Race Through Shadows
 

“Asfaloth!”

I jerked my head up abruptly, causing my long white forelock to fall into my eyes. My master, Glorfindel ran towards me, halterless and saddle-less as usual. He patted my neck, whispering, “We have a long ride ahead of us, mellon nîn.” He walked toward the stables, and I followed him curiously. Where were we riding? I had been to Gondor, to Mirkwood, and to other places too terrible to think about, but never before had Glorfindel seemed so worried.

Inside the roomy stables, he motioned for me to halt, and disappeared inside a small room. He emerged a moment later, bearing a saddle and bridal. By their ornate designs, fine leather and small, tinkling bells, I knew that they were Elf-made. But Elves never use saddles, nor bridals, save on special occasions or when first learning to ride. What was my master planning?

This, I could not guess, but I patiently allowed him to slip the bit in my mouth and tighten the girth about my belly without question. The little bells tinkled softly as he put the tack on, music to my ears. They seem to whisper soft words to me, “Ride fast, brave horse, ride strong. Ride strong…” Their voices sounded nearly as sweet as Elf voices, gentle and musical.

Glorfindel made a motion, barely discernable and I bent my forelegs and knelt so that he could mount. I sensed that he felt as uncomfortable as I with the saddle and bridal, but I also sensed great urgency and fear as he urged me into a gallop.

Fast as the wind, we raced through the valley of Imladris, slowing on the narrow trail leading up from it. But once we passed that, we flew once more. “Noro lim,” Glorfindel said softly. “Noro lim!” Again I heard fear in his voice. What was troubling my master?

The Ring-bearer, Asfaloth, he answered in my mind, I fear that he may be in great peril. He said no more for a time, but I did not press the matter further. I quickened my pace, galloping nearly as swiftly as the famed Shadowfax, Prince of the Mearas of Rohan. Would that I had his speed! Though not an Elf horse truly, Shadowfax races more swiftly than any horse alive, Elf-bred or not. He visited Imladris once, long ago, and still the memory of him remains clearly in my mind. Fast as the wind, strong as the sea, and white as the moon is he, and yet gentle and elegant as the swan. Yes, though not an Elven horse, he awed every horse in Imladris, yet remained as pleasant and gracious as ever.

Glorfindel urged me still faster. We had ridden for hours, but I could run at this pace for several more. Elf horses have the Elves’ endurance. And never before had I needed it so greatly! I did not fully understand the reason, but I did not question my master.

I had long known about the Ring; the Elves of Imladris had discussed it ever since the hobbit, Bilbo arrived, and especially during the few months before we left. When they spoke of it, their voices became hushed and filled with dread. I had come to understand that this Ring was created by the Enemy, and with it, he could destroy all of Middle-Earth. I know not all of its history, but I do know that somehow it had come into the hands of a hobbit – Bilbo’s kinsman – whose name, I believe, was Frodo Baggins.

Elves of the House of Finrod, led by Gildor Inglorian, had sent messages to us that this hobbit – Perian, as they are called in Elvish– was abroad, being hunted mercilessly by the terrible servants of the Enemy. I shuddered even to think of those deadly creatures: the Nazgûl.

Yes, Asfaloth, Glorfindel said, The Nine are abroad once more. I fear that we may encounter them. They are seeking the Ring-bearer. I trembled and for a moment, my pace slackened. The Nazgûl. That name I had heard spoken only three times in all my life. Twice had I heard Lord Elrond speak it, and once the Ranger, Dúnadan, had spoken it. Every time, the name was spoken with fear and dread – and never had I seen Lord Elrond or Dúnadan show any signs of fear.

We rode on, at a steady gallop, for hours; how many, I could not guess. My strength finally began to ebb, and I stumbled. At last, Glorfindel allowed us to rest, pointing over to a place beneath a large oak tree beside the Road. Wearily, I walked toward it, and Glorfindel gracefully leapt off my back, his feet making not a sound as they struck the ground. He took off the saddle and bridal, allowing me to go where I will. He knew that I would not leave him, he trusted me to remain faithful. And I would not violate that trust.

