Gerithor had fled until he was in the midst of a dark, misty forest. His wound had been steadily bleeding and now he felt that he could go no further until he looked after it. He stopped Esse in the trees and dismounted, accidentally stumbling and falling to the ground as he did. He was growing weak from loss of blood. He hoped that the wraiths hadn't pursued him, though if they had wanted to it wouldn't have been hard. The trail of blood would lead them here. But there was nothing that could be done about that now.

He quickly tore a piece of cloth from his cloak and tied it around his thigh, using it to stop the blood flow. He had no medicine and he was too weak to wander in search of healing herbs, so he would have to endure the pain. But at least now he would survive.

The only other thing he could do was rest, since he had been riding for several hours and was exhausted. He wished now more than ever that he had kept the flaming brand that Gandalf had given him, but if the wraiths were following him it, along with fire of any sort, would be as good as a beacon to them.

He pulled his cloak around him, attempting to keep warm. When he traveled, he usually fell asleep to of the sounds of crickets and other nighttime creatures. It helped keep his mind from memories that were best left behind. But when he attempted to hear them tonight he realized... The forest was completely silent.

Only the sound of the wind causing the tree branches to creak ominously broke the silence. Gerithor put a hand to the hilt of his sword and stood as best as he could, a feeling of apprehension coming over him. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he saw a shadowy shape slowly emerge like a phantom from the misty forest. As it strode forward Gerithor felt a sense of dread come over him, and he realized with growing fear that this place would soon become his grave. Three more shadows joined the first one, and they became human in shape. But there was something very inhuman about them. Three of them wore burnt robes, and where they had burnt through there was nothing. No body, no skin, only air. They were silent in the approach, and the fog curled around them and through them as if they were a part of it.

When they reached Gerithor they stopped, and stood motionless before him like dark specters in the night.

"Where isss the Halfling, ranger?" The foremost wraith said quietly, every word spoken like a curse. It had a strange accent that Gerithor thought sounded vaguely Rhunic, though if it was it was an ancient dialect.

"You're too late, he's already safe! You've failed," he said, attempting to sound confident.

"Thou art a liar, Dunadan... We know he is near," Another wraith hissed. This one had the lofty accent of a Black Numenorean.

"We will kill him, soon," The first wraith said.

"You'll have to get past me first," Gerithor said, drawing his sword. He felt weak, but he knew that this time there would be no chance to flee.

The first wraith hissed. "You are wounded... You will be no challenge for us." At his command all four wraiths moved forward, swords drawn and pointed towards the ranger.

Gerithor gripped his sword weakly, prepared to fight. I will not die like a coward, he thought to himself as he raised his sword into a fighting stance. It was at moments like these that he realized he had very little to lose... Few would notice, let alone mourn his passing. But hopefully in this case his death would make a difference, buy Aragorn and the hobbits some extra time to reach Rivendell safely.

Just as the wraiths closed in about him a horn sounded through the forest, clear and noble. The three other wraiths turned their hooded heads to their leader in surprise.

"It is the bright elf, curse him..." The foremost wraith hissed. "You are safe for now, ranger. But I, Khamul of the East, will end you. Mark my words Dunadan, your death will come by my blade." Like a shadow all four wraiths melted back into the mist, disappearing from Gerithor's sight. He collapsed to his knees, pale and on the verge of losing consciousness. He heard the sound of hooves pounding through the forest, coming closer.

The fog seemed to pull away like a great curtain as the unknown rider approached, and the forest glowed with unnatural light. Gerithor saw a white horse approaching, and atop it was a rider clad in armor of bright silver. The rider dismounted beside Gerithor and removed his helmet, releasing flowing silver hair.

"You're injured!" He said as he knelt beside the ranger. "Where is the wound?"

"It's only my thigh, but it bled for quite some time before I was able to stop it," Gerithor replied. The stranger rummaged through a pouch at his side and pulled out a vial filled with blue liquid.

"Drink this, it will give you strength," He said as he handed it to Gerithor. The ranger quickly drank it, expecting it to be foul. Instead, he was surprised when it tasted like a mixture of honey and berries.

"What of the Nazgul?" He asked when he had finished it. The stranger peered out into the forest, as if seeing something beyond what normal vision revealed.

"They are preoccupied. My companions will be able to hold them off until I arrive."

"You... You mean you're going to fight them?" Gerithor asked in astonishment.

"Yes. I have done it in the past," The stranger replied, his tone grim as if he were recalling an unpleasant memory.

