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Chapter Text

Seven long months she had been at this post, and had her brother known how she had turned her punishment around she probably would have been gone sooner. Daeril had guarded the Northern border of the Shire for seven summers, until she and two other rangers stupidly involved themselves in a fight one night in the village of Bree. Now Sarn Ford, the least favored of all posts, was her duty station.

"We should get back to camp, they're going to start to wonder where we are."

"We should probably gather that firewood," She stated, kissing Faron one last time before getting to her feet. She shook the dirt and sticks out of her cloak and smoothed her hair as best she could.

The two young rangers had become fast friends since the day Daeril came to Sarn Ford, and long nights standing watch together had eventually led to forays into the woods when they could escape the eyes of their fellow rangers. The moment anyone found out about them, at least one of them would be sent to another post.

"Why are you staring, get to work!" Daeril laughed, her left arm half full of firewood while Faron still had but a few sticks.

"I am working. Working out how I'm going to get you to marry me."

This wasn't the first time he had suggested they marry, and Daeril was growing tired of having to turn him down.

"And if I married you, what would I do? Go live with the women and children in the Angle? Raise sheep?"

"Or children."

"They would grow up to be gamblers and thieves."

"True, but at least they would look like me. Handsome is as handsome does."

She threw a stick at his grinning face, hitting him square on the nose.

"I belong out here and you know it, Faron."

"I know," He sighed.

The two trudged back to camp, throwing the fresh wood down on the already large kindling pile. They separated to different ends of the camp to avoid suspicion, Daeril going to speak with the watch commander, Thannor. The circles under his eyes were the only indication that the long watches they were all taking was taking any effect on him. He had been there longer than any other ranger, and had never had as many charges as he currently did. Their chieftain had ordered a larger force at this particular crossing to the Shire, but for what reasoning Thannor did not speak to anyone about.

"You should rest sir," Daeril said, noting him stifling a yawn.

"I'll rest when I'm dead," He grumbled. "Perhaps you should take your own advice, you're on first watch tonight."

Daeril roused at sunset, just as the red was disappearing in the sky. The warm days were giving into cooler nights, but she felt much colder this night than those previous. The camp was quiet save for those finishing their evening meals, but even their conversation was at a minimum. She threw her cloak on, drawing it close to her body to keep out the wind that had started to come in from the East.

"It's quiet out there tonight," Aeldis said as Daeril came to relieve her at the watch post by the road. "It doesn't feel right."

Daeril looked up to Aeldis as a child, and had been thrilled when she discovered she was at Sarn Ford. Aeldis was small, but imposing, her short dark hair flecked with gray but not a single line on her face to betray her age. She had been a ranger in the time of Arathorn, Daeril had learned.

"It's so cold!" Daeril replied, trying her best not to shiver. "Go, sleep! Get warm!"

Aeldis clapped the younger girl on the shoulder as she retired her watch. Faron and Hador joined her. Normally only two people watched the road, so it was concerning that they had one extra.

"Thannor feels we need a bigger watch tonight. Something about the Crebain." Said Faron.

"I haven't seen any."

"We heard them as the sun began to set," Hador replied. "Making quite some noise. Woke me up."

"I sleep like the dead," Daeril laughed. "I do appreciate the company, though."

They spoke in hushed voices, keeping an eye on the darkening road and listening to the sounds in the woods. Daeril never felt afraid here, but something about what Aeldis and Hador said gave her a sense of unease. With the dark came the sound of crowing.

"Crebain!" Faron hissed.

The shadow of dozens of wings flapping from out of the trees permeated the darkness. Something scared them off.

"Daeril, Thannor needs to know of this. Can you go to him?"

Thannor needed his sleep, and she wanted to argue against waking him, but the hint of fear in Hador's voice convinced her otherwise.

"Aye!" She agreed, and ran back to the camp.

Thannor was not resting, but sitting up speaking with Taeron and Ruinor, the watch captains.

"What is it?" He asked.

"The Crebain just took flight, something startled them."

"Just now?"

"Yes."

"Something is out there," Thannor stood, fingering the pommel of the sword at his hip. "Wake the second watch, we need-"

He stopped mid-sentence as a shrill cry came from the road. Neither human nor animal, it sent an icy chill through Daeril's entire body. Soon shouting came from the post she had just left, Faron and Hador running back. Before she could even move to wake the camp, she saw figures come out of the darkness, gaining on the two rangers as they ran. Their robes and horses were all black, and she could not see faces.

"TO ARMS! EVERYONE, TO ARMS!" Thannor shouted, running to face the riders head on.

Daeril drew her bow, the fear pumping through her veins driving her to action. She joined Thannor and her brothers, forming a blockade of rangers. Those who had been sleeping were now awake and scrambling to arms. She aimed an arrow at one of the riders gaining on Faron and Hador, and let it fly. Her aim was true, but the arrow did nothing. The black rider cut Faron down as he ran. There was a moment Daeril thought he would get back up again, that he may be fine. He did not rise.

The sense of fear was overwhelming everyone, yet nobody backed down while they could still stand and fight. Daeril was overwhelmed with terror and anger, but knew her duty was to guard the Ford at all costs. Never had she faced an enemy such as this. Drawing her sword, bow clearly useless, she watched as more of her brothers fell, knowing that any moment could be her last. When the wizard and her chieftain had come earlier in the spring and warned the rangers of a possible invasion, nobody had expected this; ruffians or orcs, maybe, but not the evil they faced now.

"We cannot hold them!" Thannor cried out. "Run! We must warn the chieftain!"

He turned to Daeril, grabbing her shoulder in a stern grip.

"Go, now. Make for Bree. Find Aragorn!"

She nodded, not wanting to abandon her men, but knowing that someone had to carry the message. Already some were fleeing down the road and into the woods, and the black riders began to follow. Four had broken through, and were crossing into the Shire. All was lost. She ran for the road, passing injured on the ground and some more or less dead. She could not stop to say a final farewell to Faron, who lie slain with a sword wound through the chest.

She could not outrun the horse that followed behind her. The hoof-beats gained closer and closer, and four legs caught up to two in moments. All she could do was duck down, and hope that her head would not leave her neck. The blow sent her sprawling, as the blade glanced the back of her skull. Her vision went white for a long moment, but she did not lose consciousness. A hoof landed on her upper arm, accompanied by a sickening crack. She bared down, using all energy she had in the moment to not cry out. The rider galloped away, and she seized her moment to escape.

Sarn Ford was lost, the rangers dead or driven away. Faron, whom Daeril loved more than she cared to admit, was slain. She entered the woods along the road, the trees the only defense from the enemy on horseback. She ran through the night, stumbling as her energy diminished and the pain of her wounds took over. The arm was useless, tucked into the straps of her quiver as a makeshift sling. Her head throbbed and every footfall sent shock-waves of pain through her. The unearthly shrieks of the riders permeated the night air, but grew further and further away. She did not stop until morning's light, when she could go no further, and collapsed at the roots of a large oak.

She slept fitfully, her dreams dark and all too real. Faron's face, stone cold and eyes staring forward unseeing, plagued her every thought. The tears would not come, but the pain was all too consuming. Of the twelve other rangers that she served with, at least six she had witnessed fall. She was not the only one fleeing through the wilderness, but where the others were she could not know. Forcing her ailing body to stand, she set off again. Bree was about thirty leagues, and a few days ride if one stopped to rest. She could not spare the time to stop anymore if she wanted to reach Aragorn in time, but the injuries slowed her down.

Through day and night she moved through the wilderness, glimpsing the Greenway every now and then but never daring to use the road lest she be found by the riders. The third night she heard the shrieking, but it was far from her. She prayed none of the others were found. On the fifth day, feverish and famished, she reached the south gate of Bree. It was mid-morning, and the gate was open for the day. The gate guard gave her a once over, but let her pass unchallenged.

She knew Bree like the back of her hand, having gone there many times with some of her fellow rangers when they could spare the time. The last time she had been, she had almost ended up in the jail, if her brother had not intervened. She made for The Prancing Pony, knowing the owner was the most ranger-friendly of all the inns of Bree. The streets were starting to get busy with townsfolk going about their business, and she received many apprehensive looks. Assuming it was her cloaked face that made people uncomfortable, she lowered her hood. The cool morning air was unpleasant on her wounded scalp.

Mr. Butterbur was behind the bar, already serving some of the drunker citizens of Bree. She approached, the normally appetizing scent of ale making her feel ill. Butterbur took one look at her and visibly cringed, but was immediately back to pleasant.

"You look like you could use a room, miss." He stated, putting down the glass he was wiping.

"Possibly. I'm looking for someone."

His face was grave.

"You're not looking for a 'Baggins', are you? We've had some strange folk in town looking for him, just last night in fact."

"I don't know of any 'Baggins'. Who was looking for them?"

"Riders, all in black. Black horses."

Her heart sank. If they were already here, and Aragorn was here…

"I'm looking for a ranger. Strider, you may know him as."

"Ah, Strider. I know the one. Haven't seen him in months."

She did not know whether to be relieved or worried.

"Have any more of my kind come here recently?"

"Not here at the Inn, but I heard rumors of some rangers chased out of town last night when the riders came. They went east towards Staddle, you could check there."

"Thank you, sir." She said, making to leave. "If he should show up here, could you let him know I came?"

"I can do that. Should I give a name?"

"He will know," She said. There were only two women at the Ford, and the age gap was drastic. He would know. "Tell him the Ford is lost."

She reluctantly left the safety of the inn and made for Staddle. It was not far, but she was exhausted and growing sicker by the hour. Staddle was mainly populated by hobbits, and Daeril felt her heart grow lighter as she took in the peaceful town. She had only seen hobbit holes from a distance, while patrolling the northern Shire near Buckland, and loved to look at them. She knew she could not fit in one without hitting her head on the ceilings. Too weakened to waste any time searching for her fellow rangers, she found the nearest town guard- this one a man of Bree.

"What do you need, miss?"

"I'm looking for some rangers that passed through here. Have you seen them?"

"I haven't, but I heard that two left through here last night. They took the East Road."

She took off with a quick word of thanks, heading through the bustling town, and through the gate towards the East Road. If her people were out there, they would be among the trees, not on the road. She took to the wilderness once more.

Chapter Text

She came upon the other rangers by late afternoon. A whiff of smoke in the breeze had been all she needed, and she followed the smell until she reached a small copse in the trees. A cloaked figure turned around sharply, brandishing a hunting knife. Daeril raised her good hand in surrender, and the other ranger took down their hood.

"Daeril, goheno nin," Aeldis apologized.

"No need," Daeril approached, trying to see who Aeldis was kneeling next to.

"He passed early this morning. I started to dig a grave, but hadn't the strength to finish."

Daeril looked upon the face that only days prior been so full of life. Gaerchon had always been quick with a joke and had loved to sing; she tried to remember him as that person, and not the pale shell of a man that lay dead in front of them.

"His wounds were not mortal," Aeldis explained, sadly. "Those riders have some sort of evil about them. He complained about being cold the first couple days, and it just got worse from there. I would never have thought to see someone die of despair, but it appears he has."

"They are not of our world," Daeril said. "Nothing we could have done would have stopped them. I shot one dead on, and the arrow did nothing."

"Gaerchon stabbed one of them. That's what I think caused this." She shook off a chill that seemed to creep up on the both of them. "I suppose we should bury him."

Daeril assisted in digging a grave as best she could with one arm, and soon resorted to digging with her foot. They made a shallow grave, and tried to drag him into it as ceremoniously as they could. It was not a funeral suitable of a Dunedain, but it would have to serve.

"Let me see to that arm," Said Aeldis, motioning for Daeril to sit by the fire.

Daeril tried to take the afflicted arm from her sleeves, but it was too painful to move. She had not been able to attend to her wounds while on the run, and already the shoulder had swollen and stiffened. Aeldis broke one of Daeril's arrows in two, using the halves to fashion a splint which she then bound with scraps of cloth.

"That will have to do, I dare not move it any more than that," She held a hand to the younger woman's pale face. "You're burning up. You need food and rest."

"It hasn't been safe to rest. I would have gotten food in Bree, but I left all my money back at the Ford."

"It's not safe in Bree, the riders tracked us there. I'm certain they will return at nightfall."

"I don't think they're tracking us anymore. The barkeep at the Prancing Pony mentioned they were looking for someone called Baggins."

"A hobbit?"

"I would assume so."

"That is why they came to the Ford, to get to the Shire. But why a hobbit?"

"Whatever the reason, Aragorn and Gandalf know something that they were not telling us. This hobbit must be important."

Aeldis cleaned the wound at the back of Daeril's head which had become inflamed and seeping. That had been the source of the fever, but Aeldis knew the girl would not die from the minor wound. She was not cold like Gaerchon had been.

"We will return to Bree for the night, then. I can get us a room at the Inn. We will purchase horses and leave tomorrow."

"Where will we go?"

"I am riding to the Angle. You can join me or go East to Imladris, if you wish."

She had not been to the House of Elrond in many years, not since before she took the cloak of the Rangers. Her brother, Daenir, patrolled the wilds and the mountains around Imladris, often with the sons of Elrond.

"I will decide in the morning."

It was late when they reached the East gate of Bree, and the gate was closed for the night. The night guard opened a small window and challenged them.

"What do you want?"

"We wish to stay at the Prancing Pony," Aeldis said. "We mean no trouble."

"Where do you come from?"

There was nothing beyond Bree to the East, so he was right to be suspicious. Their rough looks did not help, however being female did.

"Combe," Aeldis lied. "We have been hunting all day and do not wish to make the long walk back."

"Hunting? Not much to show for it, eh?"

"Not much out there with those riders scaring them off."

"Very well, then."

They were let in a smaller door, and had no more than passed through when the door was shut and locked directly behind them. It was small comfort to the rangers who knew the riders could get in if they so wished to, gate closed or not. The two made for the Prancing Pony, noting how quiet and deserted the streets were.

They got a room upstairs, and had food and drink brought up. Daeril could not stomach much of it, and had only made it through half a pint of ale before she was too tired to finish. She passed out on top of the covers, and did not wake until Aeldis roused her in the early hours.

"I found us horses. They're not much, but unless you want a pony it's the best they could offer."

She had packed food for herself and a bag for Daeril, and helped her get her sword belt, bow and quiver back on. Daeril's fever had lessened, but her body hurt more after having finally gotten real sleep.

"I can't even use my bow," She said, forlornly.

"I don't even want you to try," Aeldis tightened the strap so Daeril's arm was pinned to her chest. "Can you lift your sword?"

"Yes, but if I have to use it one handed, I'm not sure it will be much use."

"Let's hope you do not have to. You are going to Imladris?"

"Yes. Daenir will be there."

They went down to the stables in the courtyard of the inn, where two horses stood tacked and ready. Aeldis helped Daeril onto the smaller one, a bay gelding. He was skinny, and although his coat was growing fluffy for the cool weather, most of his mane and tail was rubbed out. He started to move out the moment she was in the saddle, and then threw his head back when she stopped him with a slight pull on the reins.

"This is going to be a long ride."