I lay down beneath the tree, and after hanging the saddle on the lowest branch, Glorfindel sat down beside me, leaning his back against my side. For a moment, we simply laid there, the only sound my heavy breathing. Then, with a smile, he patted my steaming, sweaty neck, his light fingers cooling my skin better than any water could.

It was near sundown, as far as I could guess, for the sun was blocked by the thick, dark clouds. The air became colder, and rain began to fall, softly at first, and then pouring heavily. Glorfindel pulled his grey cloak closer about him, and the beryl, the pale green stone that clasped beneath his throat, began to glow faintly. A chill wind blew from the southwest, the direction we were heading. Faint and far off, I suddenly heard a shrill call. I gave a low whicker of alarm and stood up. My ears pricked forward, my eyes wide open and alert, I strained every sense. Glorfindel, sensing my unease, stood up as well, tense and rigid.

Minutes passed, and still we waited. Something was amiss here, but I did not know for certain what it was. I began to believe that I had merely imagined the noise, but all at once a great gust of cold air, piercing like knives, blew out of the southwest. Glorfindel’s sea-grey eyes widened, and he hastened to fetch the saddle and bridal. “We must fly, Asfaloth,” he said, fear and anxiety evident in his voice. He did not even wait for me to kneel, but sprang lightly on my back and gently, almost unnoticeably, he pressed his heels into my sides, and we raced down the rocky hills.

Fear renewed my strength and given my weary legs speed unimaginable. Not yet was I matching Shadowfax the Great, but I thought that I soon would. The Road was rocky, uneven and muddy from the rain, which still pounded down on my back, and the feeling of darkness, more than simply the night, was all around us. The air was cold, with an edge to it that froze the bones and chilled the heart. Faster, Glorfindel urged me. We raced toward the source of the darkness, going completely against natural instincts which screamed at me to turn around. But I would not. Where my master goes, I follow, even were it into the black land of Mordor.

We rode throughout the night, but found nothing, no trace of travelers. When morning came – if morning it could be called, for the sky remained dark and stormy, we lessened the pace somewhat, and Glorfindel allowed a long rest in a small cave.

On the second day since departing from Imladris, we began to draw near to the River Mitheithel, which men call Hoarwell. Glorfindel told me that he purposed to cross the Last Bridge and search near the Troll Shaw Forest for the trail of the travelers, which we learned from the Gildor’s message, numbered four.

As we neared the Last Bridge, a shadow and a threat began to grow on my mind. I knew by the tense way he sat in the saddle that Glorfindel also was becoming worried. If the Nine were indeed abroad, we should have encountered them before now.

Around a bend in the Road ahead I could see the sunlight, faintly shining through the thick clouds, reflected dimly upon the grey waters of Mitheithel. And then, as we emerged from the trees and rode toward the Bridge, my fear began to get the better of me, for I began to imagine that I could hear the hoofbeats of the dark horses of the Ulaer, the Nazgûl… but nay, it was not my imagination! On the other side of the Bridge, I could see the dark shapes of three riders, coming swiftly towards us. Glorfindel reined me in and I reared up in fear as they emerged from the trees ahead of us.

The Nazgûl shrieked shrilly as they sensed our presence – for it is said that they cannot see well – and began to gallop towards us. Glorfindel began to glow brightly; I had seen him do this only once before, for most of the time, he hid his true power. He drew his sword, and urged me forward – on to meet them.

My heart pounded loudly in my ears, and I could hear the panting of the dark horses as they raced toward us. The Nazgûl suddenly stopped in the middle of the bridge, their pale swords drawn. Glorfindel reined me in once more and held his sword aloft. I could hear the hissing voices of the Nazgûl, laughing at us, taunting us in the Black Tongue. I trembled with fear but stood still.

“Go back, foul creatures of Mordor!” Glorfindel cried in his fair Elvish voice, “Go back to the Shadowland! You hold no power here!” The dark horses reared up and the leader rode forward a little way. It seemed to my eyes that a pale crown shown over his black hood.

“Fool!” the Nazûl cried, his voice thin and hissing. “Do you think that you have power enough to withstand me, the Lord of the Nazgûl?”

I snorted fearfully, but I could feel Glorfindel sitting straight and unafraid in the saddle. “Go back!” he said again, “Go back to Mordor, from whence you came!”

