Narothal's hooves thundered across the ground as they rode towards Rivendell, and he did not falter or diminish his speed. Nor would he until his mistress called for him to do so. Miriel could feel the riders following, and continued onward. However, even Narothal could not evade the creatures forever.

The wraiths set upon them in an area sparsely populated with trees, coming from all sides, attempting to reach Frodo. Seeing this, Miriel shouted to her steed.

"Noro lim, Narothal!" The great stallion put on even more speed, and they pulled away from the wraiths, of which all nine were now present. They were pursued to the Ford of Bruinen, which Narothal charged both into and through without breaking stride. The wraiths, on the other hand, pulled up short of the Ford, nervous of the water, and Miriel knew now was the time to use what little Gandalf had taught her of her mother's side, and rid them of the foul creatures. For Frodo would not survive much longer in the light with them around. She halted Narothal, and turned as the wraith in the lead, the Witch King of Angmar, called across the river in his terrible and rasping voice.

"Give up the halfling, shieldmaiden!" She glared at him, drawing a shortsword hidden beneath her cloak, rather than the longsword on her belt.

"If you want him, come and claim him!" The nine screeched, drawing their swords and riding into the water. Once they reached the halfway point, the warrior woman stood in the stirrups, raising her arms and calling out in a loud voice that seemed to shift and change like ripples in the water.

"Nin o Chithaeglir, lasto Beth daer: Rimmo nin Bruinen dan in Ular! Nin o Chithaeglir, lasto Beth daer, Rimmo nin Bruinen dan in Ulair!"

The ground trembled at her words, though she believed she had no right to speak as one of the elven folk, and a mighty roar filled the air. Despite her thoughts, elvish blood ran strongly in her veins, and the river listened to her call without hesitation. Frodo looked up weakly to see what had happened, and did not know if he was hallucinating. The foaming water seemed to take the shape of charging horses with frothing manes, which chased the wraiths and swallowed them whole, seeming then to bow to them before disappearing. Then, darkness began to cloud his vision, and everything became vague and misty. The last thing he heard, was Miriel's voice, but her words did not make sense.

"Whatever grace is given me, let it pass to him. Let him be spared, please, save him."

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Miriel spurred Narothal on to Rivendell, holding Frodo steady. She knew the only hope for the hobbit now was Elrond. He was a great healer, and specialized in difficult and deadly wounds. She herself had once been on the receiving end of his treatment. She had been travelling across from Bree after delivering a message for her father, when a group of orcs had set upon her and Narothal. They had been overwhelmed and left for dead, the orcs not wanting to bother with trying to eat her with Narothal rearing at whoever came close.

Luckily for her, two elves were out hunting orcs that day, and found her. Calming Narothal, they had taken her to Lord Elrond, who had healed her and allowed her to stay until she was fully recovered. Miriel later learned that the two elves, Elladan and Elrohir as they were named, were Elrond's sons. She befriended them and their sister, Arwen, and Elrond saw her as family, especially once he learned of who her mother was, as she had been a dear friend of his. She had not seen them for nearly four years now, as the attacks on Gondor had grown more frequent, but she had written and received some letters, and hoped to find them well.

The gates opened as soon as she reached them, and Miriel knew Elrond or Arwen had seen her coming with their gifts. She reached the courtyard, her arm burning as though it were on fire and slowly burning outward from beneath her skin, and handed Frodo down to the elven healers, who would need Elrond's help. The elvish lord himself walked to her as she dismounted, allowing her horse to go where he wished, as he always came when she called.

"Mae govannen, mellonin." He said. The woman turned, smiling.

"Mae govannen, Elrond." He pulled her into a hug, which she happily returned, but he felt her wince when he touched her arm, and he instantly began to worry.

"What is wrong, Miriel?" He asked, leading her more into the covered part of the city. She let out a dry chuckle, and moved the cloak from her arm, allowing him to see the jagged wound. When he did so, the elf looked up at her face in astonishment.

"This was done by a Morgul Blade! You ought not to be alive if you have travelled as long as I believe you have, let alone standing or riding!" He took in her appearance. Her eyelids drooped, and her face was pale and incredibly tired. She swayed lightly as she stood, and had begun to lean heavily on the wall they stood near as sweat began to gather on her brow from the effort. She chuckled weakly.

"You know how stubborn and determined I can be, Elrond. But I may not be standing much longer. It has drawn on my strength even more heavily than I expected."

"Then it must be tended to immediately!" She shook her head.

"Not yet. Frodo is in more danger than I am. See to him first." Elrond reluctantly agreed, knowing he would not win this argument. Yet he had a bad feeling settling over him as he thought of leaving her to her own devices, and insisted that he help her to a room before going to the hobbit, with a plea for the woman to stay awake. When he returned, Arwen was inside with her friend, thankfully keeping the other awake, though not by much at this point. Had it been any other wound - such as the one she had borne in Gondor, which had long since healed - she would have been perfectly alright. But the poisonous magic of Mordor resided in the blades of the Nine, and it twisted through its victims like vines choking a tree. She was already becoming feverish, and her eyes barely remained open, though she still did her best to remain alert and smile at her friend. Elrond entered, prompting Arwen to leave, and went to the side of Miriel, who had changed with the help of Arwen into a white nightgown. Arwen had taken Miriel's things and armor and put them into the trunk at the foot of the bed before she had left. Lifting the flowing sleeve from where the piece of fabric lay across the wound, he was met with a grim sight. The area around was all dark veins and pale skin, and though it was not as deep as Frodo's she had not borne the ring, and was therefore not protected by it. He began to treat it, drawing the darkness away from her. She had only lasted this long because of her determination and care for the hobbit and her quest. Miriel did not cry out as Frodo had done, but remained silent, her eyes slipping shut once he had begun to close and bandage it, and she did not wake for many hours.