Aeldis's mount was not much better, bigger but with bad feet and obnoxiously chewing at the bit.

"At least he is not a mare." Replied Aeldis, mounting the grey.

They rode out the East gate together, the horses moving rough but quickly upon the East Road. They had not seen any sign of the black riders, and the East Road was deserted. By nightfall they had already traveled thirty miles, and only stopped so the horses could rest. Daeril's horse, whom the stable master called Rocky, was lame in the right hind and paddled the leg out as he ran. They camped for the night, hearing the howling of wolves far in the distance but thankfully not the shriek of the riders. For nine days they rode, making a fast pace despite the poorly suited mounts. It was at the Last Bridge at the Mitheithil that they parted ways.

"I hope that we shall meet again soon. And under better circumstances." Aeldis said.

"As do I. Na lû e-govaned vîn."

"Novaer. Ride safe."

Aeldis turned on the grey mare, and rode south along the river Mitheithil, the Hoarwell. Daeril made for the bridge, but the horse was not willing to cross. He tossed his head in the air, planting his front hooves firmly in the dirt before the threshold of the bridge.

"Do not do this to me, horse!" She dug her heels in, but the gelding began to back up. Sighing, she dismounted. "If we ever make it to Rivendell, I will have Lord Elrond prepare a feast. Out of you, mellon nin."

She grabbed the reins, and walked forward with a purpose. The horse, realizing that his human did not die from walking on the bridge, began to follow. The river was loud, rushing beneath the bridge, but he trusted the ranger would not let him perish. Daeril found herself longing for the horse she had left home in the Angle- her Garavel would never had shied at anything, let alone a bridge.

The horse and rider team made it to the stone trolls by nightfall, and set up camp a little ways away. Daeril would have felt safer camping in the middle of the stone trolls as so many travelers often did, but the horse had spooked at them, naturally. She knew the trolls were sixty miles from the Bruinen, and from there it was twenty miles to Imladris. If she kept up the pace with time to rest, they would be there in at least two days. As soon as the sun rose, she was back on the road.

That night, the riders came. She heard the scream far behind her, and Rocky stopped dead in his tracks. She stroked his balding neck, and urged him on. They had already done fifty miles, and both were ready to drop. There was no way they could cover the remaining thirty to Imladris, even if the horse was a good one. The trees would not hide them, but if she could get further ahead, perhaps they did not know she was there.

She kicked the gelding into a canter, and brought him painstakingly up into a gallop. The screams grew closer, but Rocky sped up. If there was one thing the horse could do right, it was knowing when something to be afraid of was near. Daeril soon heard the thunder of hooves approaching, and knew that her mount could never outrun the steeds of the black riders. She turned in the saddle, and could see three dark shapes in the moonlight. They would be on her within minutes.

"If you have any more to give, now is the time." She pleaded to the horse.

As if her words gave him strength, he sped up. For an hour they galloped full speed, and soon the sound of rushing water alerted Dearil that they had reached the Bruinen. The horse had galloped for ten miles in that time, and she could feel him breathing laboriously. At the edge of the ford, he began to jig and pull at the reins, trying to turn back from the sound of rushing water.

"Not now, not now!" She cried, kicking his sides. He charged forward.

The riders reached the edge of the river when Daeril and Rocky were half way across. The horse, terrified by the riders and the water, reared up, and with a terrible scream, flipped over backwards. It was so quick that Daeril hadn't realized she'd been dismounted until she was in the water, having fallen hard on the rocky shoals. She did not get up, both stunned from the fall and hoping the riders may think she was killed. The riders cried out once more into the night, and turned back the other way. She didn't get up until the sound of hooves died away.

Rising to her feet, aching all over but not otherwise injured, she went to the horse. He had gotten to his feet but was panting hard, bleeding from his nostrils. She caught his reins, and approached carefully, not wanting to scare him off. Checking him over for injury and finding no more than scrapes, she walked him across the ford, the both of them limping.

"I am sorry to have brought you into this," She said to him, stroking his sweat soaked neck. "You have served well, my Lord Rocky."

They camped that night at the throat of the valley. Rocky's breathing returned to normal, and he finally lay down beside her. She prayed he would still be alive in the morning.

Translation guide:

goheno nin- forgive me

Na lû e-govaned vîn- until next we meet

Novaer- farewell

Mellon nin- my friend

Chapter Text

Radir sprang to the road, bow drawn as the sound of hooves drew close. When the horse rounded the corner in the path into his view, he saw it bore no rider. The animal snorted, coming to a halt in front of him. It had been ridden hard, and bloody foam had crusted on its muzzle and neck. The elf held his hand aloft, daring the pitiful creature to approach. The gelding limped forward with trepidation, and breathed in the stranger's scent.

"Where is your rider?" He asked the animal in the common tongue. He knew the animal would not understand him regardless of the language he used, it was clearly not an elvish horse. The gelding limped off the path and began to graze in the grass. "I thought as much."

The horse was gone when Daeril finally awakened. It was unlike her to sleep through anything, let alone an animal of that size taking off. She wearily got to her feet, body aching all over from being thrown from the horse. Gathering what little strength she had left, she took to the path, following the tracks of her traitorous mount.

At daybreak she came upon three elves on horseback, guardsmen of Rivendell. A dark haired elf on a large grey horse came forward, right hand raised in greeting. She returned the hand signal, stopping in her path.

"Gi Suilon," Spoke the elf. "Istog peded edhellen?"

"Mae govannen," Daeril spoke. "Le chenion. Im Daeril Rýndirien."

"I am Radir," He spoke in the common tongue. "A lone horse came through at dawn. I assume you are the missing rider?"

"Aye, that would be me."

"What brings you to Rivendell, Dunadan?"

"I seek refuge. I was pursued for days by riders. They ambushed me last night and drove me in to the river before they turned away."

"Pursued? What for?"

"I do not know. They came to the Sarn Ford a fortnight ago, and slaughtered several of my people."

The elf's eyes widened.

"Come, I will bring you to Lord Elrond."

As with all things pertaining to elves, the Last Homely House had not changed since last Daeril had been there, nor had its master. Lord Elrond had always been welcoming to the Dunedain, however this surprise visit seemed to be bad tidings for him. Daeril recounted her tale, starting from the night of the attack on Sarn Ford. It was when she got to Bree that Elrond truly looked alarmed.

"Aragorn was not in Bree?"

"I did not see him, but we did not tarry there long. The black riders came the night before us, looking for someone called Baggins."

Elrond called to Radir, who stood waiting by the door, in Quenya. Daeril only knew a few words in the dialect, but the tone was all she needed to know that what she said was of great importance. Radir nodded, and left the room.

"Who are the riders? Or what are they?"

"They are the Nazgul. The nine kings. Do you know of them?"

"Of course, but… they are long dead."

"Neither living, nor dead. It was not for lack of strength or skill that none of you could defeat them."

The door opened, and Radir returned with a golden haired elf.

"Glorfindel," Elrond spun to greet him. "Gather your scouts. The nine know of the hobbit and his path. We must find him, and Aragorn."

The other elf nodded, and hastened from the room. Daeril did not understand what was so important about this hobbit, but now she understood why Sarn Ford, which was a direct inlet to the Shire, was so heavily guarded. What did the Nine Kings want with a lowly Halfling?

"My Lord, I would ride with Lord Glorfindel to find them, but my horse is in no condition to go." Daeril offered.

"No, you have ridden far enough. Stay here and rest. Our scouts will find them if they are to be found."

"Why is this halfling so important?" She had not meant to sound so harsh in asking, but having lost a great deal of friends to the Black Riders, she harbored some hard feelings for the hobbit.

"All will be revealed in due time. Go now, Radir will show you to your room."

Daeril kept to herself in Rivendell, mostly sleeping as she finally began to heal from the attack. Her broken arm was useable after a few days of more proper elvish healing, but she was still not fighting fit. There was no news of the outside world for some days, and none of the scouts had returned. That was until Mithrandir came unbidden to the House of Elrond, bearing ill tidings.

The wizard had been five days behind Daeril, reaching Sarn Ford to find the few rangers that remained. Against all odds, Thannor, the Watch Commander, had lived and rallied the other survivors to retake the Ford. The others were dead or the lucky ones, such as she, escaped elsewhere. He did not encounter the Black Riders until they attacked him at Amon Sul around the same time Daeril made her way through the Trollshaws. He was able to drive them away temporarily, but was forced to take a long route to Rivendell to avoid another encounter.

"All of our paths seem to be intertwined, and yet none of us have met upon the road," Gandalf stated, after hearing her record of events. "We can only hope that Glorfindel finds Aragorn and the hobbits before the Nazgul do."

"If I had known I would have not ridden straight for here. Now they know where they are heading."

Despite the elves' affirmations that Elrond's hospitality came without any charge, Daeril could not in conscience stay in Rivendell without paying back somehow. Ladrochan, the stable master, accepted the ranger's aid without complaint. Every morning and evening she fed the horses and cleaned the stables, then saw to the needs of the horse that had come with her from Bree.

The horse was gaining weight in the two weeks he had been in Rivendell, and starting to look far fairer than when he was bought. His coat was growing back where it had been rotted away from rain, and the wounds from flipping himself onto the rocky shoals of the river were mostly healed. Even his mane was beginning to grow enough that it didn't just stick straight up off his neck. Initially Daeril thought him to be an older horse, judging by his physical condition, but Ladrochan confirmed that he was a few years at most. Even his lameness that caused the unsightly paddling was due to poorly maintained feet, which Ladrochan also saw to.

"Watch yourself, or I may just start to like you," Daeril said to the gelding, leading him out to the pasture. He took off bucking and galloping to his new friends on the other side of the pasture once she let him go.

As she returned to the stables, the sound of hooves and bells came from up the path, heading towards her. Soon she could see two gray horses, one being led by a familiar rider.

"Daeril, take Asfaloth," Radir commanded. Daeril ran forward and seized the grey's reins. "I must return to my post. See to him and then come to the main house."

Asfaloth's hide was soaked with sweat, foam drying on his chest, but if he was exhausted he didn't show it. Daeril loosened his girth as they walked, and began unbuckling the breast plate. She tried not to hurry, but knowing that Glorfindel may have arrived set her adrenaline through the roof. Radir had a look of someone who was under stress, so the arrival very well wasn't a good one.

Asfaloth stood in his stall, letting her untack him without moving a single foot. There was something to be said about elvish horses and their perfect behavior. Certain that the horse had been adequately sponged down, brushed, and turned out, Daeril made for the main house.

Gandalf spotted her as soon as she entered the courtyard, and called her to his side.

"Aragorn will be here by nightfall. The hobbit was taken directly to the care of Elrond. They were attacked by the Nazgul and pursued some days ago."

"So they did make it!"

"Yes, more or less," He opened the door to the house of Elrond, Daeril following. "Go to the study and wait, I have asked for Aragorn to be sent there. He will need to know of the losses at Sarn Ford, I believe it best for him to hear it from you."

Chapter Text

The rangers shared a moment of grief for lost friends, but neither shared the burdens they both bore. Daeril knew her broken heart from a love lost too soon was not so important in the light of recent events. In time, she would give Faron the grieving that he deserved, but for now there were other matters to attend to.

"I left word with Mr. Butterbur at the Prancing Pony to pass you a message… did he not do so?"

"If there is one word of advice that I can give you, far too late, it is to never trust a message with Barliman Butterbur."

"I will remember that, for next time." Daeril laughed. "Will the hobbit be alright?"

"I do not know. He was stabbed by a Morgul blade."

Daeril did not know what that meant, but it did not sound promising for the hobbit.

"Poison?"

"In a way, but not so simple as poison. I will tell you more, but first I must check on Frodo."

"Go. I've held you up long enough."

They parted ways, Daeril heading back to the stables, mind buzzing with questions. There was a new arrival in the barn, a chestnut pony, filthy and loaded with gear. Daeril nearly jumped, startled, as two hobbits emerged from behind the pony.

"Hullo!" A sandy haired hobbit greeted her. "Are you an elf?"

Daeril laughed. Save for her height, nothing about her looked remotely elvish.

"No, I'm no elf."

"Are you one of Strider's folk?" The other hobbit asked.

"I am his kin, yes," She said. "My name is Daeril."

"I am Peregrin Took," The sandy haired one said with a slight bow. "This is my cousin, Meriadoc Brandybuck."

The darker haired hobbit nodded in greeting.

Without being asked, Daeril unloaded the pony's packs from his back. The poor thing looked half starved, much as her own horse had.

"Do you live here?" The one called Meriadoc asked.

"No, I'm just passing through. There are few places friendly to us ranger types, Rivendell is one of them."

"Where are you from?" Asked Peregrin.

"Same place as you. The outskirts, at least. I patrolled outside of Buckland for seven years. Recently I have been at the Ford south of the Shire."

"There are rangers near Buckland? I have lived there all my life and never seen any big people!" Meriadoc looked genuinely shocked.

"We are everywhere. Not being discovered means we are doing our job well."

Ladrochan entered the stables, accompanied by Lindir, one of Elrond's advisors, to collect the hobbits. Daeril bid the two inquisitive newcomers farewell, and continued to attend to their pony. Ladrochan stayed to help.

"He fares as poorly as yours did." Ladrochan stroked the chestnut's nose. The pony was mild tempered, and stood completely still as Daeril attended to him. "Bree does not have the same care for their mounts as in days past, it appears."

"Things haven't been going well in Bree for some time," Daeril recalled the fight with the Southerners that had led to her move to the Ford. "I believe things will keep getting worse."

"What have you seen?"

"Men from the South. More and more every time I pass through. I don't know what they come for, but they are up to something."

The pony fell asleep where he stood in the barn aisle, a hind foot cocked upward and his muzzle near the ground. The ranger ran her fingers through his thick golden mane, pulling out brambles that had settled in.

"There are many things being set into motion. I fear the North isn't safe from the shadow in the East much longer." Said the elf.

"Does the Halfling have anything to do with it?"

"I cannot say, for I do not know." Ladrochan took the pony by the halter. "Go now, I will tend to this fellow."

Aragorn was a hard man to find, and Daeril did not get any kind of explanation from him for some days. She found herself more often alone with the horses, or speaking to Ladrochan and other elves. Four days after being brought to the care of Elrond, word came that the Hobbit, Frodo Baggins, had awoken. Preparations were underway, soon after the news broke out, for a feast to celebrate victory against the Nazgul at the Ford of Bruinen. Daeril offered to help with preparations, but the elves refused to put a guest to work, as per usual. Instead, she worked on getting her horse ready for whenever she would leave Rivendell.

Daeril had not ridden her new mount since arriving, giving him time to recover from their arduous journey and his various hurts. The last she had ridden him, he had thrown her off in fear of the black riders, and she was in no rush to get thrown again. However, if she wanted to make it home in one piece then he would have to be fit to be ridden.

The horse had filled in nicely in his stay in Rivendell, and looked like a true riding horse. He wasn't as big as her horse back home, but not as small as a pony by any means. He was built for speed, not power. He stood still as she hopped up into the saddle, but began moving forward the moment she sat down, as he tended to do. She pulled back on the reins, and as usual the horse threw his head in the air before coming to a halt.