Again the Ringwraiths laughed, though that time I could detect a hint of fear and doubt. One of the black horses tossed his head and whinnied a challenge to me. “Ride on, great horse,” he said, “Ride forward, if you dare! Your master cannot withstand the Nazgûl!”

With an angry whinny, I reared up, and tried to race forward towards him, my fury eclipsing my fear. But Glorfindel reined me in and kept me where I was. Easy, brave heart, easy. Do not let them anger you. Have patience.

I dipped my head in submission to his will, and he rose up in the saddle. “In the name of Elbereth Gilthoniel, I command you to go!” The Ulaer shrieked angrily, and their horses reared again. Glorfindel suddenly applied pressure to my sides and I surged forward. The Nazgûl screamed again, and spurred their horses towards us. My anger was forgotten as they rode forward; the cold air began to creep into my heart.

Valar give me courage! I thought fearfully.

Do not fear, Asfaloth, said Glorfindel, sensing my distress. His words gave me courage and as we neared the Riders, I lowered my head, pinned back my ears, and whinnied a challenge.

Two of the Ulaer stopped, thinking to block our way across the Bridge, while the Witch King (so I have heard him called) retreated to the other side of the Bridge. I used my large size and strength to my advantage, and ran right past the Riders who blocked our path, pushing the dark horses aside. They raised their swords, meaning to bring them down upon my master’s head as he passed between them, but Glorfindel was too fast for them. Whirling in the saddle, he dodged one blow and deflected the other with his sword, slashing one of the Nazgûl across his dark hood in the process. It shrieked and dropped its sword while the other Rider turned to pursue us.

We were galloping full speed, but suddenly, Glorfindel reined me to a halt. My hooves skidded across the muddy surface of the Bridge, and I whickered in question. You will see, he replied evasively – a classic Elf answer. Watching him out of the corner of my eye, he swiftly undid the clasp of his cloak, and held aloft the elf-stone. Its soft green glow blended together with his bright white one as he held it in his hand. All three Ulaer were galloping towards us… O Elbereth, we are surrounded! But Glorfindel, brave heart, stood up in the stirrups and cried, “Lasto beth nin, Ulaer! Be gone!”

The Nazgûl recoiled, shrieking, as the beryl stone began to shine, too bright to look upon. The dark horses reared up, whinnying in fright, and their Riders sheathed their long, pale swords. I stamped the ground and tossed my head in challenge, but the horses’ eyes were filled with fear and they did not answer. I could sense that they were not truly wicked, but only frightened into serving their dark masters – although the one that taunted me may be an exception, as I thought at the time.

Glorfindel did not sit down, nor did he withdraw the beryl, and the Ulaer slowly backed away. As soon as they reached the muddy bank at the other side of the bridge, they turned around and galloped away. Then did Glorfindel lower himself back into the saddle – though he did not lower the elf-stone – and urged me forward at a trot. When the Nazgûl were nearly out of sight, he suddenly stopped me and dismounted, placing the beryl in the mud, where it was clearly visible, though it lost its glow as it left his hand. Glorfindel also ceased to shine, and again hid his true power. I whickered a soft question as he mounted, and with a smile, he replied, “I know not whether we shall meet the travelers we search for, but I believe that they will make for this Bridge, and perhaps they will find my token. But come, there is no time for talk. We must pursue the Ulaer before they get too far ahead of us. Noro lim!”

For five days, we pursued the Nazgûl, and we came upon two more, but they withdrew without confrontation and headed southward. At times, we could feel the darkness and chill of them around us, but never did we confront the Ulaer openly. We also had found the trail of the travelers whom we sought, and followed it down the hills.

On the ninth day since leaving Imladris, we came upon the Troll Shaws, and saw the remains of a camp. Glorfindel dismounted and studied the footprints, and when he straightened and came back, he was smiling. “These are fresh,” he said. “And I believe that the Dúnadan is with the travelers. That is well, and it eases my heart a little. Come, let us ride on!”

