Darkness hovered over the massive rift in the craggy mountainside far below, mantling the sky in velvety black. Blackness studded with stars, glittering cold and sharp in the October chill. The ground was already covered in frost, as though handfuls of diamond dust had been scooped from the floor of a Dwarven workshop, and scattered over the world to fall sparkling on each blade of grass.

Far below, someone stirred, but the sound of the movement was lost in the restless murmuring of the cool night breeze.

Someone arose.

It’s time. The Elf-maiden slipped from her bed; her feet made no sound as they touched the floor. Swiftly she arrayed herself for long riding; crouching, she fitted a pair of elegantly made boots to her bare feet, the supple leather perfectly formed to their slender shape. Casting a cloak of deepest green around her shoulders, she forsook her bower.

Go now. Flitting noiselessly along the vast corridors and broad halls she went, weaving a dance of shadow and soft footsteps, as sure and unerring as the seasoned mariner’s subtle touches of the rudder. Accustomed to this intricate labyrinth from childhood, she could have walked it in the half-conscious, dreamlike state that is sleep to the Firstborn.

He hasn’t much longer. Where these thoughts were coming from she could not tell. Perhaps some strain of Maia blood in her was waxing; in response to great peril, the same had happened to Lúthien. Her pulse quickened; somehow she could tangibly feel the moments slipping away, towards the impending doom of another, in desperate need of rescue. Her footsteps accelerated to match her racing heartbeat.

Fleet as the arrows of the Elven bowmen guarding her home, she sped from the house and flew along the path of carved stone, to the group of stable buildings nearby.

The horses knew her; one whickered delightedly. Yet she walked past, speaking low and soothing, pleading with them to understand her plight. At the end of the long row of stalls, one horse heard. One horse kept silent, as though he realized her need for stealth. She glided toward the silver one and rested one white hand on his head. His large fiery eyes watched her wonderingly, his ears forking to catch the tones of her voice: flowing liquid notes, like the voice of the first bird to herald the dawn, while the earth is yet enfurled in sable mist; recalling the voice of she named Tinúviel–nightingale.

“Asfaloth,” she whispered. “Boe palan reniathach go nîn.”

A gentle touch, quicker than mortal thought; the saddle was on his back, set close to the powerful shoulders, in the style of the Dúnedain–sacrificing safety for speed. Her slender fingers adjusted the narrow straps on the horse’s head. The glow of the moon flooding in through the stable window caught frosty points of light, tiny gems glinting like stars worked marvelously into the bridle leather by the Elven craftsmen.

Like a cat, in one lithe, fluid motion she sprang to his back. Hardly heavier than the saddle she felt to the horse. Gathering the slim cords of rein, she gently touched the side of the mighty crested neck and they sped from the stables. Just before swerving onto the path that would lead them away into the dark forests, she felt a vague reluctance, a feeling of defenselessness that was foreign to the hearts of the Free Elves. “Daro,” she murmured, and her steed paused. She dropped lightly to the ground and led him forward a few paces. Quickly she looped the reins around a low tree branch and swiftly went back to the vast arch of stone marking the entrance to her home. Passing through she hurried to the grand memorial chamber.

Had she need of any weapon? Should she not rather trust to ancient wisdom, that those who walk in the Light need not fear the powers of Darkness? Now flooding her mind came her father’s words, spoken in the voice of one whom foresight has warned:

“The Nine are abroad.”

Against those sepulchral phantoms, even Glorfindel of the Calaquendi could not withstand alone. She went on.

Around the inner courtyard, the stone hall with its railing sprang away in a sweeping curve. There, cradled in stony arms slept the Blade that was Broken. Nearby was kept in reverence Aeglos, the spear of Ereinion Gil-Galad, last High-king of the Noldor. But she hurried past, heading straight to a far wall. There it was, rested on two gracefully curving ledges of stone. Hadhafang–the sword her father had carried into battle with the Last Alliance of Men and Elves. Dare she take it? Her fingertips traced the inlaid gold, as her mind thought back.

Elrond had inherited the sword from his father Eärendil, whose light even now shone down upon the stone floor in pools of brilliance. Whence had Eärendil received it? From his mother, Idril Celebrindal, daughter of Turgon, king of Gondolin. Idril had wed a mortal man, bearing him his renowned half-Elven son. A mortal.

Her thoughts fled back to the mortal of her chosen love, to the Ranger threading his wary way through the tangled timber, carrying his fading burden. She must go, now, before it was too late for…

Her slender fingers hesitated a split-second before firmly grasping the hilt of the sword. As she drew it from the scabbard, a silver ray of moonlight slipped through the parted clouds and shone along the keen edge of the blade, illuminating the flowing tengwar etched delicately into the steel.

aen estar Hadhafang i chathol hen, thand arod dan i thang an i arwen

This blade, Hadhafang, is a noble defense against the enemy throng for a noble lady.

First Idril, now me. Hadhafang was once again in the hands of a maiden of the Eldalië. Perhaps it had been destined for such a time as this.

Sheathing the sword, she fled on winged feet back up the path, now shining dimly in the cloud-released moonglow. Upon Asfaloth’s broad back she leaped, and together they sprinted into the thick murk of the woods.

Tirelessly the Elven-horse floated along, the flowing ease of his gait never betraying the tremendous speed he maintained. Through two days of searching he bore her; high and low they roamed together, through secret trails and glens known only to those whose lives spanned many generations of Men. Exhaustion, hunger, thirst would have turned back all but the Elf and the steed who carried her, scorning such trivial annoyances.

Dusk on the second day. As the hours crept on towards midnight, the dark became something alive, malignant; something pregnant with approaching evil. The Elven horsewoman felt it now as plainly as though she saw it, like a sinister shape crouching to spring for the kill. Nearly she had covered all the ground between Rivendell and the Trollshaw. Now rapidly she urged her horse on, a tingling suspicion chilling her spine.

There. Up ahead. A torch’s smoky light flickered faintly somewhere. Now it had vanished–there it was again. She checked Asfaloth with a quiet word, then sprang from the saddle, her form melting silently into the dappled green shadows of the forest floor. Noiselessly she removed the curving sword from the saddle and tightened the worn straps about her waist. As soundlessly as only an Elven-maid can, she followed the intermittent glinting. In a matter of moments she found what she sought: a tall figure, rushing hither and there erratically, bearing a flaming brand. Abruptly he dropped to the ground, kneeling beside a plant with long, spreading leaves and tiny white blossoms. The man drew a hunting knife and began sawing at the herb. Immediately a sharp, sweet scent filled the glade, as she drew Hadhafang and set it behind the angle of his jaw.

“What’s this?” she intoned musically, playfully.

“A Ranger, caught off his guard?”