Ignoring his bad habits, she rode off down the path towards a small bridge over the river. There would be bridges and rivers to cross to get anywhere from Imladris, and he needed to get over his fear. The elven refuge was peaceful and beautiful, yet the horse seemed to be the only living thing that was not in a state of serenity. He walked quickly, head in the air and blowing at every little noise and blowing leaf. Daeril tried to stay calm and relaxed, but found herself focusing more on keeping the animal's head going straight and herself in the saddle. They came soon to the small bridge, this one thankfully having rails on the sides, and she brought him to a halt.

Taking a deep breath, trying her hardest to physically show her mount that everything was safe, she had him walk again. He walked forward, ears forward and alert, neck arched. They crossed the threshold onto the smooth stone, the hoof falls sounding against the hard surface.

"Good boy," She said, stroking his neck.

He took one more step, tensed up, and then bolted. Daeril nearly went flying out of the saddle, but saved herself at the last second by leaning onto his neck and holding on. He stopped as soon as they reached the other side, dancing in place and snorting.

The sound of fine elvish laughter sounded nearby, and Radir appeared around the bend in the trail upon his grey mare, Lossen.

"You saw that?" Daeril asked, laughing herself.

"Yes, it was quite entertaining. Thank you."

"Glad to be of service," She had successfully calmed the horse to a standstill.

"I was coming to find you, coincidentally. I have just seen the sons of Elrond and a man entering the gates. If I am not mistaken, it is your brother."

"Can you bring me to them?" She exclaimed, heart pounding in excitement. Nobody had heard from them for so long that she had begun to fear the worst.

Thankfully, after his short outburst, Rocky had settled down and followed Radir and his mount without hesitation. It was an hours' ride to the outer gate, and the elf and woman rode in silent companionship. Radir could see the three riders before Daeril could, but soon she recognized the three figures. Elladan and Elrohir, both dark haired and resembling their father, and her own brother, tall, strong, and bald as ever. She hid a smirk as the sun gleamed off his head, remembering how the other rangers had often referred to him as "The Beacon of Arnor". Even with a lack of hair, there was no denying the similarities between the brother and sister. The two parties converged on the path, and exchanged greetings. Daeril took a deep breath, waiting for the onslaught of anger from her brother.

"What are you doing here, Daeril? Why have you abandoned your post?

"It was not willingly," She said, wishing that their greeting could have been a happier reunion. "There is much to speak of, brother."

The five riders headed to the courtyard outside the main house, tying the horses to the hitching rail. Daeril went to collect the horses to bring them to the stables, but Daenir stopped her.

"Come with us, Daeril."

Radir nodded a farewell to Daeril, and stayed with the horses as she followed behind her brother and the sons of Elrond. Aragorn came running from the front entrance, meeting the group before they entered the house.

"My brothers, your arrival is unexpected," He greeted.

"It appears we have come home at a busy time," Elladan said. "To what occasion do we owe this feast?"

It was late when Daeril finally made it to the Hall of Fire, and the feast hand ended. She had met with the sons of Elrond and Aragorn, and then been interrogated by her brother for what felt like hours. She hadn't the desire to eat any of the feast leftovers, but wine was sounding quite a necessity. Reliving the entire ordeal at the Ford and her journey to Rivendell was especially difficult in telling her own brother. He had been angry, at first that she had disobeyed direct orders by leaving her post, but the circumstances were dire and he forgave her. Thinking about Faron, however, was too much.

At Daenir's bidding, she at least made an appearance in the Hall, grabbing a glass of wine while she made a walk around the perimeter of the room. Nobody stopped to talk to her, thankfully, so she was able to easily slip out onto one of the porches unnoticed after grabbing a second helping of wine. The Hall had grown hot with the fires blazing and the crowd, so the cool autumn air was a welcome relief. Daeril stood at the railing, looking out over the waterfalls below. She stiffened as someone moved into place next to her some time later.

"You will not join in the merry making, mellon nin?" Radir said with what could be construed as a smirk.

"This is my contribution," She said, taking another swig of the smooth elvish wine.

"An excellent choice."

Daeril laughed. The wine did not taste strong, but already its affects could be felt. It had been some time since she had last drank, and she wondered if her tolerance had lessened.

"Do you wish to be alone?" Radir asked.

"No," Daeril replied. "Your presence is welcome, friend."

"Good!" The elf brought forth a bottle of wine. "I prefer to drink under the stars, as well."

The two companions were soon joined by more elves, and they drank and told stories and sang songs as the celebration continued inside. The Dorwinion wine was strong for even the elves, and Daeril found herself going quickly from happy and talkative, to extremely sleepy. She soon drifted off to the sound of an elf maid singing a song of sea birds and ships in a harbor.

It was not yet dawn when Daeril awoke, still on the porch, laying on a bench with her cloak draped over her. She sat up, feeling the effects of the wine in the throbbing of her head and the sudden recoil of her stomach. There were still soft voices speaking and singing in the hall, but it appeared most of everyone had long since retired. Knowing she would not be able to get back to sleep, even if she went to her own bed, she made her way to the stables to begin the days' work. There were more horses and ponies, due to the arrivals of a band of dwarves and other elves, doubling the amount of work that needed doing.

"You are awake early," Ladrochan said, leading one of the dwarves' hardy ponies to the pasture. Daeril grabbed the next one and followed. She wasn't sure her mumbled response was even any language of man or elf.

One of the guards came riding up upon a large gray mare, with neither a bridle or saddle.

"Prince Legolas Thranduillon has arrived," The guard announced, dismounting and handing the reins over to Ladrochan.

"What is going on?" Daeril asked Ladrochan as they walked the prince's horse into the stable. "Hobbits, the prince from Mirkwood, dwarves?"

"Lord Elrond is holding a council this morning. I do not know more than that."

Naturally, Daeril had not been clued in to the nature of the council, and it went on ahead without her while she worked in the stable. At some point in the morning the sky turned dark, and fearing a storm coming she ran to start bringing the horses in to shelter. Within moments, the sky was its normal blue. Whatever was going on at the meeting, she was unsure she wanted anything to do with it.

Chapter Text

The young ranger was awakened by an annoying nudging in her side. When she groggily opened her eyes, realizing she had fallen asleep in the hay, her brother was softly kicking her in the ribs.

"Wake up," Daenir ordered, laughing. "Did you sleep here all night?"

"No," Daeril groaned. "I woke up on a porch."

"Did the elves drink you under the table?"

"Aye, you could say that." Daeril got to her feet, brushing hay off of her clothing as best she could.

"Elrond is sending scouts out to look for the Nazgul. I am to go with them, and I need a horse."

"Are you asking for mine?"

"Arraben is sore-backed. If you would be willing to loan me your noble steed I would be so ever grateful, dearest sister."

Rocky was a handful, and had been through a harrowing journey with her to get to Rivendell. Daeril pondered whether letting her brother ride him on a scouting mission was really the best of plans. She knew he loved horses, more so than she ever did, and would take the best care he possibly could.

"You may take him. I trust you enough not to let anything happen to him, do not disappoint me."

Aragorn readied Roheryn next to Rocky, the stallion standing much more nicely than the flighty gelding. Daeril brushed Rocky down as Daenir gathered his saddle and bags.

"I can come with you, if you need me." Daeril proposed to her chieftain.

"Lord Elrond has asked you to remain behind," Aragorn explained. "Misters Brandybuck and Took may need an escort back to the Shire, which would be you."

"The other two won't be going back?"

"Frodo and Sam will be going on a different journey," He was acting suspicious, again. Daeril always knew when he was withholding information. "We will know more in the coming weeks."

The horses were led out to the stable yard, where Elrohir and Elladan were already mounted and ready. Daeril held Rocky in place as her brother got on. The horse pinned his ears, clearly unhappy with his much bigger new rider.

"He does not like bridges," She told Daenir. "Or being tied. Treat him well, brother."

"I will," He took the reins. "Novaer."

"Faro vae."

Daeril watched the party retreat until she could no longer see them down the path, before turning back to the stables. Their would be more scouts leaving, and the horses needed attending to.

Time always seemed to stand still in Imladris, and yet sped by all the same. By the beginning of December, the scouts started to come back in small parties, reporting very little save for bodies of the black horses found drowned in the river. The hobbits were enjoying their stay, and the company of the Elves, and of course Bilbo, who despite his age was always up for a song or a story for anyone who would listen.

With most of the horses gone away, Daeril had little to do in the stables, and thus far too much time on her hands for her liking. She had taken to exercising Elrond's personal horse, a large black stallion called Belroch. The stallion was impeccably well trained, but sitting sedentary in a pasture and stall for so long had caused him to develop bad habits, such as chewing his stall walls and the wooden fences. Daeril would ride him out to the near gate and back almost every day, bareback most of the time, to stretch his legs and mind. Every day she would ask for news of her brother's return with Radir at the gate, but the weeks went by with no sign of him, nor Aragorn and the sons of Elrond. Years of experience told her there was nothing to worry about, that all of them could hold their own in the wild, but still she had a nagging thought in her mind that the worst could happen.

"A fine animal you have there,"

Daeril looked down at the source of the voice, and saw none other than the Lord Boromir of Gondor, sitting on a garden bench outside of the guest houses. He had kept very much to himself since being in Rivendell, and Daeril had only seen him in passing since his arrival.

"Lord Boromir," She said with a slight bow of her head. "This is Belroch, he belongs to the Lord of Rivendell."

"He suits you well," Boromir smiled. "You are a kinswoman of Aragorn, are you not?"

"I am. My name is Daeril, daughter of Rýndir."

"Well met. You are sister to Daenir, then?"

"Indeed. You know him?" She asked, realizing that Boromir had only just arrived after Daenir had left.

"Daenir served under my brother in Ithilien for some years. A good man."

"You just missed him, I am afraid. He left with Aragorn and the scouts."

Not one for conversation, Daeril wanted to continue back to the stables, but did not wish to be rude to a visiting dignitary from Gondor. Especially one that knew her family.

"We must speak more of this," Boromir said. "Will you be dining in the main house tonight, Daeril? I have not had much conversation since I've been here."

Agreeing to meet for the evening meal, Daeril parted ways with the Steward's son. With Aragorn and Daenir gone, she was the only other of their race in all of Imladris, and speaking to the immortal and beautiful elves could be quite exhausting.

Boromir and Daeril had supper on one of the porches, watching the early winter sun setting as they talked. Boromir told of his journey to Imladris, and losing his horse to a river current, having to trek the rest of the way on foot from Tharbad. When he finished his tale, Daeril recounted hers for seemingly the hundredth time. Her own brother at first hadn't believed that she had been chased by more than one wraith and survived, claiming it was no more than a fever induced hallucination. Glorfindel's account from scouting afterwards backed up her claims.

"It is odd how many of us were all drawn to this place at the same time," Boromir said. "How did you know to come here?"

"I was looking for Aragorn. I knew he would eventually come here, however I did not know I was days ahead of him. What brought you here?"

"My father was going to send my brother, Faramir, but I took his place. We both had a dream, telling us to seek Imladris."

"Why here?"

"Seek for the sword that was broken. The Shards of Narsil."

"Aragorn has always carried them with him," Daeril said. "You were at the Council, were you not?"

"I was, yes. You know what it was about, I presume?"

"I have heard rumors, but I dared not ask. Isildurs Bane is in Rivendell?"

"Aye. The hobbit, Frodo, bears it. Lord Elrond has set him on a quest to bring it to Mordor."

"That is a suicide mission if I have ever heard of one. Who will go with him?"

"The other hobbit, Sam? I do not know. I for one will be returning to Gondor, so may accompany them part of the way. I wish they would consider bringing it to Gondor."

Daeril did not say anything. She wasn't even aware the ring had been found, thinking it to have been lost forever when Isildur fell. There were many things that she did not know, nor did she wish to know, let alone be involved in.

Aragorn returned some weeks later, unaccompanied. Daenir had gone off with some of the other rangers, and the sons of Elrond were on a mission of their own. At first, Daeril had been worried when her brother failed to appear, but then when she had been informed of his relative safety she became angry that he had left her with no horse.

"If I am to accompany the halflings to the Shire, I no longer have a horse." Daeril tried not to sound too annoyed as she hinted her predicament to Aragorn.

"I will speak to Lord Elrond. If you are still escorting them, I can lend you Roheryn."

"Then you won't have a horse."

"I have no need."

They reached the main house, still early for the evening meal. Aragorn paused, before turning to go towards Elrond's study.

"I will send for you when I know more."

Boromir spotted the female ranger speaking with Aragorn, who appeared to have just arrived from scouting. What news did he bring? When would they finally be on the road for Gondor? He could ask the girl, of course. She did not seem to mind his company, and he very much enjoyed hers from the few times they had spoken together. Often she was off in the stables, and he would sometimes watch from afar as she would send them around and around in circles with naught but hand motions and sometimes rope.

"Daeril?"

"My Lord Boromir," She said with a slight head nod and her hand on her breast, as the elves always greeted eachother.

"Would you care to join me for a walk?"

"It would be my honor," She smiled.

He didn't really know where to walk, but now he had asked her and had to make it look like he knew what he was doing. Why was going into battle so much easier than talking to women? Daeril knew much of the world, and the wild, so talking to her should not have been more intimidating than the more beautiful ladies of Minas Tirith. No, it wasn't that they were more beautiful than her, he thought, Daeril had a different sort of beauty. A wildness, and strength. She was too tall and muscular too ever look natural in silks and jewels, and her hair was just long and tame enough to not be completely mistaken for a man, but her eyes. Boromir.

"My lord? Boromir?"

"Yes?" He came back to the present, hoping he had not been staring too much.

"You were telling me about the mumak?"

"Yes, sorry,"

He dove back into recounting the memory he had of Daenir, ten years or so prior. The older ranger had come across one of the massive beasts while patrolling in Ithilien, and somehow lived to tell the tale. When he had come back with some of the other rangers, the beast was gone but a much smaller deer had taken its place.

"He never told me that one!" Daeril laughed. "I'm not sure I would want to be near one, but what a sight that would be."

They had crossed the main bridge, and looped around to come back over one of the other river crossings heading back to the Last Homely House.

"Have you any strange beasts in the North?" Boromir asked.

"Just wolves, but they don't bother us much. We had one that came to my village when I was young, every single day. She would eat with the dogs, and had pups in one of the stables. Half wolves. My father kept one as a hunting dog, Maluon he was called. Pale gold fur, and the yellowest eyes."

"He must have been a loyal dog."

"He wasn't. He decided he didn't like life in the wild and stayed in the village getting fed. Lived to a ripe old age, but fat as anything."

They reached the house, just in time for Erestor to come looking for the both of them.