"Who are you?" Gerithor asked. He thought that there was something about this stranger that was different than any other elf he had met so far... An aura of some sort... Innocence, yet wisdom. Peace, yet power.

"I am Glorfindel. Though who I am goes much further than my name, but it should suffice at present." He stood and offered Gerithor a hand up.

"The Glorfindel? The one who singlehandedly banished the Witch King from Angmar?" Gerithor asked incredulously as he stood. "I've heard stories, but I never thought I'd meet you."

"It wasn't singlehandedly, I had much help," Glorfindel said with a laugh, pure and joyful. The entire forest seemed to brighten at the sound of it. "I can tell you the entire story in full later, but for now... We have some wraiths to hunt."

=================================

Gerithor and Glorfindel rode quickly through the forest, following the sounds of swords clashing and the screeches of the wraiths. The forest seemed to close in around them as they rode, and the path was completely gone. Suddenly they came upon a meadow, and in the meadow a battle was unfolding.

The four wraiths locked in battle with a familiar dark clad elf and another elf that Gerithor didn't know. He immediately recognized the distinctive armor of Caledorn however, and quickly galloped to his side. The elf was holding off two wraiths that were attempting to surround him, but with Gerithor's arrival they were unable to.

"Just in time, mellon!" Caledorn said breathlessly as he crossed swords with one of the wraiths. The wraith strangely seemed slightly frightened by Caledorn and refused to engage him openly, constantly trying to circle around behind him. The wraith fighting Gerithor was confident, and struck with quick, calculated blows. Gerithor stayed on the defensive, knowing that he couldn't defeat the wraith on his own.

On the other side of the meadow, Glorfindel was now fighting Khamul, the leader of the four wraiths. He attacked with a fury that was beyond that of even the greatest elven warriors, driving Khamul back with the strength of his blows. The wraith struggled to avoid the attacks, barely dodging and blocking in time. The other elf was fighting the final wraith with two long knives. The fight seemed for the most part to be even, the wraith on the attack one minute, and the elf the next.

Gerithor hoped that one of the elves would prevail over their foe and come to his aid, for he knew that he couldn't hold out much longer. Even a skilled swordsman such as himself could not defeat one of the Nazgul.

Suddenly, a distant screech pierced the air... The sound of another wraith. At first Gerithor was filled with the fear that the other five were coming, but the four that were fighting them quickly broke off and galloped madly into the forest. Glorfindel began to give chase, but after realizing that he wouldn't be able to keep up, he turned back.

"They must be regrouping," he said. "You should take now as an opportunity to make for Rivendell before they return."

"'You?' Don't you mean 'we?'" Caledorn replied.

"No. My task here is not yet done, nor is yours Caledorn. But Gerithor and Legolas must return, they cannot fight the Nine."

The blonde elf rode to Gerithor's side. "We've not yet been introduced. I am Legolas, son of Thranduil of the Woodland Realm."

"I am Gerithor, son of Gerimond. I know of you, and that you are a friend of Aragorn. Well met," Gerithor replied with a smile that the elf returned.

"You two must make haste to Rivendell. The Nine are still out there," Caledorn said. He and Glorfindel spurred their horses off into the forest, and as they left Gerithor observed that they were complete contrasts to each other. Caledorn was dressed in black, had dark hair, and rode a midnight black steed. Glorfindel wore silver armor, had silver hair, and rode a white steed. Caledorn had a very dark personality, while Glorfindel's was bright and joyful.

"Quite a pair they are," Legolas said, echoing Gerithor's thoughts. Gerithor turned to the elf.

"Indeed they are. I wouldn't want to be their enemy," He replied as he reigned his horse to the east. "To Rivendell then."

Legolas grabbed the reigns of Gerithor's horse and turned it to the north. "To Rivendell," He said with a wry grin. Gerithor raised an eyebrow amusedly and they spurred their horses onward, away from the Nazgul and the darkness.

Note: In this instance, my story follows the books, not the movies. In the books it was Glorfindel, not Arwen, who took Frodo to safety and drove the Nazgul away. I felt that this was one area that the movie did poorly, since there was no way that Arwen would have been able to hold them off. Glorfindel, on the other hand, was one of only a handful of elves that were able to face the Nine in open combat. But anyhow, since this part would have been covered in the story regardless, I chose to follow Tolkien's account of what happened and not Jackson's. So keep that in mind in the following chapters as well.