We followed the Road for a while at a swift canter. We had ridden for nearly two hours, when Glorfindel suddenly reined me to a stop, and a voice called out from behind us. “Glorfindel!” We turned around, and there in the Road, the Dúnadan came running towards us. Never had I been so pleased to see him! Glorfindel was pleased as well. He dismounted quickly and ran to meet the Ranger, saying, “Ai na vedui, Dúnadan! Mae govannen!” The two talked quietly and earnestly in Elvish, but my attention was elsewhere.

Out of the bushes along the side of the Road, four small people - hobbits, I surmised, came shyly out onto the Road. One of them led a small, chestnut pony, who looked at me with much curiosity. I had never seen hobbits before, save Bilbo, but these were much younger looking. I knew at once that the fair, slender one with dark hair and wide blue eyes, carried a great, evil burden. I could sense it, feel its dark power. It could only be the Ring, the Ring of Sauron. I also sensed that this hobbit, Frodo, I learned later, was wounded by some evil weapon of the Enemy. I could sense some devilry at work in him, especially about his left shoulder.

Even as these thoughts entered my mind, the hobbit swayed, and the one leading the pony reached out to steady him. My master gently examined his wound as the small perian sank down on the grass, and this seemed to ease his pain a little. “You shall ride my horse,” Glorfindel said a few moments later, helping him to his feet. “I will shorten the stirrups up to the saddle-skirts, and you must sit as tight as you can. But you need not fear: my horse will not let any rider fall that I command him to bear. His pace is light and smooth; and if danger presses too near, he will bear you away with a speed that even the black steeds of the enemy cannot rival.” Perhaps a slight exaggeration – but then again, perhaps not. Fear is a powerful motivator.

“No, he will not!” The hobbit protested, to my surprise. “I shall not ride him, if I am to be carried off to Rivendell or anywhere else, leaving my friends behind in danger.” I couldn’t help but admire the courage of this little perian, and from Glorfindel’s smile, I would guess that he did, as well. “I doubt very much,” my master said, “if your friends would be in danger if you were not with them! The pursuit would follow you and leave us in peace, I think. It is you, Frodo, and that which you bear that brings us all in peril.”

The hobbit had no answer to this, and he suffered himself to be placed upon my back. I snorted in reassurance, and Frodo patted my neck softly.  As on the day we departed from Rivendell, the bells on my headstall seemed to speak softly, “Ride fast, brave horse, ride strong. Great peril is before you and the chase is swift behind. Ride fast!”

We rode on slowly, and the small perian on my back seemed to be drifting again into darkness. He nearly fell off when the path became rough, but I shifted my weight and he managed to hold on. It is as my master said, I will not let any rider fall that he commands me to bear, and though I did not fully understand why this hobbit was being hunted, I knew that I must protect him at all costs.

The little pack-pony, who the hobbits call Bill, was trotting beside me; his tiny legs could barely match my long strides. He seemed a cheerful little fellow, much like the hobbits themselves, and told me his life story. He was raised as a foal in the outskirts of the Shire, in someplace that he calls Buckland. When he was a yearling, he was sold to a man in the town of Bree. This man in turn sold him to his last master, Bill Ferny, who abused him terribly. I will not even speak of the horrid things that were done to the poor little pony. He lived – if indeed it could be called living – thus for seven years, and at last, unexpectedly, salvation came. He was bought by an innkeeper named Barliman Butterbur, who gave him to the hobbits we now traveled with. Apparently, he has adopted the one called Sam as his master, and he shows now no signs of his past abuse, save a few scars on his back.

Glancing at Sam as Bill told me of him, I could see at once that here was a hobbit who had a love for living things. It was his good care, Bill told me, that nurtured him back to his former health, and had helped him forget the dreadful memory of his past treatment.

When Bill fell silent at last, I took the opportunity to study the other hobbits. The youngest, Pippin, they call him, was the thinnest of all the hobbits, save the slight bulge of his stomach which spoke of large and frequent meals. I could tell at once that he was not used to such worrying and frightening matters as the Ring and Frodo’s deadly wound. At times, his normal, carefree self would come through, and he would lighten the mood of all with a light jest or remark.

The hobbit, Merry, was not quite as slender as either Pippin or Frodo, and his personality made him unique, as well. He seemed torn between being fun-loving and carefree, as young Pippin seemed to be, and being concerned and burdened with responsibility that was not his to bear. There was a strong bond between him and Pippin, but I could sense that he had a deep love for Sam and Frodo, as well.