December 25

The Fellowship of the Ring, nine companions, set out from Rivendell at nightfall on the 25th of December. The air was frigid, and Daeril could see her breath in white puffs as she stood with elves of the household under the dim light of the front porches. Aragorn had the newly reforged sword Anduril at his hip, made of the shards of Narsil, but other than that he and his companions had little of arms or armor. Their mission was one of stealth, going into the wilderness under cover of darkness. Daeril was relieved to not be bringing the two halflings back to the Shire, and to not be joining the men on their journey. It was cold and miserable out there, and Rivendell was warm.

Elrond spoke to the fellowship, and then they slowly turned and left. There were quiet goodbyes from all gathered, and they all watched until they could be seen no more. At that, Elrond returned to the house and the rest followed.

Chapter Text

The winter was mild in the valley of Rivendell, the cold air giving rise to frost in the morning and foggy evenings, but no snow fell in the bounds of the valley. By February, the rangers started to come to the House of Elrond, bearing very little news other than wishing to come in from the cold. Daenir returned with two other rangers and Halbarad, Aragorn's second in command. Daenir seemed all too eager to return his borrowed horse back to Daeril, and the horse happy to be back in the stables.

"I expected you would be gone," He said to his sister, embracing her.

"Nay, the halflings all left together. And Aragorn, and Mithrandir."

"So they finally left. I wish them good fortune. The wolves are prowling through the mountains, it is a dangerous time to travel."

"Wolves do not often approach people. Especially groups, I believe they are safe."

"These aren't the shire wolves you know, they are far bigger and bolder."

"They should be far south by now, they left over a month ago."

By mid month, thirty Dunedain were gathered in Imladris at the bidding of Halbarad. Not nearly half of their kinsmen were present, but no more could be bidden to come. They were summoned to the Hall of Fire, the mostly dark haired mortals so contrasted with the fair elves, save for Elladan and Elrohir who could easily pass for one of them if not for their inhuman beauty. Daeril delighted in reuniting with cousins long unseen, and Aeldis whom she had feared slain after parting ways but was very much alive and well.

Thannor had come from Sarn Ford, along with Gilon and Hador. Daeril fought back tears when she greeted Hador, who had been with Faron as he was slain. She had tried to block out every memory of that night, and tried to forget his face, but Hador brought it all back. The two young rangers embraced, neither one having known each-others fates until now. Aeldis had not returned to the Ford following their escape, but had reached the Angle and remained there until Aragorn and Daenir came and rallied rangers to search for the Nazgul. Now some summons had brought all that could be found to Imladris, to the House of Elrond.

Halbarad spoke to the gathering, the firelight from the many fireplaces surrounding the room glinting off of the silver, many-rayed star on his cloak, the same one every ranger in the room wore pinning their matching grey cloaks on their left shoulders. Not often did so many of them gather all at once, and it was a sight to behold, even in so wondrous a place as Rivendell. They were to ride out at dawn, south to the Gap of Rohan, and onward to find Aragorn and lend him whatever strength of arms he required. Many of the rangers were old, and some quite young, but all were fighting fit and had more than enough heart to carry them through whatever toils they may encounter. Elladan and Elrohir would also ride with them, as they often did.

Daeril rose well before dawn, helping to ready the horses. Arraben's back had recovered, and would once again bear Daenir son of Rýndir. Rocky was sour as usual at being roused from his slumber, but allowed Daeril to brush him down all the same. When dawn came, 33 horses and 32 riders set out from Imladris, bound for Rohan, and their leader. They had spears and swords and bows, and every last one of them knew how to wield at least two. Most wore helms, and all wore some form of armor. Daeril had managed to procure a mail shirt and leather pieces from the guard supply thanks to her friendship with Radir. It was heavy, but not unbearable. A helm she kept tied to the rear of her saddle, knowing it could be needed but not wanting the metal blocking her vision as they rode. To the saddle horn was tied a long lead, attached to Roheryn's halter. The stallion would be brought for Aragorn, and as he and Rocky did not fight, Daeril had the distinct honor of wrangling him the entire way.

The weather held out for the departure from Rivendell, but it was cold in the mountains and nightfall brought a light snowfall with it. Wanting to make it to the Gap of Rohan sooner, the Gray Company, so named by Lord Elrond as they all wore gray cloaks, road without rest through the day and night. The horses, hardy and well taken care of, did not falter even as the miles stretched on. The snow ended as they passed into Hollin on the afternoon of the third day. They set up camp, resting the horses so they could press on into another multi-day ride. There had been sightings of wolves far off, but none approached as they camped in a grove of barren holly trees. Nevertheless, the company kept watches of two throughout the night as the others slept.

They continued like this through all of Hollin, passing into Dunland by weeks end. Dunland was already turning green in the late winter/early spring, and the hills rolled on seemingly forever. The company knew these lands were home to wildlings, the Hill Men they called them, or Dunlendings. Their loyalty was to themselves and possibly to the wizard Saruman in Isengard, who offered protection in exchange for their service in battle. The well armed and trained Dunedain could very well win in an attack by a small band of Dunlendings, but if there were more they could also be easily taken down. The Dunlendings were known to use poison arrows and other nasty methods of inflicting certain death on their enemies. They passed close to a small village at one point, spotting small houses made of wood and skins, but the cover of dim dawn light, stealth, and great haste brought them well away from the area and to relative safety.

They stopped one last time for a rest a days ride from the Gap of Rohan. From there they would continue on over the River Isen and into the plains of Rohan, where they would search for Aragorn wherever he may be. They had been given names of strongholds and cities, such as the Hornburg and Helm's Deep, and Edoras, and would check them as they came to them. This night they had the cover of a small forest, but did not light any fires for risk of drawing attention from any wildlings that may be in the same woods. Daeril took the first watch with Halbarad. They sat in the outskirts of the camp, back to back so as to see either side of the woods. Halbarad had always been further into the wild than Daeril ever had been posted, so she had never spent much time with him. It had been several years since she had last seen him, although he hadn't changed much. He had always been contemplative and stern, but warmhearted and dedicated. Reasons he had been the most trusted by Aragorn to lead them in his absences.

"You have changed much since I last saw you, Rýndirien." He said quietly in Sindarin, of which Daeril was sometimes far more comfortable speaking than Westron. "You look more like your father than even your brother."

"Aye. My father was not bald."

Halbarad snorted, trying to remain quiet.

"He always hoped you would be like your mother. You have her smile, but everything else is Rýndir."

Daeril had not known her mother. She had been somewhat old already when she gave birth, and died mere days later of some ailment, possibly her heart. All she had of her mother was what others told her of her, but even that was not enough to have any type of connection with her. She had always been attached to her father, begging him to take her on his patrols and riding in front of him on his horses every time he would leave, only to be left behind in the village to wait for his return. Until the day he didn't come back, and Aragorn came to her grandfather bearing Rýndir's sword wrapped within his gray cloak. She had been but seven years old, and did not fully understand why he was not there with his Chieftain. Soon she knew that he would never come home again. Daenir had been thirty when it happened, and was off in the far North, unaware of what had transpired until Aragorn himself brought him back to the village. He was given his father's sword, and the burden of becoming the guardian to a child that was not his, but a young sister born into a world on the brink of war.

"I do not wish to see women in battle, but I am honored to fight beside you, and Aeldis, if it comes to it. Your brother did well with you, from what I have been told."

"If I am to die in battle, than so be it. I do not wish to die, but if there is another life beyond this, I will be in good company."

"I was told of your friendship with Faron. I grieve for your loss."

Daeril did not wish to speak any more on the subject, and Halbarad did not push it further. They sat in comfortable silence, hearing the soft breathing of the other rangers and the call of night birds in the treetops, until Elladan and Daenir came to relieve them. Daeril, knowing this could be the last chance to rest for some days as they would reach Rohan, could not stay her minds wanderings long enough to drift off to sleep. She lay with her eyes shut, yet regretfully awake, until the sun crept up on the horizon and the last watch woke the entire company. They all mounted, and were away to the Gap of Rohan, eager to be closer to finding their Chieftain.

The Grey Company passed through the Gap of Rohan at evening fall, and late into the evening came to the Ford of Isen. It was dark, but the horses could still hear the water going through the Ford. Not deep, but moving nonetheless. Daeril could feel Rocky stiffen as they galloped across, but he did not shy or make any attempt to throw her. She hoped it was an improvement in him and not just the influence of the stallion that ran beside them. The company rode in 3 ranks of 10 riders across, making a well ordered company. Daeril rode in the front line, having two of the fastest horses, and used all of her control to keep them in line as they galloped at full speed. Daeril thought she saw something glinting in the moonlight far up ahead, and her suspicions were confirmed when a loud voice rang out in the night shouting in Westron.

"Halt! Halt! Who rides in Rohan?"

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Halbarad called the company to a halt, and the pounding of hooves turned into dead silence. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Daeril could see shapes of men and horses, in a company no bigger than their own. Halbarad dismounted his mare, and went forward with a palm held forward in a sign of peace.

"Rohan? Rohan did you say?" He called out. "That is a glad word. We seek that land in haste from long afar."

"You have found it," Said a strange accented voice, the one that had cried out initially. "When you crossed the fords yonder you entered it. But it is the realm of Théoden the King. None ride here save by his leave. Who are you? And what is your haste?"

"Halbarad Dúnadan, Ranger of the North I am. We seek one Aragorn son of Arathorn, and we heard that he was in Rohan."

"And you have found him also!" A figure ran forward, embracing Halbarad. "Halbarad! Of all joys this is the least expected!"

Daeril could not hear what else was said, as the two went back to the other company and spoke, most likely to the King if he rode with them. It was not long until they returned, Aragorn on a proud gray horse, and they took to the back of the company where rode the sons of Elrond. At Aragorn's command they rode on behind the riders of Rohan, heading for the stronghold of Helm's Deep.

The gray morning had come by the time they rode up through what they soon found to be the Deeping Coomb, and onward to the Hornburg. The rangers set camp on the green, told that they would be brought food and could rest for some hours before setting out again. Aragorn went forth into the Burg, bringing with him Halbarad, Elladan and Elrohir, leaving them to their own governance. Thannor took charge, ensuring everyone ate and attempted to rest. Daeril saw to Rocky and Roheryn, giving them the first good hay since Rivendell, provided graciously by the Rohirrim (who loved horses almost more than themselves, it seemed). After ensuring their comfort, and taking a small meal for herself, she lay down for some semblance of sleep.

It was almost noon when she arose, not feeling much more refreshed than if she had just stayed awake, but the sun and noise of many soldiers bustling around made it difficult to sleep even if there were time. The rangers had already begun getting ready to ride, but to where they did not yet know, save that the Rohirrim were taking to Minas Tirith. Daeril collected Rocky and Roheryn, replacing Roheryn's halter with his bridle instead, now that Aragorn would certainly be riding him. She mounted her own horse, and then grabbed Roheryn's reins before he could walk off, not that he would.

"My old friend there seems to be behaving himself," Daenir said, riding up on Arraben.

"That is because he actually likes me, brother."

Daenir laughed as he rode back to his place in the formation. The rest of the rangers finished mounting up, and they all held position in relative silence while they waited for their leaders to return. It was past noon when finally Aragorn came through the broken gate, just one of the many casualties of the battle that had recently transpired. With him walked the golden haired Lord Éomer, the King's nephew as they had been told, and Halbarad and the sons of Elrond. Behind Aragorn was Legolas son of Thranduil and the dwarf that had gone with them from Rivendell, but whose name Daeril had forgotten. Aragorn went to speak to the King of Rohan, who was mounted on his large grey horse next to a child on a little pony. It took her a moment to realize that the child was in fact one of the Halflings, but she could not tell if it was the Brandybuck or the Took, especially now that he was in Rohirric armor.

With a loud cry in the language of the Rohirrim, Théoden started to ride and the riders of Rohan took off, even the hobbit on his pony. The hooves thundered into the distance, and the green suddenly felt much bigger with so many bodies gone. Aragorn and Halbarad, followed by Legolas and the dwarf, went out to the Dike to look out upon the riders leaving the coomb, and spoke well out of earshot. They went back into the Burg, leaving the rest of them once again to wait, but Halbarad returned to his horse bearing the large standard he had brought from Imladris, the black fabric on top bound with leather cord.

"We ride through the Paths of the Dead," Halbarad stated to the lot of them. "Muster your courage, Dunedain. We need it."

Finally after a long and silent wait, the three emerged onto the green, Aragorn brandishing Andúril aloft. The elf and dwarf mounted a gray horse together, while Aragorn came to take Roheryn from Daeril. He looked surprised that she was there, but not displeased. When he had sprung onto the stallion's saddle, he clucked to him and went up to the front of the formation. With a great blast of his horn, Halbarad rallied the Grey Company to set forth, and with great noise they galloped full tilt down through the Coomb, and onward to the plains of Rohan.

As always, they rode through the night, and into the afternoon of the next day when they reached Edoras, where they came to the Golden Hall where stood the throne of Théoden King. The city was empty save for animals left behind and those who had dared come back through after the battle at Helm's Deep and who were not riding for Gondor, and the company ate lunch while stray dogs circled them in the hall, begging for any scraps that might be spared. Their respite was quick, and then they were set out once more, bound for Dunharrow, which would bring them to the entrance of the Paths of the Dead

Up through the valley rode the Company, with great haste and purpose. Evening fell as they came to Dunharrow, bringing a cloudless sky and stars as far as the eye could see. Daeril had thought her home to be beautiful, in the rolling fields of Bree and the green forest bordering the Shire- but that was nothing compared to the vast openness of the plains of Rohan and the mountain pass that they found themselves in now. Up they rode into the encampment under the mountain pass, and came to be greeted by a golden-haired woman dressed in white. She was young, and beautiful, but also had a stern edge to her. She took them all in in awe, but only truly had eyes for Aragorn. Daeril held in laughter as she realized the poor girl was completely smitten by their leader, despite him being far older than he looked.

They sat down to supper with the Lady of Rohan, whom was introduced to them as being Éowyn, sister of Éomer and niece of Théoden. Ever her attention was on Aragorn as he and the elf and dwarf recounted their side of the battle at Helm's Deep and the great deeds done by her uncle.

"Lords, you are weary and shall now go to your beds with such ease that can be contrived in haste. But tomorrow fairer housing shall be found for you." She said.

"Nay, lady, be not troubled for us!" Aragorn replied. "If we may lie here tonight and break our fast tomorrow, it will be enough. For I ride on an errand most urgent, and with the first light of morning we must go."

The two spoke more of their travel plans, but something did not sit right with the lady. They became silent as everyone finished the meal, Éowyn's eyes never straying from Aragorn, until all present rose to retire. Daeril and Aeldis took a small tent for their own, barely getting their armor off before they were off to sleep in the first somewhat comfortable lodgings they'd had in many a week.

Before dawn they were awoken by Thannor at the entrance of the tent, bidding them arise and ready for the ride. Daeril readied both Rocky and Roheryn out of habit, although Aragorn was more than willing and able to tack his own horse. He came to mount Roheryn, but just as he did the Lady Éowyn approached bearing a cup of what looked to be wine, and dressed as if to travel with them. She even had a sword at her hip. She lifted the glass and toasted to them, taking a sip before offering it to Aragorn. He took it, drinking some before handing it back.

