Gerithor suddenly woke up, his eyes opening reluctantly. He was in what appeared to be a tomb, laying on a cold stone slab. He realized in shock that his hand was wrapped around a long cruel blade, and was clad in pale armor that smelled of funeral spices and herbs. His hair was combed neatly and he felt a crown or circlet of some sort atop his head. 

He was confused. He didn't remember how he had gotten here. In fact, he didn't remember much of anything from the last several hours. Was he dead?

The last thing he remembered was trudging through the Midgewater swamp... Where had he gone from there? Was he attacked? 

That's when he remembered the light. The door in the hill. The creature standing over Alif. 

He sat up with a start. Where was Alif?! Pushing himself off of the dias, he rose to his feet and looked around. Alif was nowhere in the chamber. The creature must have taken him.

He was suddenly filled with a protective fury, and strode toward the hallway to the next room, bejeweled sword in hand. 

When he rounded the corner into the room, he came face to face with the foul creature that had taken his nephew. When he saw it, the realization of what it was and where he was came to him in a rush of memory.

He was in a barrow, an ancient tomb. The long-dead kings of Arnor were buried in the Barrow Downs, a tract of dismal, desolate land to the west of Bree. Some, however, were said to be buried in the Weather Hills, their tombs long lost to the annals of time. The creatures that inhabited some of these tombs were called wights, evil spirits bound to the barrow by ancient sorcerers long ago.

   It began muttering some sort of incantation. This time, however, Gerithor would not be driven to despair. He narrowed his eyes and ran toward it, plunging his sword into its face. It let out a hiss and collapsed, leaving a pile of ash where it had been standing. He looked around the room. Alif was nowhere to be seen. He slammed his fist against the wall. How could I be so foolish? I saw a torch in the middle of nowhere, and there happened to be a door in the side of a hill, and I thought that was safe? Well done Gerithor. Next time you see a cliff, why don't you just go ahead and jump off that too? Maybe there'll be shelter at the bottom. Fool. 

He rushed headlong down the hallway, looking into each room he passed. Still no sign of the baby. What did they do to him? He had checked almost every room by now. Just then he heard a cruel laugh ring out through the barrow.

   He ran headlong in the direction of the harsh sound. He soon found himself running back the way he had come, towards the door that had lured him into its dark embrace in the first place. The entrance was, much to his surprise, wide open. He ran out the entrance, fully expecting to see another wight. Instead, he heard a loud thump as the barrow doors shut behind him. He ran back and pounded on the door. 

"Alif!" He cried, shoving the door with all his might. The child was still in there, and now there was no way he could get to him.

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   Caledorn and Eldahir remained concealed in the thicket until morning. The trolls and men had left a few hours earlier, but Caledorn didn't want to take any chances. As the faint rays of the dawn sun began to filter through the forest, he finally decided it was time to move. Eldahir was surprised, for when he tried to stand he didn't feel any pain from his injuries. 

He waited for a signal from Caledorn, watching as the elf scouted ahead over the crest of a small hillock. His black armor shone dully in the rising sun, but it was still difficult to distinguish the stealthy warrior from his surroundings. He raised a gloved hand, signaling Eldahir to move up to his position. Eldahir soon reached it and Caledorn turned to him, his expression unreadable as usual.

   "We're safe for the time being. It appears the trolls moved straight north from here. We must move quickly though, the forest is growing more dangerous."

   Eldahir nodded, remaining silent. He was still embarrassed by Caledorn's words from the night before. He felt far from worthy of working with the elf, let alone doing anything important at all, for that matter. He concealed the storm of emotions he felt and followed Caledorn as he took off at a run. The elf lightly glided across the forest floor, barely making a sound. Eldahir was quiet too, as all rangers were, but he flinched at the amount of noise he made compared to the elf.

   The forest began slowly transforming as they traveled east. Instead of tall, dark pine trees, they came upon more birch and aspen. The forest took on a yellow and orange-hued appearance, leaves coating the ground.

Caledorn stopped for a moment, taking in their surroundings. After what appeared to be an inner conflict, he seemed to reach a decision in his mind about what direction they needed to take, and without a word set off again.

   It had already been dark for hours by the time Caledorn stopped again, and Eldahir was exhausted. He slumped down against a tree and closed his eyes, allowing himself a deep breath of crisp evening air. Caledorn looked over at him for a moment in surprise. He hadn't planned on stopping yet, that much was clear from the perturbed expression on his face. 

Eldahir watched as the elf produced a small locket from beneath his armor, his expression softening as he looked upon it. The young ranger was certain that the elf didn't notice him watching, for Caledorn brushed what might've been an unshed tear from his eye before quickly pocketing the jewelry and staring off into the darkening wood.

