionate master who understood perfectly and nodded sympathetically when I explained to him that I was never leaving my stall again. It has been three days now and I have had adequate time to mull over my adventures (Have I mentioned that the End of Days will come before I go off on any more heroic exploits?).

            As I turned towards home, we were not far from the Last Homely House, but the paths were very steep and slippery. They zigzagged back and forth, making it somewhat difficult to keep my footing. But I had lived all my life in this place, and was not greatly slowed by them, though my pace was not all what it should have been, for I was very tired. But Arwen did not press me. She seemed to sense I was doing the best I could. And I must admit, I was not finding her nearly as disagreeable as I had when we first met. She seemed to have become much more considerate of her steed and was much easier to bear.

            As we neared the House, traversing the path did become somewhat easier for it straightened and grew wider. I was simply glad it had not rained of late. It would have made the slopes impossible to cross. Finally, we crested the last hill and started down the last path into the valley. And despite how tired I was, I could not help but marvel at the beauty of Imladris.

            The Last Homely House was situated near the bottom of a great valley. Sharp cliffs rose on either side; lined not only with numerous pine and spruce trees, but a good deal of other varieties of foliage that I am not even going to attempt to list. Waterfalls cascaded down the sides of the cliffs and a great one flowed directly into the center of the valley; rushing down beside the house and creating a misty spray that caught the rays of Anar. And beyond the greatest fall, in the distance, rose the snow-capped peaks of the Chithaeglir.

            At the sight of the stable though, I realized just how homesick I had been. My throat tightened from pure joy as I flew down the pathway as fast as I could. As I drew near the bridge that crossed the water from the falls, the trail finally became level and more trustworthy, but I hardly noticed. I was home! I clattered across the narrow bridge and down the paved paths of Imladris. And I did not pause until I had passed under the last archway and reached the courtyard. Even then, I only stopped because Arwen was pulling very hard on my bridle. I stepped in front of the foremost doors and halted there.

             Arwen slid off my back, and with Frodo securely in her arms, ran towards the entrance. But ere she reached the doors they flew open and Elrond, Glorfindel and a great many other folk (who in my somewhat bemused state of mind I hardly even noticed) rushed out. Elrond immediately took Frodo from his daughter and turning went back into the house. Arwen followed him, speaking swiftly. I caught the words “morgul” and “fading” before they passed from sound. Glorfindel gave me a look (elves excel in speaking merely with a raised eyebrow or a fearsome glare though he did not appear angry) telling me to wait there for him, and then turned and followed them, speaking rapidly with another elf. Erestor, I believe, counselor to Elrond.

            I was left standing in the courtyard, surrounded by elves running hither and thither, feeling as if I had run into a tree at full gallop and wondering what was going to happen to Frodo. He might have been already dead for all I knew, but I doubted they would have been going to such trouble if he had been. My worries were laid to rest on that account though when I heard a voice beside me. An old hobbit (and an old friend) had come tottering across the courtyard while my attention had been elsewhere.

             “Don’t you worry about Frodo, Asfaloth,” he said. “Lord Elrond will care for him. It takes a lot to get the better of a Baggins.”

            Even in my exhausted state, I wanted to slam my head into something hard. ‘You idiot, Asfaloth!’ I thought. ‘Frodo Baggins! You have only heard the name ten times a day for the last two years!’

            I turned to my newest companion. I had scraped outanacquaintance with him one day when he had accidentally dropped the book he was writing in out of a second story window. I had been underneath the window, having cleverly opened my stall door, and unfortunately the massive tome hit me squarely on my nose (My poor nose again! Some horses get their manes pulled by unmanageable youth, others stub their hoofs — not me. It’s always my nose.) It was reaching up for some roses that were twined gracefully around the sill of one of the windows. By the time he arrived to retrieve the manuscript, I had sampled it to see if it was better than the roses. One thing had led to another, and he only managed to reacquire half of it. Since it was the last and unwritten half of the book which was mangled, slobbered upon, and half swallowed, he was not too terribly irate (though it was fortunate that he did not carry his sword around Imladris).