"'Farewell, Lady of Rohan! I drink to the fortunes of your House, and of you, and of all your people. Say to your brother: beyond the shadows we may meet again!"

This close to Éowyn, Daeril could see just how young she was, perhaps only a bit younger than herself. At Aragorn's words the girl wept, trying to hide the tears that threatened to fall on such a proud yet beautiful face. It was the same look she herself had when the rangers would ride away, when she was far too young to go. A heart that wants adventure, or glory, or love, cannot be stopped by someone telling them no.

"Aragorn, wilt thou go?" Éowyn asked, pleading evident in her voice.

"I will."

"Then wilt thou not let me ride with this company, as I have asked?"

"I will not, lady," Aragorn said. 'For that I could not grant without leave of the king and of your brother; and they will not return until tomorrow. But I count now every hour, indeed every minute. Farewell!"

The lady, in a moment of desperation, fell to her knees. Daeril's heart clenched, and she had to look away. It was not fair that she could not ride, she was willing- and will was all it took. Women could do just as much as men, but often did not have the chance to prove themselves. Daeril had been lucky, to have been raised not as a Lady of the court, to have been given the freedom to choose to wield a sword, and live in the wild. Éowyn was expected to be a lady, proper and tame.

"Nay, lady," Aragorn said as a final word. He brought to her feet, and kissed her pale hand.

When Aragorn was in the saddle, the Company took off, leaving Éowyn to guard her people as they set out for whatever doom the Paths of the Dead beheld for them.

It was dark already, as the sun had not fully risen, but the mountain ahead, the Dwimorberg, was dark regardless. Daeril could feel the hair at the back of her neck and on her arms standing on end, even as she rode surrounded by her kinsmen. It felt as though they were being watched, but all that surrounded them was dark shapes of black stones and trees. They soon came to a clearing with a single, large stone pointing up to the sky. Daeril had never felt such dread, not since her encounter with the wraiths in Eriador, until now. Part of her thought about turning her horse around and going back to enjoy a nice cup of ale by the fire with the Lady Éowyn. That would be nice. No, she had to continue on and follow Aragorn, and he would not back down from entering a haunted mountain.

"My blood runs chill," The dwarf, whom Daeril now knew was named Gimli, said- voicing what they all were feeling.

Those who rode ahead of her's horses began to shy, and she felt Rocky threatening to bolt or rear beneath her. Swiftly she dismounted, and brought his reins down over his head lest he decide to follow through with his plans. She spoke softly to him, caressing his cheek, hoping if she remained calm that he would too. Everyone else dismounted, knowing the horses would not pass this stone on their own. They all led their horses past the stone, Daeril making sure to block Rocky's vision from it by keeping it to her left. Soon they came to a sheer rock face on the mountain, and the blackness of the Dark Door, a menacing arch carved with old symbols that none could read, and there they halted.

"This is an evil door," Said Halbarad. "and my death lies beyond it. I will dare to pass it nonetheless; but no horse will enter."

"But we must go in, and therefore the horses must go too," Aragorn said. 'For if ever we come through this darkness, many leagues lie beyond, and every hour that is lost there will bring the triumph of Sauron nearer. Follow me!"

Aragorn rushed forward into the darkness of the mountain, Roheryn following beside him. Daeril followed after Thannor and Daenir, whose horses went without fuss. She expected Rocky to choose now to do something dramatic, and either leave her injured or embarassed as he ran off, but he came along into the darkness with her. Finally, when all had passed into the mountain, Aragorn brought out a torch, which Halbarad helped to light. Elladan, taking up the rear sweep, had another. The company began to move forward, into the darkness.

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The company walked ever forward, rallied on by Aragorn's seeming lack of fear, even as strange whispers surrounded them in the deafening silence. Daeril could not understand any words, if they were actual words, and wondered if she really heard anything or if fear had her imagining things. She focused on breathing slowly, in and out, trying to quell the overwhelming feeling of dread. Rocky's stiffening next to her did not help. Eventually the narrow path, framed by stone walls on either side, opened up into an open, dark space. Aragorn stopped, his torch alighting a flicker of gold off to the side of the path. He branched off to investigate it, Elladan coming ahead with the other torch. They all could see in the torch-light what he looked upon. It was a skeleton, dressed in beautiful, glittering armor, and a broken sword at his side. His hand still reached out towards a stone door on the wall that he had fallen by, as if clawing to be let out. However he died, he had been terrifyed until his last breath and fought to get out. Even the mightiest, most well-armed warrior could die in fear.

Aragorn, through with examining the scene, stood with a sigh. "Hither shall the flowers of simbelmynë come never unto world's end. Nine mounds and seven there are now green with grass, and through all the long years he has lain at the door that he could not unlock. Whither does it lead? Why would he pass? None shall ever know!"

He turned around, shouting. Daeril at first thought it was at them, however nobody had warranted a scolding; he looked behind them, into the darkness. So there was something there, unseen.

'For that is not my errand! Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"

It grew ever more silent, if that were even possible. It felt as though the darkness itself was smothering them as they stood there. A cold gust of wind came through, extinguishing the torches, and leaving them in complete blackness. Aragorn bid them go on, and they followed the sounds of those in front to keep along the path. Rocky stepped on Daeril's foot, but she dared not cry out in pain lest one of the ghosts, if there even really were any, were to hear her. She continued on, leaning into the warmth of her horse, now with a slight limp. It was hours that they walked through the dark, and some wondered whether they would ever find the other side. In due time they found the light of open sky, dim as it was, and the path came out into a road between two high cliff faces. Coming out of the mountain, they mounted up once more, the horses unsettled but not taking off on anyone.

They rode in file, the path far too narrow to be side by side. Daeril rode behind Halbarad now, Rocky's neck curved all the way in to his chest and prancing as they rode, his ears swiveled to the rear. All it would take was one of their horses to bolt and there would be a disaster. Finally as evening fell, they came out of the ravine and into a valley, where the small stream they had rode next to turned into a river, flowing out into larger bodies of water. Below them was a town, and lights flickered in the windows of the homes there.

"Friends, forget your weariness!" Aragorn called for all behind to hear. "Ride now, ride! We must come to the Stone of Erech ere this day passes, and long still is the way!"

They spurred on their horses, riding hard into the fields of the vale. Rocky was more than relieved to be moving again, rearing up before springing into a full gallop. They came to a bridge, bringing them to a road that went down into the town below. As they rode past houses and farms, people ran into their houses, crying out that the King of the Dead had come. Bells rang out, and all feared them as they rode through. Alas they came to the Stone of Erech, a great black orb of rock protruding from the hill. The company halted, and Aragorn dismounted by the stone, blowing a loud note on a horn passed to him by Elrohir. The sounds of horns responded, as if from a great distance, and then there was silence once more. A cold wind came out of the mountains, and Daeril brought her cloak closer around herself to keep out the unnatural chill. She could see nobody save the dark shadowy figures of her kinsmen, but there was a heavy presence surrounding them.

"Oathbreakers, why have ye come?" Aragorn shouted to the night.

"To fulfil our oath and have peace." No living man could have uttered that voice, and it came from seemingly nowhere.

"The hour is come at last. Now I go to Pelargir upon Anduin, and ye shall come after me." Aragorn announced. "And when all this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold the oath fulfilled, and ye shall have peace and depart for ever. For I am Elessar, Isildur's heir of Gondor."

With a motion from Aragorn, Halbarad finally unfurled the standard that he had been carrying since they had departed from Rivendell. The black fabric billowed out, but nobody could see what was on it in the pitch blackness. There came no more response from the unseen host, but their presence was still felt as they made camp.

Daeril could not sleep, not knowing that something was out there. Most of the Rangers sat in groups, with their backs to eachother, some sleeping upright and sporadically. She was still awake at dawn when Aragorn rose, rallying them once more to ride. And again they rode with great haste, running through the day into the night, passing through many towns in Gondor, sending citizens fleeing as they passed. The horses were exhausted, and the men too, but ever Aragorn's will kept them going. Daeril had never known such weariness, and felt it down to her very bones. If she were to be taken out by archers, it would have been a welcome relief, but ride on she must. They did not stop that day, riding on through the dark night, into a dawnless day.

On the third day of the endless ride, under never-ending darkness, they came upon a battle waging between men of Gondor and men of the East. The evil men took off at the sight of the host, enraptured by fear, and the Gondorians would have rejoiced had they not been so afraid as well. Many fled, but the leader of the people came forward to tryst with Aragorn. He was called Angbor, Lord of Lamedon, and Aragorn bade him gather those who would ride to the Heir of Isildur's aid. They rested the horses a bit after crossing the river Gilrain, but Aragorn still wished to keep moving.

"Lo! already Minas Tirith is assailed," He said. "I fear that it will fall ere we come to its aid."

Again they rode through the night, through the fields of Lebennin, coming to the Great River and the port of Pelargir. The army of Easterners and Haradrim they had pursued turned at the docks, laughing at their small force. Some of the small boats in the river were on fire or trying to sail away as fast as possible, but still there remained fifty large ships, the fleet of the corsairs of Umbar.

"Now come! By the Black Stone I call you!" Aragorn shouted to the host before them. The horns sounded in the distance, once again, and the shadowy army that had followed behind them emerged, rushing towards the enemy. The sound of many voices and swords being drawn echoed, both there and not there at the same time. Daeril did not know whether it was real, or another hallucination brought on by lack of sleep, but the enemies laughter soon turned to horror. Aragorn bid the company charge, and they rode forward into the thick of the enemy host as they began to flee. They were driven into the water by fear, abandoning their ships. The enemy host vanquished, they dismounted their horses at the shore. At Aragorn's command, each of the Dunedain was sent to a ship to comfort the slaves, men of Gondor taken by the corsairs.

Daeril had never been on so large a boat, and stumbled up the ramp, swaying as the vessel moved in the river. She went to the first man she saw, untying his bonds. He weakly stood, helping to untie the others. Soon they were all freed, but beaten down from captivity and shaken from the force of the Dead charging through the fleet. A man, not quite elderly but with plenty of gray in his beard, clung to her, kissing her cheek.

"You are the most beautiful sight I have seen in a long time," He said. "Who commands your force, my lady?"

"I ride with Lord Aragorn son of Arathorn," She announced to the twenty freed men on board. "Heir to Isildur. You are free men, once more, but we have need of strength of arms. Any who can still fight, he bids come with us."

She left the ship, returning to the horses on the docks, followed by the freed men. Aragorn went aboard the largest ship, and there blew deafening horns aboard it to command the attention of the army of the dead.

"Hear now the words of the Heir of Isildur!" Aragorn cried out to the dead. "Your oath is fulfilled. Go back and trouble not the valleys ever again! Depart and be at rest!"

The dead vanished, leaving behind no trace of them ever having been there. The otherworldly chill had gone with them, leaving the night humid and warm, even in such proximity to the water. Aragorn gave the rangers leave to finally rest, as the host from Lamedon had arrived on horseback along with men from Lebennin and Ethir. The men of Gondor prepared the ships, being most of them knew there way on a vessel, and through the day the ships were manned and readied. Daeril was dead to the world until the morning, when Daenir roused her. If she had dreams, she did not remember, but even the waking world felt just as unreal.

The horses of the Grey Company were loaded onto the largest ship, which Aragorn had taken as his own command. They were too tired to protest, and the rangers managed to get them below deck in stalls without incident. The ship had been designed to carry cavalry, but the corsairs had brought no horses with them. The ships completely manned by crews of Gondorian free men and soldiers, Aragorn's fleet set forth up the river, bound for Minas Tirith.

The going was slow, as there was no wind to speak of, and the ships were going against the flow of the river. The freed men, those strong enough to carry on, manned the oars. All wondered whether they would reach Minas Tirith in time, or if they would be coming up to ruin or a tide turned against them. As night wore on, they finally saw a red glow coming from the horizon, where Minas Tirith awaited them.

Daeril found herself hanging over the side of the boat, retching even after the last of the food and water she'd consumed left her stomach. She had been overconfident, laughing at the handful of other rangers who had succumbed to the rocking motions towards the beginning of the journey by water, until the rolling started. Someone came up behind her, a comforting hand on her back. She lifted her head up just enough to see it was her brother, smirking.

"Still laughing, sister?" Daenir jested.

"I am dying. Leave me to my misery." She gasped, trying to breathe the sick feelings away.

Daenir held up a water skin, which Daeril turned her nose up at. The last thing she wanted to do was drink, eat, or do anything other than give in to the sweet release of death.

"Drink it, it helps."

She reluctantly took it and sipped a bit of the cool water. Once she knew it may stay down, she drank more. The rangers mostly sat together on the smooth deck of the ship, probably scrubbed to its nearly perfect state by the very slaves they had freed. They waited, and watched, and hoped they would reach the city before it fell. At midnight the Gondorian's that sailed with them, experienced seafarers, noted a wind coming from behind, and with the aid of everyone on board each vessel, the great black sails were unfurled. Heaving on the heavy ropes, the sails threatening to take off if they didn't hold fast, Daeril forgot about her ailments. With the sails at full, the ships began to move at a steady and fast clip.

Within a couple of hours, they could see the fires in Minas Tirith, and soon the docks at the Quays of Harlond. As the sun came up, they could see the glint of light off of the armor and swords of thousands of horsemen, stopped near the Quays, waiting in earnest. Halbarad stood at the prow, unleashing the great standard that he carried. The wind spread the black fabric, and he held it aloft as they pulled into the Quays. In the light of day they could finally see that it bore a white tree, topped with seven glittering stars and a crown- the sigil of Elendil.

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Aragorn rallied all aboard the ships to him, his vessel reaching the quays first. They did not take the time to lower the boarding ramp, instead climbing to the rails and jumping off and onto the docks. The Rohirrim on the shore cheered as they joined them in the battle. The enemy, having expected their own to be arriving, and not a handful of Dunedain warriors and men of Gondor coming on their own ships, began to run. They had nowhere to flee but into more Rohirrim. The clash of steel on steel and shouting from both sides was deafening.

Daeril had trained for battle much of her life, but nothing could prepare her for the real thing. There were corpses everywhere, of men and orcs and horses, the grass turning black with blood. In the heat of battle, it did not seem real, it did not bother her. There was only her sword, and a mass of vile creatures blocking their way to the city. Her blade began to dance, hacking and slashing, ringing on metal until her arm muscles burned and her breathing became quick and shallow. This was not as the old songs made battle seem, heroic and epic and beautiful; it was loud, and exhausting, and everything smelled of sweat and blood and smoke.

