For long moments those left behind stood staring into the darkness, listening to Shadowfax’s receding footfalls. Aragorn finally broke the silence. “Well, then, let us not ignore Gandalf’s words. I doubt that there will be rest for any of us this night, so let us ride now on our way to Edoras, and the muster of Rohan.”
        Theoden echoed his words, “You are right. To the horses.”
        In silence, the company gathered their few belongings and mounted up onto their horses. Legolas again boosted Nimoë up onto Finduél’s back, then leapt onto Arod. He reached his hand out to take hers, and squeezed it, a gentle reminder that he was still with her, although they rode separately.
        Eomer led them away from their campsite, riding hard through the gloom of night. The countryside was like a dream, dark and formless, as they passed by. Sensations of foreboding assailed them as they rode, as if some great evil were approaching.
        Then, without warning, an inhuman screech pierced the night’s velvet darkness, and it brought with it a wave of chill dread. All eyes swung up towards the sky, where a vast winged shape swooped, backlit against the stars, terrible in its presence.
        The horses reared and screamed, their eyes rolling wildly in their terror. Finduél went up onto his hind legs, front feet pounding the air, as if trying to battle an invisible foe. Nimoë clung to his mane, and gripped tightly with her legs, and managed barely to remain on his back, as he charged away, senseless of direction, as long as it way far from the swooping form above.
        The Rohirrim struggled to regain control of their mounts, but the continued wailing of the Nazgul, for what else could it be that brought such unreasoning fear to those nearby, rendered their efforts useless. Heavy hooves flailed through the air coming dangerously close to other horses and riders, and all feared the worst.
        Desperately, Nimoë clung to Finduél’s back, bending all of her will to keeping her seat. Some part of her mind was grateful that they were on an open plain, rather than in the forest, for surely if they were, she would have been knocked free by branches whipping past her. Pulling back against his mane, she tried futilely to bring the runaway horse to a stop.
        Finally, the Nazgul continued onward in its flight, straight as an arrow towards Isengard. With its passing, Finduél finally slowed to a trot, and then pulled up to a halt. Nimoë drew in shaking breaths, relieved that the headlong run was over. She looked about her and found that in the darkness, she could not see where she had come from. The rest of the Rohirrim were out of her sight, and in her panic, she had not paid close attention to the direction of her flight.
        Closing her eyes, a hum began to swell in her throat. There were no words, so it remained undirected, and she reached out with the power, trying to locate humans nearby. A faint resonant echo began off to her west, and she turned Finduél in that direction. Keeping the exhausted horse to a sedate walk, she led him off, confident that soon she would find the others.
        After a few minutes, the sound of another horse approached her and she hailed them, “Who is there?”
        The voice which reached her out of the darkness was familiar, “It is Eomer. Nimoë? Are you well?”
        Eomer finally came into view, lit only by the twinkling stars. “Well enough. What of the others? Did other horses run?”
        The horse-lord shook his head. “Only Finduél. I am afraid that you are not the best rider among us. The rest of us only barely managed to master our beasts. Come back quickly. The others are worried about you.”
        They rode together in silence the short distance back to the camp. Legolas was just returning from searching in another direction. “Nimoë!” he called in relief. “Glad am I to see you riding. I was afraid that Finduél would throw you.”
        She smiled at him reassuringly. “As you see, I am well. I am ready to continue on.”
        The Rohirrim took that as a signal, and they wheeled about as one, pounding down the trail, hoping to get as far from Isengard as possible before the Ringwraith arrived and discovered what had transpired. The memory of its foul presence sent them forward at a brisk pace, and they did not slow through the rest of the night.
        As the light of day was beginning to dawn, one of the riders, who had kept to the back, ran his horse forward to the king. “There are horses behind us, King Theoden, and they are riding harder than we. They are overtaking us.”
        At this the king raised his fist, and the company reined to a halt. They drew their weapons, turning to face whatever might be coming. The only thing of which Nimoë was certain was that it was not orcs which rode so purposefully towards them. There was no taint of their presence in her mind. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, but she did not draw it, and with the other hand she grasped tightly to Finduél’s mane.
        Over the last rise appeared a company of almost two score riders, which bore down on them with great speed. The riders wore dark grey cloaks and their faces were hard, lined with concern and with long years of toil. They did not bear their weapons drawn, so Eomer called out, “Who goes there! What is your business in Rohan?”
        One of the men came forward from the others and replied, “Rohan? That is a welcome word indeed, for we have been riding long and hard. We seek Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and we were told we would find him in Rohan.”
        Aragorn broke from the Rohirrim then and spoke, with a welcoming smile on his face, “And you have found him. Halbarad, my good friend, it has been much too long. But how do you come to be here? I did not send for you.”
        A mystified look crossed Halbarad’s features. “We received a message, telling us that Aragorn had need of his kindred, and to ride to him with all speed.”
        “Only did I wish for you in my heart. Of all unlooked for pleasures, this is the greatest I can imagine.”
        Halbarad beckoned to two of those who rode with him. They were tall, with dark hair and grey eyes, and they were clearly of Elven descent. “Elladan and Elrohir bear you a gift, which will add to your pleasure greatly, I deem.”
        Nimoë looked at the two Elves more closely then. So these were the sons of Elrond of Rivendell. So alike did they appear that she did not know that she would be able to tell them apart.
        The brothers rode to the fore and Elrohir handed a long staff, wrapped round with a black cloth, to Aragorn. “My sister, Arwen, sends this to you along with this message, “The days are short. Either our hope will come or it will end. Therefore I send you that which I have made for you. Farewell, Elfstone.” Those were her words, just as she spoke them, Aragorn.”
        Aragorn’s hand strayed to the jet black fabric, and his fingers caressed it without his volition. “Thank you Elrohir. Do you bring me any other word?”
        Elladan spoke then, “Our father also sends word. “The days grow short. In his haste, let the heir of Gondor not forget the Paths of the Dead.” That is all.”
        Aragorn shook himself out of his reverie. “Let us not discuss this further upon the road. We ride now to Helm’s Deep, where we will find shelter and solitude. Will you ride with us?”
        Halbarad nodded. “We will. We will look forward to food and what little rest we can find. Lead us onward.”