            When Glorfindel (who had come looking for me) found me there, he introduced the hobbit to me as Bilbo Baggins, a guest of Elrond and one whom I should have given much greater respect to, before dragging me back to my stall and installing a new latch which kept me in for exactly twenty-three hours, give or take a few minutes. At which time, I paid another visit (somewhat apologetic this time) to Bilbo who was sitting in the garden. Once he forgave me, I found that he got along with horses admirably well, especially for one who is not an elf. And when he learned of my fondness for honey rolls and grapes we became firm friends. He seemed to appreciate someone who could devour food with the appetite of a hobbit. I, for my part, was quite taken with the idea of second breakfasts, elevensies, afternoon snacks, and dinner in addition to first breakfast, luncheon, and supper. The only thing he seemed to leave out was the midnight snack during my stroll around the grounds.

            Over the course of the months, he told me all about his cousin and heir, Frodo Baggins. He would often talk to me while writing in his book. Perhaps he was only being kind, but he was no longer young and I think our little exchanges (he talked, I ate) actually helped him to remember everything that had happened during the time of which he was writing. I must confess I did enjoy his stories. I have a weakness for tales of great heroes and far off places though there were not a lot of heroes in his tales. Mostly dwarves, actually. But all of this was far from my mind, when I turned to him. All I could think of was despite my aching legs and growing exhaustion, it was good to finally be home.

            The old hobbit looked much as he had when I had last seen him. His curly, white hair stuck out somewhat frizzily around his wrinkled face. In addition to the usual white shirt, he wore a tan waistcoat and pair of trousers. A light blue shawl to ward off the growing cold of the later months adorned his shoulders. I regretted to see that he leaned heavily on his wooden cane. I lowered my head and he gave my nose a pat before moving off to follow Frodo.

            As he entered the house, Glorfindel returned and spoke to him. Mithrandir was accompanying him. Mithrandir is a friend of Elrond, but though he looks like an ordinary human, Glorfindel told me he is a wizard of great power who came from over the sea. Bilbo speaks well of him also, so I do not object to his presence in the Imladris.

            What was said I could not follow, but their faces were grave. Bilbo then continued into the house with the wizard, but Glorfindel walked over in front of me. I leaned my head against him and sighed with relief. I had truly missed him. He raised his hand and scratched my jaw lightly. Then he lowered his head and I felt his face brush my ear as he whispered, “Asfaloth, can you by the merest of chances tell me why neither of you bears Hadhafang?” Startled, I jerked my head up. Oh, dear! In my euphoria at returning home, I had entirely forgotten the affairs at the Ford. As if at a signal, I heard a voice (it was rather hard to miss) coming through one of the upper windows of the house. “What do you mean you do not know where it is? That sword has been in our family since the day of your great-grandmother Idril Celebrindal of Gondolin! How could you lose it?” I suddenly realized I was very tired and hungry, the dark riders would probably haunt my dreams, and I needed to check the manger in my stall. And then I was going to pull all the hay out and hide behind it. Glorfindel simply gave me the amused and tolerant gaze of one who has weathered much greater storms than the wrath of an elf-lord in his time. He stepped beside me and together we walked on towards the stables.

Epilogue

by Elladan, son of Elrond

(who finds Valinor useful for achieving the tranquility necessary for writing an epilogue, even if that tranquility is not always appreciated after five hundred years of ceaseless orc-hunting)

            In truth, despite what he at times claimed, Asfaloth was neither a warhorse nor very courageous though his deeds on this journey will be forever remembered, at least by the elves, in song and story.

            As he returned to the stable beside his master, he pondered his actions of the last three days. Slowly he realized that he had defied the gathered Nazgul, an act few horses could have achieved. The more he thought about it, the less he liked it. And the less he felt like explaining to Glorfindel that Hadhafang was at the bottom of a raging river. As Glorfindel walked him, and then returned him to his stall, removed his tack, he acted calm and serene, unwilling to embarrass his master with the behavior he wished to display (hiding in a corner). At Glorfindel’s request, he told him that the sword of Elrond had been dropped in the Bruinen River. Details though, were somewhat lacking in his explanation of Arwen’s unusual clumsiness. However, being an ancient and perceptive elf-lord, well-experienced in the ways of horses, he understood the parts that Asfaloth had conveniently forgotten. Wisely, the matter was not pursued.