Halbarad was charging just ahead of Daeril, fighting one handed as he held aloft the banner of Aragorn. Daeril rallied to him, fighting any orc or enemy man who drew too close. She lost sight of him as something hit her hard in the back, driving her roughly to her knees. She regained her feet, spinning around to confront her challenger, a man twice her size, a Haradrim, face covered in a dark cloth leaving only his black-rimmed eyes visible. He swung his scimitar again, which Daeril blocked with her own sword. The big man did not relent, pushing his weapon against Daerils as if if she weren't holding it back with every fiber of her being. She was not weak, but she knew when she was outmatched, and this was an opponent that she could not hope to beat with strength alone. She charged sideways, breaking the contact with his blade, ducking down as his swung where her head had been previously. She was breathing hard, shaking, but mind completely in the fight. She swung her sword in a wide arc, turning into the swing, hoping the momentum would take him down. Her aim was true, but the man was already dead, an arrow protruding from his eye socket. Daeril's head snapped to, finding her savior, the Prince of Mirkwood. She nodded a thank you to the elf, and he beckoned her to him.

"How are you with that?" He asked, indicating the bow strapped to her back.

"Decent," She replied.

"String it, and stay with me."

She sheathed her blade, taking the bow out its bindings and covering down on Legolas as she strung it. It was no elvish longbow, but she knew it's draw and could aim well enough. She kept close to the elf, Gimli keeping sweep behind them with axe-work. Between the two archers, they were able to pick off many foes on horseback, clearing the way for Aragorn to get to the leader of the Rohirrim. When Daeril ran out of arrows, she retrieved any that she could while Legolas covered her, bringing back a mixture of his arrows, her own, and even some of the enemy. One black arrow she had not realized was coated in a black tarry substance until Legolas took it from her grasp and threw it to the ground.

"Did you touch any of that?"

"No! I didn't!"

"That is poison on the tip. I recommend you avoid those."

She knew then not to pick up anymore black arrows. And to not be shot with one, perhaps, was important too. The day drew on, the enemy putting up a relentless fight. The Southrons and Easterlings would not yield, choosing death before dishonor in battle. There were orcs upon orcs, and uruks, and troll half-breeds. Massive dead carcasses were strewn about, war trolls and what Legolas identified as Mumakil. Daeril had doubted their existence, her brother having been the only person she knew who had claimed to see one, and yet there they were.

Daeril was seperated from Legolas and Gimli when her brother appeared, rallying the Dunedain to his side. They had been at battle for hours, and it was well into the afternoon. Daenir had lost his helm at some point, and had a bleeding gash on his bald scalp. Other than minor cuts and bruises among the Dunedain, nobody was injured enough to take them out of the battle. Halbarad, however, had been slain. The banner now was posted in the field, back towards the ships, and many men fought by it. Daenir led those he had gathered back to the banner, fighting foes along the way.

Long they fought, Halbarad's body still lying beside the banner as they defended it. The battle began to quiet through the afternoon, and by the sunset, blood red over a field of death, all enemies were slain or driven off to die. Aragorn returned to the Dunedain, bidding them retrieve the horses from the ship and rally to him. The boarding ramp was now down, and they once more returned to the ship. The horses were more than happy to get out of the smelly, dark and cramped livery below-decks, yet most of them patiently walked as they were led off. Daeril's horse, however, was beside himself. He climbed the ramp to the deck, prancing as he always did when nervous. When they walked on to the ramp, he charged forward, leaping forward into the air. The reins were torn from Daeril's hands, the horse knocking her backwards. She reached fruitlessly for the ramp as she fell into the water, her armor pulling her straight down.

Gilon sprung into action, catching the girl's wrist as she thrashed in the water, and pulling her up with a swift yank on her arm. She came up sputtering and coughing, but was able to latch onto the side of the ramp. Daenir ran forward, grabbing the back collar of his sister's leather cuirass, and pulling her up the rest of the way.

"You are alright?" Daenir queried.

Daeril nodded, still coughing the water she had inhaled. Those that had witnessed it, now knowing she had not been harmed, began to laugh. Daeril walked back onto shore, sloshing and feeling weighed down by soaked clothing and armor. Her horse was now standing with Thannor, ears forward and blowing at everything he could see and smell. Daeril took his reins from Thannor, thanking the older ranger.

"At least you washed the blood off," Thannor joked. "You look far prettier than any of us, save for the elves among us."

Daeril's nose hurt from water entering it, her ears were full of water, and every single inch of her was drenched to the bone. How she looked was the last thing on her mind. Once all of the horses were off the ship, they mounted up and rode towards the city gates following Aragorn, Éomer and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and their captains. Of the rangers, three including Halbarad had fallen in battle. A few were wounded, but not fatally, and could still ride. It was a long ride across the field, and they passed much carnage on the way.

Rocky lost his mind once more at the sight of a dead Mumak, and Daeril had to pull out of the group by Daenir's leave. One of Éomer's men came to her aid, his own steed calm and collected despite the thing that Rocky found so terrifying. The others continued on, leaving Daeril struggling with the horse. Rocky was up on his hind legs, pawing at the air in front of him as Daeril clung to his neck shouting elvish curses at him. The rider of Rohan came beside them, speaking calmly in accented common tongue.

"Give him his head," He spoke. "If he bolts, do not panic. We will catch you."

Daeril tried to sit deeper, making sure her feet were securely in the stirrups before she let the reins loose. The horse came back down on all fours, and sprung forward, bolting as she had expected. She expected him to keep running, but he stopped when he realized the other horse was matching his pace. Rocky came down to a walk, still prancing and blowing.

"We will walk by it again," The man spoke. "Do not pull back on the reins."

The last thing she ever expected to be doing after a long and arduous battle was training her spastic horse, but it was a welcome distraction from the death that surrounded them. The other horse, a beautiful smokey grey, was walking towards the great dead beast as though it were just an everyday object. Rocky kept in step with him, and did not give a repeat performance of his acrobatics.

"What is your name?" The man asked her.

"Daeril," She replied. "And yours, sir?"

"Aldrych," He gave her a casual salute. "I did not know Lord Aragorn had shield-maidens among his people."

"Shield-maidens? I have not heard of that term."

"Women who are trained warriors," He explained. "All women of Rohan know how to wield a sword, if the need arises. None fight in our army, however."

The two riders made a full perimeter of the carcass, and Rocky finally became accustomed to the sight. It was as if it had never bothered him to begin with. Soon the riders moved along, looking for the group they had been separated from. Aldrych talked of his son, who was also one of Éomer's captains, hinting that he was Daeril's age and unmarried. Daeril could only laugh that the older man was playing match-maker in the aftermath of a battle. Within the hour they came upon the rest of the Grey Company, heading towards a relatively clear section on the battle field where a camp would be set up. Aldrych bid Daeril farewell, riding back to his men. Daeril corraled Rocky with the other horses, and got to work with her kinsmen, setting up the large war-tents that had been brought from the city. By late evening they had tents up, some furniture brought down from the city to fill them, and a large bonfire going to cook their first meal of the day on. Everyone was drained from the battle, and grieving losses, but spirits were still kindled by the victory they had earned.

"How are you still wet?" Aeldis asked, grasping at Daeril's cloak as she sat by the fire. "Come, let's get you into dry clothes."

The older woman led Daeril to a small tent, which they would share with others in the company. Aeldis had a pair of extra leather breeches in her pack, but not much else. Daeril cast off her armor, then her wet clothes save for her blouse, and donned the breeches which, thankfully, fit perfectly. Aeldis demanded Hador spare one of his shirts, which Daeril pulled on before he even left the tent. Hador flushed, turning away just in time, and Daeril realized changing in front of the men was probably not the most ladylike thing to do. They hung her clothes and armor outside the tent, then rejoined the company by the fire. Someone had brought a small cask of wine down from the city, and everyone around the fire passed around cups of it, all sharing due to lack of supplies.

Thannor began to sing, and the Rohirrim men that had come to join their fire listened in confused but stunned silence at the elvish dirge. It was an ode to those who had been lost, Halbarad, Golodir, and Haedirn, as well as Théoden King. When he finished, they all drank a toast in their honor, and then some kept drinking until most had disappeared off to the tents to sleep, in a battle and wine induced stupor. Daeril stayed awake, exhausted beyond measure but her mind too active to sleep. Word had come from the city, relayed by some of the soldiers of Gondor drinking with them, that the Steward, Denethor, was dead and his son Faramir was now Steward. She did not ask, she did not dare to believe what the answer may be, so she kept quiet. Boromir would have returned to the city by now, so she had thought nothing of it when Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli were found not in his company in Rohan. She had assumed he had gone on his own, but now it was evident that had not happened.

It was in the early morning hours that Legolas joined her and Gilon, who was nearly asleep as he sat gazing into the coals, by the dwindling fire. The elf sat near them, taking out one of his long daggers and beginning to sharpen it. Daeril realized her sword was probably in desperate need of cleaning and whetting, but could not muster the energy to retrieve it. She watched as he deftly worked on the edge, the silvery blade gleaming in the firelight.

"You cannot sleep?" Legolas asked.

"I don't know if I could if I tried," Daeril replied.

"Well I can," Gilon slurred slightly, standing up only a bit unsteadily. "Goodnight, friends."

They bid the ranger farewell, and he stumbled off to the tent.

"You fought well today, Rýndirien. Was this your first battle?"

"It was."

"Many do not escape their first true fight unscathed. You have been trained well."

"Thank you, my lord."

They sat in silence for a bit, the only sound the coals popping and the scrape of whetstone against Legolas's blades. Daeril gathered the courage to ask the elf of Boromir's fate, not because she feared asking the very approachable prince of Mirkwood, but because she knew it would hurt to confirm her fears.

"Boromir did not reach the city, did he?" She finally asked.

Legolas put down the knife and whetstone, looking to the girl.

"You have not been told?"

She shook her head.

"No, he did not. He was slain at Amon Hen, protecting Merry and Pippin from Uruk-hai."

Daeril had to remind herself to breathe, as her heart seemed to plummet in her chest. She knew, somehow, but this was still news. She did not cry, nor let her emotions get the better of her. Already she had lost so many close to her, and Boromir had only been a friend for a short time.

"You were a friend of Boromir?" Legolas asked.

"We talked some in Rivendell. He promised to show me the city if I were to ever come here. He loved Minas Tirith."

"Indeed, he did. Perhaps when his brother Faramir is healed, he can show you. Boromir would have wanted you to."

She knew what Legolas was saying was just words of comfort, and the elf did not know her well, but she did take solace in them. Whatever was beyond this life, everyone she had lost was there: Her mother and father, and Faron, and Boromir, and Halbarad... how many more would join them in the coming days?

Legolas soon left, bidding her find sleep before the morning was through. She tended the coals with a long stick, the fire still going as the stars above waned. She was still awake when Aragorn came into the camp, his cloak set tightly about him in the chill of morning.

"You did not wait up just for me, did you Daeril?"

Aragorn looked as exhausted as she felt. She made to deny him, but he sent her off with a wave of his hand.

"Get some rest, you need it."

It was not in her to argue with her chieftain, who was soon to be King, so alas she went to her tent and was asleep almost as soon as her eyes were closed. There was quiet in the camp, and throughout the Fields of the Pelennor, but the minds of fighting men, and women, were never quiet.

Chapter Text

The fires that had burned over night throughout the field of battle had gone out, but the midday sky was grey with cloud and remnants of smoke. Daenir had woken just after sunrise, so by the time it was high noon and his sister hadn't seen to the horses, he was beginning to worry. He found her in one of the tents, sleeping like the dead in her bedroll. She was so still that he feared she had succumbed to something in the night, but after shaking her for a minute she snapped awake.

"Is it my watch?" She mumbled, blinking the sleep out of her eyes.

"No," Daenir laughed. "But everyone is awake."

"What is the time?"

"Past noon," He said, walking to the door of the tent. "Someone is waiting for you, says he wants oats and hay."

Daeril groggily got up and dressed, then left the tent. She hadn't slept that deeply in days, and waking up was not an easy task. It being daylight made everything all the more confusing. Rocky was munching on grass in the small corral they had set up, standing next to a stunning grey horse that dwarfed him in comparison. A satchel of grain in hand, she went in with the horses, ignoring the other steeds who were now very interested in what she carried. Rocky did not lift his head up, instead turning so his hind end faced his rider, continuing to consume his precious green grass.

"Fine, if you don't want this, someone else will enjoy it."

The grey walked over to her and sniffed at the grain bag, and she got a better look at him. He was not one of the Ranger's horses, that was for certain. His coat was too clean, and not rough like all of theirs were. He was a stallion, she could tell without inspecting underneath, his thickly crested neck was a dead giveaway. His coloring was the most beautiful grey Daeril had ever seen on a horse, and seemed to shine like silver when the light touched him. His eye was soft and kind, and he turned his head to examine her more with one of them. Deeming her not a threat, he lowered his head, extending his nose towards her once more.

"You are beautiful," She told him, holding out her hand. He sniffed it, and came in closer. Knowing he wouldn't run off or bite her, she stroked his forehead, marveling in how smooth his coat was. Daeril reached into the grain bag, holding out a handful for the kind stallion. He gently ate it right out of her palm, snorting his gratitude when he had finished.

Rocky's attention had now been drawn to his girl, who was feeding his grain to the newcomer stallion. He walked over, nudging Daeril in the shoulder, then nipping at her arm. Daeril yelped, turning to scold Rocky, but apparently the grey horse had already taken care of it. Rocky squealed as the stallion bit him on his withers, and then settled down, dropping his head to wait patiently for the food to be offered to him. Satisfied her horse wouldn't try anything stupid again, she poured some grain onto the ground, letting Rocky graze it.

"You're a good lad," Daeril told the silver stallion, stroking his great neck. "Someone could use some lessons on being a proper horse from you!"

Daenir stood at attention as Aragorn and Mithrandir emerged from the large tent, followed by Éomer King, Prince Imrahil and their captains. They had been in talks all day, and it seemed by the determination in their steps that they had finally come to a decision on the war ahead. Daenir bowed, not to Aragorn who was not yet king and likely would castrate him if he did so, but to Éomer the young, and new, King of Rohan.

"Daenir, I have a task for you." Aragorn said, leaving Mithrandir's side.

"Anything, my lord." He replied.

"We set out for the Black Gate in two days," He explained. "I know not how many fighting men we can muster in that time. Many were killed or are wounded. I need you to bring word to the messengers of this city, to muster all who are able and willing to join ranks for one final march."

"Aye, my lord."

"Daeril, tolo hí!" Aragorn called.

Daeril, who speaking was speaking with Mithrandir, obeyed, coming to her leader's side.

"Yes, my lord?"

"I need you to go with King Eomer. The Rohirrim are rounding up riderless horses on the battlefield. Find any that can still be used, we have need of many."

"Aye, sir."

"Take Roheryn, he is already saddled."

Daeril bowed to the young king of Rohan when she approached him readying his own horse.

"I fear I will never grow accustomed to that," He laughed, mounting Firefoot.

"I'm sure it will grow on you, my King."

Daeril mounted Roheryn, noting the stirrups were just slightly too long for her. She was tall, for a woman, but nowhere near Aragorn's height. Roheryn began to walk at a slight squeeze of her legs, and she took off with Éomer and his men. Roheryn was a smoother ride than her own horse, and she knew she need not fear him spooking or bolting for anything.