As for Frodo, he astounded me. Despite his weakened and ill state, he tried as best he could to give Sam or the others a soft ‘thank you’ or simply a grateful, if weak, smile. He was fighting the Morgul wound with all his strength, which seemed to be much. His slight, frail-looking form was deceiving – inside, I could see that he had a strength of will that was greater than a Man’s or even an Elf’s. That will was the only thing that kept him from succumbing to the darkness, and I feared that it was slowly but surely beginning to break.

Bill and I resumed our earlier discussion, and we talked through the long hours of our walk, all through the night. This was no ordinary night, I sensed. Looking up, I could see neither stars nor moon. The hobbits were weary, but not until the grey of dawn did my master allow them to halt. Then they cast themselves down in the heather by the roadside and went to sleep immediately. Glorfindel sat beside them, keeping a close eye on young Frodo, whose sleep seemed troubled. Bill and I ate the heather for a while, then we both lay down beneath a tree and went to sleep.

Glorfindel roused us several hours later. The sun had now climbed far in the sky, and no mists of night were present. I felt refreshed, as did Bill, but the hobbits and Dúnadan seemed still weary. Glorfindel gave them some miruvor to drink, which cheered them. Then Frodo again was placed upon my back, giving me a friendly, though weak, pat in the process.

As the day went on, Frodo slipped again into darkness. I could sense that his pain had redoubled, and he slumped forward, resting his head on my neck. As his left shoulder touched me, I shuddered. It was cold, but more than that, I could feel the evil at work in him. My pace faltered, and I stopped. Glorfindel walked over to me, and placing his slender hand on my muzzle, he whispered, “Yes, I know the wound is evil, but you must bear him. He fades by the hour. We must get him to Imladris in time.” I dipped my head and he smiled, giving me a quick pat on the neck as I continued on.

Late the next afternoon, as we slowly inched our way toward the Ford of Bruinen, I suddenly heard the sound of hoofbeats behind us, and it seemed that a cold wind was blowing towards us. Glorfindel also heard it, and he turned and listened, then leapt forward, crying, “Fly! The enemy is upon us!” I surged forward as the hobbits ran beside me and my master and Dúnadan followed as rear-guard. The Road went steeply down the hill, but this did not hinder my pace. I fought the urge to gallop at top speed – for my heart warned me that pursuit was close behind – and instead kept at a canter.

We had not gone far before a Black Rider came into view behind us. He reined his horse in – the same one that had taunted me, I noticed – and halted. He seemed to sway in the saddle. Four more rode up behind him, and halted next to him. It seemed odd that they would simply stand there; then I realized that they were holding Frodo with their will, for as Glorfindel cried, “Ride forward! Ride!” Frodo instead reined me in, keeping me to a walk. Not wishing to harm him by fighting to free my head, I obeyed.

Suddenly, Frodo let go of the reins and drew his sword. The blade seemed to flash red as it left the sheath. Glorfindel ran toward us, crying, “Ride on! Ride on!” and then he called to me in Elvish, “Noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth!”

I sprang away and flew like the wind along the last lap of the Road ahead. I could hear and sense the Nazgûl following behind, and they let out a terrible cry. It was answered, and to my dismay, out of the trees and rocks on the left came four other Riders, galloping full speed. Two sped toward us and two flew madly to the Ford to cut off our escape. As they neared, they seemed to my eyes to become like dark mists, growing larger and darker as their courses converged with ours.

Fast, and than faster than Shadowfax I galloped toward the Ford, and I could sense the Riders behind begin to fall back; their horses were not elf-bred and were no match for an Elven horse’s speed, although I was sorely challenged. Ahead of us, it seemed that no chance remained of reaching the Ford before being cut off by the others who lay in ambush. I could see now, pale crowns upon their heads, and inside their black hoods I could see the glitter of their cold eyes.

As we raced, Frodo leaned forward and clung to my mane, dropping the reins, which swung loosely about my neck. The bells upon my headstall were ringing wild and shrill, crying, “Ride fast! Ride fast!” And fast we rode. But suddenly, I felt my rider begin to grow cold, and his grip on my mane weakened. I knew that he was slipping into the darkness, and I whinnied loudly in the hopes of bringing him out of it, if only for a moment. It worked, and he sat tight in the saddle again, clutching my mane.