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  Gerithor sat slumped against the door of the barrow, deep in thought. He considered different ways of getting back inside to save Alif. He didn't have anything strong enough to break the door down, and there was no way to pick the lock (he had already tried without success).  After a while, however, the beginnings of an idea formed into his head.

   He wandered a short distance, kicking up debris as he searched the ground. He continued until he found a thick, short log, letting out a silent exclamation of triumph before picking it up and returning to the barrow with it. There, he stuck the jagged sword into one side of it, and his dagger into the other. It took some effort, but after some time had passed both weapons were lodged firmly into the log. He lifted it with the handles of both weapons, testing its weight in his hands. For something I designed on the spot, it's not bad. He hefted it to the door, then swung it with all his might like a battering ram. It stuck the door forcefully, making the whole frame shudder. After what seemed like an eternity, he pulled back and swung a final time, throwing his entire body into it. The door broke open, falling to the floor inside the barrow with a loud thud and stirring up a cloud of dust. Gerithor stepped in, yanking both weapons from his makeshift battering ram and letting the log fall to the ground.

   Standing in the hallway was another wight. It was wreathed in a pale green glow, wearing a ragged crown upon its rotted head. It held Alif in its arms, whispering evilly to him in a strange tongue. The sight filled Gerithor with rage.

   "Put him down, or you'll face my wrath!" He brandished the sword menacingly at the wight. He felt a shiver of fear trail down his spine as the creature slowly turned to face him, its hollow eyes boring into his soul.

   It let out a low, cruel laugh, the sound of which was like the grinding of stone upon stone. When it spoke, it spoke with a raspy, hollow voice.

   "Thou art mortal... Thou wilt not have the strength to defeat me..." At this point it drew a long, flaming sword. "Turn back now, or I shall smite thee!"

   Gerithor steeled himself, and with a shout of determination, he charged full speed toward the wight. He wasn't afraid of death; At the moment, all he could think of was rescuing his nephew. The wight set Alif down behind it, moving quickly to meet Gerithor. Their blades collided with a flash of steel. Gerithor was filled with almost inhuman strength as his rage fueled him to strike again. Sparks flew from the blades as he struck, and the wight began to falter. Gerithor swung again and again, the wight just barely able to block each blow.

   Suddenly Gerithor dropped to a knee, and buried his dagger deep into the wight's chest. It hissed and fell to the ground, leaving it vulnerable to attack. Gerithor bore down upon it with his sword, stabbing again and again. With the last of its strength, the wight thrust his ancient weapon upwards. Gerithor felt a sharp, burning pain as the wight's flaming sword pierced his side. He winced in pain, but continued to stab the wight until it let go of the sword and hissed, disappearing and leaving the telltale pile of ashes where it had been.

   Gerithor rushed over to Alif. The baby was sound asleep and appeared unharmed for the most part, save for a small crown that sat upon his head. Gerithor gently pulled it off, making sure he didn't wake the baby. The young ranger lifted him into his arms and cradled him for a moment, relief flooding him as he realized how close he had been to losing the child. After taking the time to calm himself, he searched the entirety of the barrow. Laid out upon another dias were his old clothes and weapons, undamaged and strangely enough, as clean as if they had been freshly washed. He carried them and Alif outside the barrow and set them all down.

  Before he had a chance to think about what he should do next, a flash of pain rushed through him and he felt the blood leave his head. Collapsing to his knees, he looked down and saw the place where he had been stabbed. The blade had pierced through the pale armor he was wearing and deep into his side. Blood was seeping out of the hole in the armor; Not enough to be fatal, but enough that he would have to bandage it if he wanted to remain conscious.

He pulled the pale chest piece off and threw it to the side, taking a moment to examine the now bare wound. It was deep, and there were burns around it from the flaming blade. The burns alone were what had likely saved him. The wound was sanitized and mostly cauterized, only bleeding from the places where the scabs had broken open while he was moving. He tore a piece of cloth from the old grave clothes, packing it into the wound and wrapping another piece around it. If only I had some medicine. I won't get far like this, he thought, forcing himself to stand. He picked up his shirt and threw it on, wincing slightly at the motion. 

He carefully changed into the rest of his normal clothes, throwing the pale armor back into the barrow piece by piece. Though unnoticed before, he also felt a weight upon his hand. Lifting it up, he saw that there was a ring of pale gold upon one of his fingers. This alone he decided to keep, as a reminder of his ordeal in the barrow.

   When he had put the rest of his clothes on he picked Alif up and put him in the pack. He tried to put the pack on his back but immediately collapsed to his knees. Nausea overwhelmed him as his eyes swam, the world around him spinning. He forced himself to stand, blinking repeatedly until his vision cleared, and began walking in the direction he was sure was east this time, ignoring the pain in his side as much as he could.