Even a day later, the battlefield was still smokey in some parts where flames had been doused. There had been pyres burning through the night, sending off the remains of many who had perished in the battle. The bodies of the enemy had been put in separate piles, and disposed of a bit less ceremoniously. Corpses of fallen horses, mumakil, and trolls still littered the field, waiting to be moved once enough people had the strength to get back to work. The air was still heavy with grief and exhaustion, but slowly the call to the next battle was spreading and hope was kindling.

Soon they were joined by more Rohirrim, coming from all angles. Éomer King ordered everyone to spread out, combing the entire field of battle. There were loose horses all over, and they had only to form a line of sorts and herd them. Slowly the horses were gathered, first only seven, and then a dozen, and by the time they reached the Quays on the far side of the battlefield, they had seventy head. A corral was hastily put together, and the riders trickled out until only the horses were inside, kept from wandering off again.

Éomer was speaking to his troops in their own language, of which she understood not one word. She waited patiently for more orders, watching a majority of the men ride off while a few stayed back. The king laughed when he saw Daeril's lack of comprehension.

"My apologies, Lady Daeril, I mistook you for one of my men. You make a fine Rohirrim."

"I am honored that you think so," She laughed.

"This herd should do. my men will bring those who are horseless to choose their new mounts. Some of these are horses of this city and not ideal, but in times like these we cannot be picky."

It was true that the Rohirrim valued their own horses higher than all others, and theirs were amazing, but horses are still horses. Her own was of unknown breeding and rather unremarkable at first glance, but he had more heart than horses double his size. She stroked Roheryn's dark mane, thankful that he had carried her without incident. Soon he would be carrying the King of Gondor into battle, and he would continue to behave admirably. Rocky, on the other hand...

"If I have your leave, my King, I believe I should be getting back to camp."

"Hm?" Éomer had been staring out at the battlefield, lost in thought. "King? Oh... right, yes. Beric will escort you back to your encampment. I must ready my men for our march."

The King of Rohan took his leave, and his captain, Beric, rode forward towards Daeril.

"I can find my way back, you do not need to escort me," She told him.

"Nobody should be on this field alone. One of our men was attacked only this morning by a seemingly dead uruk."

"Oh. That is comforting."

The two began the long ride back towards the encampment outside the city in companionable silence. Soon another rider joined them.

"I see you've found yourself another mount!"

"Aldrych!" Daeril smiled. "This is Lord Aragorn's horse, I am only borrowing him."

"I am glad you have not given up on your own," He said. "And you have met my son!"

Beric's chestnut warsteed began moving at a faster clip.

"I did not know that Beric was your son," Daeril said, keeping pace with Aldrych and letting Beric go ahead. Now that she saw them near each other, she could see the resemblance between the older and younger men. Aldrych's hair and beard were dark blonde with a lot of white, but despite being older he was strong and stern. Beric had a golden mess of hair tied up under his helm and a week-old beard, but Daeril could tell he was attractive under the post-battle grime.

"Do you ride with us tomorrow?" Aldrych asked.

"I will follow my chieftain wherever he may go. And if that is Mordor, than so I shall."

"You do not sound afraid."

"I will be when I see that gate," She shivered. "Right now it seems so far away. I hope it doesn't live up to how I imagine it to be."

"What do you think it looks like?" Beric asked from just ahead of them.

"Black iron. Spikes on the top. Guarded by all manner of orc and beast. Fire, possibly."

"I'm sure you have the color right." Beric chortled. "I don't think there would be spikes, however... who would even think of climbing over?"

"That is true."

"Well, when we reach the gate we will see," Aldrych said. "And if Lady Daeril is correct, you owe her a drink."

"And if I'm wrong?"

"Then you owe me two," Beric smirked.

They reached the Dunedain camp, and the two Rohirrim took their leave. Daeril took Roheryn's tack off, then returned him to the corral, where he gratefully went right to the pile of fresh hay. Rocky waked over, rubbing his head against Daeril's chest before going to push Roheryn away from his hay. The young Dundedan sighed at the foolish gelding, then left them to sort out their own grievances.

"Where have you been?" Thannor asked as Daeril sat next to him by the fire.

"On an errand," She replied, helping herself to some of the freshly cooked meat. "Where were you?"

"The city, fetching armor," He replied, gesturing to one of the supply tents. "If you need anything, best raid what we have before everything good is gone."

"Mine is good enough," She said. "Gondorian armor seems quite... heavy."

"Yes, it is. Shiny though. At least I'll look nice when I die."

"We're not going to die, Thannor."

"We're marching on Mordor, young one. Our odds for survival are slim."

"You're quite the optimist."

Thannor laughed half-heartedly.

"There is hope we make it through, but I'm trying to come to peace with things. Best prepare for the worst and hope for the best."

The dawn brought with it a sense of trepidation, yet there was a faint glimmer of hope. Aragorn seemed to have risen before anyone, and was already suited for battle. Daeril was taken aback by how different he looked dressed in livery of Gondor, the white tree emblazoned on his chest and the finest armor and cloth she had ever seen him wear. He looked like a king.

Soon everyone was scrambling, readying horses and getting into armor, loading supplies into saddle bags and sharpening swords last minute. Daeril quickly donned her armor, checking it over for any missing links or weak points. Satisfied it would protect her, she moved on to preparing her horse.

"Rocky, I promise if we get through this, you will get to live the rest of your life in a field," She told him as she cinched his saddle. "And you can have all the mares you could ever dream of."

Rocky turned to nip her as she tightened the girth.

"Fine, no mares then."

Already the armies were assembling on the Pellenor Fields. The Dunedain were to ride in the Vanguard, along with Aragorn and Gandalf, leading thousands of men of Gondor and Rohan. Daeril's anxiety was growing taking in the massive force they had assembled. The Paths of the Dead was the scariest thing she had ever done, and the following battle was a blur... but this felt different. The darkness in the East was foreboding beyond belief, and they were heading straight for it. She rode over to the rest of her kin, coming to the side of Daenir. He had been speaking to Elrohir, and looked up as his sister approached.

"You do not have to join us, if you wish to stay behind," He said. "Nobody will begrudge you for it."

"So can you, brother."

"My place is here."

"As is mine," She pulled on Rocky's reins as he dropped his head to graze. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

The Dunedain took their place in the formation on the field, and with the morning sun shining brightly on thousands of spears all around them, they followed Aragorn, their King, marching onward to Mordor.

Chapter Text

The journey from Minas Tirith to the Morannon was a long one, and brought the army through much of the devastation from years of battles, and the fresh remnants of the current ones. Osgiliath, once a great city, was a ruin, but still a hold-fast for defending the city. A large host of soldiers was left there to defend it, if the armies of Mordor were to defeat those at the Black Gate. The foot-soldiers made camp five miles outside of Osgiliath, but the vanguard and all riders kept moving until they came to the crossroads, one of the more dangerous regions due to the access from four different roads. Here the vanguard stopped, and many were gladdened to get a break from the saddle. Trumpeters were set at each of the roads, and heralds made it known that the Lords of Gondor had come to take back what was theirs.

Daeril watched as a crew of men raised the crowned head of the great stone king onto his shoulders, the orc head that had been upon it cast onto the ground below in hundreds of pieces. The orcs had redecorated with unintelligible writing on the stone, which was hastily removed. Even with their handiwork covered up, Daeril still felt a sense of unease where they camped. The crossroads gave the enemy a huge tactical advantage if they decided to attack this night. The scouts, however, had yet to report any sightings nearby. She slept fitfully, giving up in the early hours of the morning.

The army on foot reached them the next morning, and a host of archers and swordsmen were set at the crossroads, where they would lie in wait lest any enemy made their way through. The rest of the Host of the West began to move, straight down the road into the Morgul Vale. There was no sign of the enemy until two days after they left the Crossroads. The scouts had reported a mass of Easterlings and orcs trying to waylay the vanguard. Riders from Rohan and a host of Prince Imrahil's Swan Knights led a flank up behind the enemy, driving them into their own trap. Those that were not slain were driven off into the hills, and were not expected to return.

Ever as they moved along the road, there was a pressing sense of foreboding. Daeril thought it was her own mind betraying her, her lack of sleep and growing anxiety coming to the surface as pure, unrelenting dread. She kept catching herself pulling poor Rocky's reins tighter and tighter in a death grip, then trying to relax and let them go slack. The gelding was on his best behavior, never taking his owner's fear to heart.

"They are many miles above us," Legolas spoke, riding next to her on Arod, with Gimli behind him.

"What is?" Daeril could not disguise the tremor in her voice.

"The Nazgûl. They have been following us for some time."

"That is comforting," She laughed nervously. "What manner of beast gives them wings? Dragons?"

"I do not believe they are true dragons," Legolas said. "They are smaller than the one I saw. They have clawed wings in place of front legs, and longer necks."

"Can they be killed easily?"

"Legolas took one down in the dark, aiming from a moving boat," Gimli said. "One arrow to the heart was all it took."

Daeril could never even hope to have aim as good as the elf, his skill with a bow was almost legendary.

"Take heart, Rýndirien. At least they do not breathe fire." Legolas said.

Daeril's laughter was authentic this time. Daenir cast a disapproving look her way, silencing her.

The next day brought them into the desolated lands, and with it brought a new dread upon everyone. Some were more affected than others, and many could go no further. Daeril did not wish to keep going, but she knew that she could and wasn't going to abandon her people because she was scared. There were many young men, and old farmers, and those who had more experience wielding farming tools than a sword. Those were the ones who began to drop out of formation, quaking with fear. Aragorn turned to the company, speaking to them.

"Go! But keep what honor you may, and do not run!" He ordered, not in anger. "And there is a task which you may attempt and so be not wholly shamed. Take your way south-west till you come to Cair Andros, and if that is still held by enemies, as I think, then re-take it, if you can; and hold it to the last in defense of Gondor and Rohan!"

Many dropped out, going on to take back Cair Andros. They could still fight, but they were not constituted for the evils that the land of Mordor held. The army continued on, now down to just under six thousand strong. It was a great number of soldiers, but against the entirety of Mordor's forces they were severely outnumbered. They did not stop until the next night, when they made camp for one last rest before they finally marched to the Gate. The mood in camp was somber, and very few actually slept. Fires were built, from what wood and kindling they could find in such a barren land.

"I always thought Mordor was hot," Daeril said, sitting as close to the fire as she could without burning herself. "Why is it so cold?"

"It always has been," Elladan said. "Especially at night."

"It's been night for days, now." Gimli grumbled. It was true, the sky had never gotten brighter than a dim haze the closer they got to Mordor.

They could hear things outside of the camp, moving around, and everyone was on edge- waiting for attacks that never came. Although they could see nothing, they could feel the presence of the Nazgûl far up above, every now and then. Daeril flinched as a hand came down on her shoulder, her breath catching in her throat. She looked up to Daenir, narrowing her eyes at him.

"I did not mean to startle you," He quickly apologized. "Will you walk with me?"

Daeril got up from her place at the fire, following her brother. He brought her to the edge of camp, not leaving sight of the furthest fire. He held something wrapped in dark cloth, and Daeril's full attention went to whatever he had in his hands.

"I have been holding onto this for you since father died," He said. "I didn't know when to give it to you, but I figure now is as good a time as we are going to get."

"Is it a sword?"

Daenir sighed. The length of the bundle he held wasn't even long enough to be a sword. He unfolded the fabric, revealing a beautifully curved dagger. Its handle was polished wood wrapped in black leather, in a black scabbard.

"This has been in the family for many years," Daenir explained, letting Daeril pick up the dagger. "It was father's, and belonged to his father before him. Prince Legolas believes it was a gift from his father King Thranduil to our grandfather, but he does not know for certain."

"Daenir, I never saw this before!" Daeril took the knife from its scabbard, revealing a curved steel blade etched with a flowing leaf pattern.

"We hid it well. I knew you would have lost a finger or two if I had given this to you when you were younger."

"Yes, I suppose that is true," Daeril replied, embracing her brother. "Thank you, Daenir!"

"Watch the blade!" He cringed, as his sister clung to him.

"I won't stab you, idiot," She spoke into his chest.

The two held onto each-other a few moments longer, until Daeril broke the connection. She sheathed the blade, and worked on attaching it to her sword belt.

"Thank you, Daenir. This is the greatest gift I've ever received."

"And you are mine," He said, ruffling her hair. "I wish I were giving this to you under different circumstances, but this is where our paths have led us. I am honored to have you fighting by my side, thelig."

Wolves howled somewhere in the distance, and the siblings hurriedly returned to the fire, where they waited out the long night with the rest of their brethren. Daeril could not stop touching the hilt of her new dagger, feeling a new sense of strength and hope from the small comfort it brought. In the gray light of morning, the host departed for the final march.

The host made for the Black Gate from the north-west, avoiding the road, which was a certain ambush choke-point. They made their way through the slag-hills, moving around destruction and pits hazarding the landscape. The Black Gate came into view, a massive structure stretching across the Cirith Gorgor pass, with a tower on either end. Those were the Towers of the Teeth, Narchost and Carchost, as Elladan explained to those nearby. Above the wall, wheeling above the towers, and some perched and watching, were the Nazgûl on their Fell Beasts.

Aragorn set the armies hurriedly, ordering a circle of soldiers about each of the massive hillocks on either side of the road, so all directions were covered. In the middle, facing the gate, the Dúnedain were to make their stand, along with the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth, and selected men of the Tower Guard of Minas Tirith. When all was readied, Aragorn rode forward with the captains, Gandalf, the sons of Elrond, Legolas and Gimli, and Peregrin the halfling, flanked by a host of guards. The heralds let up a cry, bidding the Lord of the Black Land to come forth. All was silent, for far too long, and the host was about to turn away. From behind the gate came the beating of drums and a fanfare of horns, and then a door in the gate opened and out rode a figure all in black and heavy armor, astride a black horse. If a horse it truly was.

"I can't hear anything," Daeril hissed to Aeldis, standing beside her. "What is going on?"

"I do not know, I can't read lips," The older ranger said. "If that thing even has them."

The captains and their King spoke with the Mordorian ambassador for only minutes, but the waiting was insufferable. Daeril kept scanning the horizon, and the top of the gate, knowing that there could be enemies anywhere but seeing nothing moving. They had neither the strength in men or the proper war machines to assault the gate, and there were no defenses out there in the desolation where they stood. Daeril found herself looking behind her, back where their horses waited, away from the soon to be battlefield. She could make a run for it, and get on Rocky, and ride to freedom. All that they would find here was death. She turned her attention back to the situation at hand, sending that thought away forever. This was the last chance they had to take back Middle Earth, once and for all, and if she didn't die here she would die a coward running away.

"I'm ready," She whispered to herself, hand grasping the hilt of the sword at her side.

The figure in black suddenly ran back to his horse, and with the servants following galloped back to the gate. They blew horns, signaling the attack that had been waiting for them all along. The drums began beating furiously, and the gate swung open, even as the host led by Aragorn rode back to rejoin the formation. The horses were driven off towards the others, following Mithrandir's grey stallion, and the captains took their posts. Aragorn and Gandalf stood upon one hillock, raising the banner of the white tree and stars, and upon the other hill was furled the banners of Rohan and Dol Amroth. Elladan and Elrohir took command at the front line of the Dúnedain, and Prince Imrahil to his men next to them.