All at once, we were faced with the two Ulaer, blocking our path. Gathering my strength, I leaped forward, right before the face of the foremost Rider. Coldness pierced me like a spear, but I shook my head and put on a last burst of speed, I splashed into the cold waters of Bruinen. It foamed up to the saddle-skirts, but no further, and with a great surge, I struggled out of the river and up the steep bank. We had crossed the Ford.

But pursuit was close behind. As I reached the top of the bank, I turned and looked back. All nine Nazgûl were at the water’s edge below. I again felt Frodo begin to slip into shadow, and I stamped the ground, whinnying fiercely. They would not have my rider! He jerked out of the darkness surrounding him but still I sensed his great fear. I too trembled, but my fear was not so great as my hatred for these dark beings that mercilessly hunted this innocent hobbit. Hatred also seemed to stir in Frodo’s heart – but I could sense that he did not have the strength to oppose there will any longer.

The foremost Rider suddenly spurred his horse forward, but it halted at the water and reared up. I could see its eyes wide with fright, and its ears pinned back. Frodo, with great effort and pain, sat upright and raised his sword. “Go back!” he cried, his voice  weak – but almost Elvish it seemed, to my ears. “Go back to the Land of Mordor, and follow me no more!” I stamped my hoof and whinnied again. The Riders stopped for a moment, but then called out with harsh, hissing voices, “Come back! Come back! To Mordor we will take you!”

Oh no, they wouldn’t. “Go back,” Frodo whispered faintly. “The Ring!” They called out again. “The Ring!” I backed up a step as the leader, followed closely by two others, urged his horse into the water. I could hear the Witch King’s fell laughter, echoing coldly through the air...

“By Elbereth and Lúthien the Fair,” Frodo cried with a last effort, raising his sword. “You shall have neither the Ring nor me!”

Good show, little hobbit!

The Witch King, in the middle of the river, lifted up his hand, and Frodo went stiff in my saddle. I turned my head and whickered at him, and his sword broke and fell out of his hand. He began to tremble violently, and I raised my head up with an angry snort. What had they done to him?!

All of a sudden, a voice echoed in my ears, though it did not seem that Frodo could hear it: “Nîn o Chithaeglir, lasto beth daer; Rimmo nîn Bruinen dan in Ulaer!” A great roaring sound was heard, getting swiftly closer, and the waters of Bruinen rose in tall waves, taking on the shapes of white horses. The three Riders in the middle of the river were buried beneath the foaming water, but the Witch King’s horse somehow managed to swim across and escape.

The Ulaer on the opposite side drew back, their horses whinnying and rearing in fright. Then suddenly out of the trees burst Glorfindel, glowing even brighter than he had at the Bridge, wielding a flaming torch. Behind him ran the Dúnadan and the hobbits, also waving fiery branches. The black horses were wild with fear, and to my dismay – for they were not evil like their masters – they bore the Nazgûl directly into the water. I whinnied to them, and a few managed to swim to safety.

But this victory over the Ulaer was not to last long. For Frodo began to sway, and no amount of shifting my weight could keep him on my back. He fell, fortunately onto the mud rather than the rocks, and I gently nuzzled him. There was no response. His eyes were closed, and his face was very pale, nearly as white as my own body. His fair, Elf-like features were still – surely the Ring-Bearer had succumbed, and all had been in vain?

But nay! His colorless lips parted slightly, and I could barely hear his cracked whisper: “You…shall not…have it!” Praise Eru! I whickered softly with joy; the brave little perian had not given into the darkness! But my elation was not to last. His speech, short though it was, seemed to have squandered his remaining physical strength, and his head fell limply to the side. But by the slight movement of his delicate right hand, I could see that he was not slain, nor succumbed yet to the dark power of the Enemy.

I gently touched my muzzle to his face, and my joy was diminished further still. His skin was cold, and his small body trembled. Carefully, I stood over him, watching as my master and the Dúnadan carried the hobbits across Bruinen, calm now.