            Since Lord Elrond was occupied with healing Frodo the Hobbit, Glorfindel returned to the house to aid in the organizing of the searches regarding the fate of the nine Ringwraiths and the party that would speed the journey of Aragorn and the other hobbits to the Last Homely House. Glorfindel came to Asfaloth’s stall the next morning and told him they would leave within the hour. For the sake of the Lady Arwen, he wished to search the river bank in the hope of retrieving the sword. As it was, Lord Elrond was furious enough that his daughter had been allowed to ride out alone to face the formidable Nazgul.

            When Glorfindel advised Asfaloth of his plans, Asfaloth composedly enlightened him to the fact that he was never leaving his stall again. Indeed, Asfaloth went on at great length. Glorfindel waited until he had finished (with Asfaloth, never a short time) before informing Asfaloth he could remain in his stall if he wished. Asfaloth was rather surprised, but decided it was best if he did not say anything. However, he did emerge from behind the hay (to which he had returned after breakfast, refusing to leave his stall or acknowledge anyone other than Glorfindel) and come to the stall door. Glorfindel patted him and started softly singing. Not unusual for an elf, though his choice of songs was uncommon. He sang a lay which told of Rochallor, the great elf-steed of Fingolfin, King of the Noldor elves upon whom he rode to the gates of Angband and challenged Morgoth to single combat. Asfaloth, not overly impressed, plainly stated his opinion of Fingolfin’s intelligence. It was not exactly complimentary. Glorfindel merely smiled tranquilly and sang the lay of the wise horse of Turgon, King of Gondolin. Asfaloth said if Turgon had simply listened to his horse instead of being conceited, Gondolin would not have fallen. Glorfindel appeared rather smug at this point and spoke of Felarof, horse of Eorl. Noble and brave, he never failed his master or shirked his duty. Asfaloth appeared to like the story of Felarof, until Glorfindel “incidentally” mentioned Eorl was a human; one of the Rohirrim. That was all it took. Asfaloth stomped his hooves, laid his ears back and declared Felarof a traitor to horse kind. He demanded they ride out to recover Hadhafang at once. If nothing frightened a deserter like Felarof, nothing frightened Asfaloth the Brave, Steed of Lord Glorfindel. Glorfindel merely nodded; swiftly bridling and saddling him. They rode out to recover the sword though whether or not they were successful is not told in this tale. However, Hadhafang was soon seen again at its old resting place in Imladris and Asfaloth became his usual mischievous self, so perhaps it can be safely assumed that they were indeed triumphant.

            I relate this tale to you in honor of Asfaloth, who long ago passed from this world for such is the lot of mortals, and because I know Lord Glorfindel would not wish for the memory of his valiant (though at times annoying) steed to fade and be forgotten with the passage of time. Many are the songs that have been sung and tales told of the courage of Lady Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond. Few were there who could face the Nazgul when the nine came together. Truly, her deeds were valorous. But fewer still are the tales that have been told of Asfaloth, the white elf-horse of Glorfindel, who bore Arwen Undomiel bravely beyond the very clutches of the Ringwraiths. And yet, were his deeds of any less merit than those of his rider? For where she went, he went also. What she faced, he faced also. Asfaloth’s trust of Arwen to guide him was perhaps the hardest trial of all. He trusted and loved his master, but did not know or care to know anyone else (unless they provided him with bread rolls). In the end, it was his love of Glorfindel and not any act of Arwen’s that helped him to complete the journey. No tales have yet been written or put to song that tell of his adventure, for all tales of that time tell of the Ringbearer and that which he bore, and the return of the lost King of Gondor. But in the Undying Lands, there is a tall, golden-haired elf-lord whom you have only to ask and you will learn of his valiant steed Asfaloth and the unshakable love he bore his master.

The End