Faithful Sam gave a cry and wrenched out of Glorfindel’s grip, splashing through the water and climbing up onto the bank to kneel beside his master and take Frodo’s cold hand in his own. I gingerly stepped back, careful not to jar Frodo. I could hear Sam’s soft sobs of despair as he pulled the upper part of Frodo’s body into his lap and hugged him tightly to his breast.

I stretched out my neck and gently gave Sam a comforting nuzzle. He looked up at me with tear-filled, red-rimmed eyes and an expression that broke my heart. I hoped he could see the compassion I felt for him and his master in my own eyes as I nuzzled his shoulder softly once more, before backing away a few steps.

The other hobbits, as well as the Dúnadan and Glorfindel, reached the bank and quickly scrambled up. Merry and Pippin join Sam by Frodo’s side, comforting one another and weeping in silent despair. Glorfindel knelt down beside them, and placed one slender hand on Frodo’s cold brow.

“He is not slain,” my master said after a moment, putting his free hand comfortingly on poor Sam’s shoulder. “Nor has he succumbed yet, I think. But he is fading swiftly; we must get him to Rivendell.”

Glorfindel spoke rapidly in Elvish with the Dúnadan, who nodded and, kneeling by the hobbits, he comforted them and spoke to them in a low voice, words that I could not hear.

My master walked over to where I stood, and placed a hand on my foam-flecked neck. “Well done, brave heart,” he whispered. “But I must ask one thing more of you. You must go ahead of us and lead the search party from Imladris, that no doubt is seeking us, here. I fear that Frodo can not last much longer.”

I glanced briefly at the limp young hobbit in Sam’s strong arms, before turning back to Glorfindel and dipping my head. What shall you do? I asked silently. Surely to carry him would but increase his pain and bring his end nearer.

Glorfindel smiled slightly. You are right, Asfaloth. We shall not carry him. The Dúnadan and I shall make a litter of branches and bear him on that. That is the only way we can spare him as much pain as possible and reach Imladris in time.

But there is no time for further talk. You must hasten. Find the search party and lead them here. I dipped my head once more, before turning and galloping towards through the forests, toward my home.

Epilogue

It was not long before I found the search party, already headed in the direction of the Ford. I led them back to my master, the Dúnadan, and the hobbits, who had made the litter of branches and several blankets, and had placed Frodo upon it.

The search party carried with them a true litter, and Frodo was moved to that. The young perian made not a sign, and I feared that he had been overcome by the darkness. But my master assured me that it was not so, and we swiftly made our way towards Rivendell.

The hobbits, exhausted as they were now, took turns riding on my back as we carefully threaded down the narrow path of the Imladris Valley. Little Bill was silent with awe and fear, still carrying all of their baggage, and being led by an Elf. The Dúnadan was offered a horse, but he declined, and chose instead to stumble wearily beside the litter.

Once we had reached the Last Homely House, Frodo was swiftly carried inside, and with him went the hobbits and the Dúnadan. The other Elves accompanied them, save Glorfindel. He gave me fresh water and food, and then let me out into the pasture.

I rested the remainder of that day, but the next morning, I set out to find the surviving Ringwraiths’ horses. They were still huddled miserably together near the Ford, and it took a good deal of convincing before they would follow me back to Imladris.

There, they were treated kindly by the Elves, who saw, as I could, that they were not truly evil. They were given Elven names, and the other horses of Imladris accepted them as part of our herd.

Four days after the flight to the Ford, I received the news that Frodo had recovered and awoken. He was well and whole now, although I knew that his wound would never fully heal. It was bittersweet news; for I also knew that Frodo’s journey was not over yet. I was proved right, as two months later, in mid-December, Frodo, along with Merry, Pippin, and Sam, as well as the Dúnadan and four others who formed the ‘Fellowship’ of the Ring (and Bill the pony), departed from Rivendell on the quest for Mount Doom.

Who knows if they shall ever return? It is a dark and dangerous road they travel, and it seems that every evil creature in Middle-Earth is pursuing young Frodo. But something tells me that they shall return, someday. The time of the Elves is over; they are leaving these shores. Someday, my master shall follow the call of his heart and journey with them, over the Sea, and I, Eru permitting, with him.

And whither then? I cannot say.

The End