"Forward spears!" Ordered Prince Imrahil.

The spear-men were at the front, and faced them out to the oncoming assault. A massive force of Easterlings was marching straight towards them. From either side, coming down from the hills came masses of orcs, already outnumbering the force as they surrounded them. The first assault broke upon the line of spears, and the Easterlings broke through. Daeril drew her sword, keeping slightly crouched to maintain her balance and avoid the arrows that were singing overhead. The commands of the sons of Elrond and Imrahil faded as her vision constricted, and it seemed as though her heart roaring in her ears was the only noise there was. An Easterling approached, scimitar coming for her neck to take her head off. She caught the blow with an uppercut, the smaller blade glancing off her long-sword. Feinting to the right, she spun, catching the Easterling in the back of the neck.

That one fell, only to be replaced by another. This one earned a blow under the arm from Daeril, as Aeldis followed up with a head shot. Daeril met Aeldis's eyes, nodding a thank you before retaking a defensive stance. The ground shook as massive troll's came upon the front line, sending many of the Gondorian soldiers flying. The Nazgûl dove in and out of the battle, the great beasts diving with claws outstretched and grabbing unfortunate soldiers who stood in their path. Daeril felt someone push her towards the hillock where Aragorn's banner stood, and a voice told her to run. Before she could protest, she was fighting through, reaching the hill where the orcs were making their sport. The orcs went down easier than Easterlings, she felt, mostly due to lack of humanity than lack of skill. She turned, feeling the wind above her change and the sound of leathery wings. A fell beast was coming towards the hillock, ready to take more men for a flight.

Daeril hastily drew her bow, fumbling over her shoulder for an arrow. She grasped one of them after a moments struggle, and notched it. The fell beast descended, claws extending. Daeril hastily aimed, and then released. The arrow hit the fell beast in the base of its neck, sending it veering off screaming. It did not fall, but its retreat spared those that were in its path. She continued shooting, taking out smaller targets. Orcs were easy pickings with a bow, and the hillock gave her a decent vantage point.

The breath was driven from her lungs as something hit her hard from behind. The pain drove her to one knee, gasping for air. An orc, seeing her in a vulnerable position, launched forward, slashing at Daeril's legs with its sword. She rallied fast enough to draw her knife, but the orc's blade caught her in the left thigh, cutting deep into the muscle. Her knife blade sunk into the orc's eye socket, and it fell over dead. Daeril collapsed forward, catching herself before she face planted in the dirt. There was no time to inspect her wounds, she had to get to safety before something else attacked her or she got trampled. She could breath again, as painful as it was, and although the leg smarted at every step, she could walk.

"The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!" A loud voice cried out. Many voices returned the call, and even the enemy's attention was turned to the sky above. Out of the western sky flew the great Eagles, heading straight for the Nazgûl. The Nazgûl turned and flew back into the black land as a loud call came from Barad-dûr in the distance.

Rallying, the soldiers began to charge the enemy, a renewed sense of hope kindling. Daeril charged alongside both Rohirrim and men of Gondor, now displaced from her fellow rangers. It didn't matter, they were all fighting for the same side and united regardless of where they were from.

"Stand, Men of the West!" Gandalf cried aloud. "Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom."

The charge was cut short, and all waited as the ground began to shake, more than before. A darkness shot into the sky in the black land, as the mountain of fire erupted. Before them, the two Towers of the Teeth crumbled, falling where they stood, and the great Black Gate was cast down in the earthquake. The loudest rumbling noise Daeril had or would ever hear came from deep in Mordor, continuing on as all that Sauron built was cast down.

"The realm of Sauron is ended!" Mithrandir announced. "The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his quest."

The noise ceased, and the darkness disappeared. It was as if everyone had been in a trance, man, orc, and beast, and suddenly all were free. Orcs and other creatures fled the battle, going back to the hills or into Mordor itself, casting themselves in pits or upon their own weapons. Many Easterlings and Southrons fled, but a large number continued the assault, their hatred for the united peoples of the West and their great captains fueling one more stand. Daeril held her sword in her left hand, her usual sword arm nearly useless, impinged by an arrow in her upper back. She dispatched another Easterling, but was weakening and becoming sloppy. The next one had the upper hand on her, and even as she blocked the sword, a tremor of pain sent her to her knees. Someone else took the Easterling down, and Daeril collapsed.

"Stay down!"

Daeril looked up from her position on the ground, seeing Elladan. The elf held her shoulder as he pulled out a sharp elvish blade, shearing off the shaft of the black arrow that protruded from her back. It would need to come out, but not in an open battlefield. An Easterling charged up behind Elladan, ready to strike, but with the last of her strength Daeril drove her sword up into the Easterling's throat. As the ranger slipped into unconsciousness, the Easterling fell gurgling on his own blood. The elf finished him off, returning to the battle.

Chapter Text

Daenir lost track of his sister sometime after the trolls began their assault. She seemed to be holding her own well enough, and she knew how to use her sword, but he still had to worry. Daeril was still young, and inexperienced in true battle. He had been there, long ago, and he knew the fear that battle brought upon the untested. He still felt it, even now.

The battle lasted into the evening, and by the time the last of the Easterlings surrendered it was long since dark. The field was strewn with bodies, of men of Gondor, and Rohan, but mostly the enemy. Against all odds, the Host of the West had come out victorious, but the cost was great. Daenir began to comb the battlefield. looking for Daeril. A young Rohirrim, bleeding heavily from a head wound, begged him for help. He dragged him to his feet, ensuring he could stand on his own.

"You will live," Daenir told him. "Put pressure on the wound. Get to the horses."

A glint of silver caught his eye, and he knew it was one of the rayed star brooches they all wore. He turned the body over, and his heart sank both in sadness and relief. It was not Daeril, but Aeldis. She had lived such a long life, only to have it taken from her before she could see her Chieftain become king. She had been Daeril's age when Arathorn was killed, and had been a guide to many of the rangers, including Aragorn himself. Daenir shut Aeldis's eyes, and placed her sword in her hands, which he lay on her still chest.

"Aeldis is gone?" Thannor asked, walking up beside Daenir. "I had hoped she survived the hit. We were separated when the Nazgûl swooped in. This is grievous news indeed."

The two rangers hung their heads, a moment of silence for their fallen comrade.

"I do not believe we lost anyone else," Thannor spoke, meaning the Dunedain. "A few wounded, and a couple unaccounted for."

"Have you seen Daeril?"

"She's one of the ones we are looking for. I last saw her running off towards the banner, but I was a bit busy."

The field was becoming hectic, with wagons coming in to take the dead back with them, and horses being brought for the wounded that could ride. Daenir prayed to any Valar that would listen that Daeril was not among those in the wagons.

"I am going to fetch my horse. She could have gone to find that crazed horse of hers, if I see her I will send her to you."

"Thank you, Thannor."

Daenir headed towards the hill where the banner still stood, where Aragorn had been commanding the battle. There were so many bodies on the ground, and it was so dark, that he was beginning to give up. Maybe Daeril had gone off to that blasted animal, or was wandering around looking for him and they would be at this all night.

"Daeril!" He called again, walking the perimeter of the hill.

"Daenir!" A man's voice responded.

Daenir hurried to the voice, and found Hador kneeling over the body of his sister. His heart nearly stopped at the sight of her pale face.

"She lives," Hador said. "Elladan bid me stay with her while he fetches horses."

Daenir knelt at her side, happy to see the rise and fall of her chest. There was a leather strap bound tightly on her upper leg, and bandages completely soaked with dark blood below. Daeril stirred, and came to as he spoke to her.

"Daenir!" She cried, trying to sit up but stopped by a grimace of pain.

"Lie still," He ordered. "Help is coming."

A look of panic came across her face, and she tried to reach down to the wounded leg.

"I can't feel my leg!" She was breathing fast now. "They took it?"

"I can assure you it is very much still attached." Daenir said. "It is bound to keep it from bleeding. Please, lie back."

"Get this damn arrow out of me, and I will." She growled, sitting upright against their protests.

Elladan arrived with his and Daeril's horses just in time.

"She is awake!" He halted the horses. "Daeril, do you think you can ride on your own?"

"Of course I can," She hissed as Daenir helped her to her feet. The bound leg was fully numb and could not hold weight.

"Good, you will ride Lossel."

"I can ride Rocky." She was so in love with that mad horse.

"He's already tried to bolt twice walking over here," Elladan handed his grey mare's reins to Daenir. "We do not need you falling off a horse."

Resigning her fate, Daeril allowed Daenir to lift her onto Lossel's back. She could not sit up completely straight, but the big mare was not bothered by her slouching rider. Daeril let her legs dangle out of the stirrups, the wounded leg useless.

"Aragorn has gone to the Field of Cormallen. The Dunedain are yours to lead, now, Daenir. Gather the rest, and find us there." Elladan spoke as he mounted Rocky. The smaller horse pinned his ears, but let the elf stroke his neck regardless of any grudge he held for him.

"If you feel as though you will faint, or fall, let him know," Daenir instruced Daeril. "I know how stubborn you can be. So don't be, please."

"I will be as dramatic as possible," Daeril gave Lossen a squeeze with her good leg. "Do not worry about me, Daenir."

He couldn't help but worry as she rode away.

Elladan and Daeril rode among a host of Gondorian soldiers riding to the Cormallen. Elladan kept checking in, speaking to her of lighter matters to keep her mind off the pain. The first couple hours of the ride she would respond just fine, but soon she grew quiet, agitated even, and her responses became one word answers. A sheen of sweat was on her brow, and she fidgeted in the saddle, peeling off her grey cloak and strapping it to the front of her saddle.

"Elladan," She slurred. "How much further?"

"A couple more hours, If that," Elladan noted the ranger's pallor, and profuse sweating. He had seen this before, long ago, his mother suffering from orc poison. It had to be the arrow, he hadn't gotten a good look at it on the battlefield, but the signs were making themselves clear.

He pulled out a flask, bring Rocky up alongside Lossel. The girl took it, and he could see her arm shaking with the little effort it took.

"Drink this," He ordered, and she obliged, perking up somewhat as the Miruvor went down. He was pleased when she drank a little more, and it steadied her somewhat. The cordial was precious, and usually only consumed in small amounts, but if it kept her alert and alive then she could drink the whole thing as far as he was concerned.

"Miruvor?" She asked.

"Yes. You may hold onto it."

She nodded, sitting up a little straighter. They sped up, Elladan hoping to arrive quicker. The ranger was resilient, but poison did not like to wait. The moon was high in the sky as they rode, shining on the armor of the Gondorians that rode with them. A shadow came over the all, and many cowered believing the fell-beasts had returned.

"It's the Eagles!" Someone called.

Daeril looked up, sure enough seeing several massive birds. They had last been seen flying into the Black Land, and now they headed in the same direction. Elladan was busy calming Rocky, who was prancing with the whites of his eyes showing.

"Daro, Rocky. Farn!" Daeril snapped at the horse.

Rocky returned to a normal pace, snorting. The elf grinned.

"Never a dull moment," Elladan spoke, scratching the gelding's withers.

They were at the Field of Cormallen within two hours, having picked up the pace considerably. There had been tents set up already, likely by those that had been guarding the Crossroads and the detachment that had gone to Cair Andros. The Eagles had reached the camp well before them, and were taking off as they arrived. Rocky didn't seem to notice, this time, and went peacefully with the young Rohirrim soldier who came forward to take the horses from Elladan. Elladan lifted Daeril off of Lossel, carrying her over his shoulder. She was too exhausted and ill to protest.

Those with any healing skill were already at work, helping the wounded as they came in. Elladan brought Daeril to an unclaimed tent, hoping to give her some decency in a camp full of men. He set her down on a cot while he went into his pack for supplies. Any ranger worth his salt traveled with healing supplies, and being the son of Elrond the great healer himself, his selection was extensive. He wished more than anything that he had a female healer to help the girl out of her armor, but with he was on his own. Removing the arrow without anyone to keep her still would be a task in itself.

"Daeril, goheno nin."

The remainder of the Grey Company arrived at camp by dawn, battered and exhausted, but in good spirits for the most part. None of them thought they would make it through the battle, and yet all had triumphed. Daenir went immediately to find his sister, searching through the camp until he found someone he knew.

"Daenir?"

Daenir came face to face with an old friend. The ranger of Ithilien that stood before him had become a man since he had last seen him, a young recruit training for the tough life of a Southern ranger.

"Mablung!"

The two men embraced.

"You are looking for your sister, I presume."

"Aye. I trust you know where she is?"

"I will bring you to her."

Daenir followed the younger ranger to a small tent, where inside lay Daeril on a cot, turned on her side. Someone had dressed her in a shirt that was far too large, and underneath her back and shoulder were heavily bandaged. Her pant leg had been cut to shreds, and the thigh wound was now bound and not quite as bloody. That was a good sign, at least. Daenir came to her side, speaking her name. She did not stir.

"The arrow was poisoned," Mablung said. "Lord Elladan saw to her wounds. He went to find herbs, I think. Supplies here are unfortunately low."

Daenir touched his sister's face, nearly recoiling at the heat coming off of her skin. Her breath was shallow and fast. Elladan wouldn't have left her alone if she was in danger of dying, but she certainly was not doing well now. He investigated the small table where some bottles and bandages and a bowl of water stood. Willowbark, feverfew, yarrow root, and finally a reddish liquid in a glass vial. Lostaloth, as the elves called it, the sleep flower. It took away pain and brought sleep to those with agonizing wounds, but it had a power over men that could turn even the strongest warrior to sickly and thieving.

Mablung took his leave, and Daenir stayed sitting beside Daeril's bedside. She mumbled in her sleep every now and then, and would toss and turn, but her wounds prevented her from moving very much. The fever lingered, and seemed to only get worse. Daenir did not want to leave his sister's side, lest she awaken or something were to happen, but he had half a mind to hunt down that elf and accost him for taking so long. He had healing herbs here, so where had he gone? At last, Elladan returned, flanked by none other than Aragorn. The Chieftain looked completely spent, weary beyond belief. And although he was about to be crowned king, he was dressed like a ranger again, tunic sleeves rolled up and hair its usual wild mess. Daenir looked up at Aragorn, his leader and dear friend, and although he said nothing he pleaded to him with his eyes.

"I will do what I can for her, Daenir."

Daenir watched as Aragorn prepared the Athelas, the sweet fumes filling the tent. His heart felt lighter as he inhaled it. Daeril began to stir as Aragorn spoke to her in Sindarin, mopping her brow with a cloth soaked in the Athelas.

"Daeril... tolo anin. Le nestathon."

Chapter Text

The face of her chieftain shifted in and out of focus as Daeril blinked the sleep from her eyes. She had been dreaming so deeply it had been a struggle to break free of its grip. A wet warmth was on her brow, and Aragorn had his hand on her head. For a moment she thought she was a child again, ill and fevered as her father took care of her. Aragorn's face shifted to that of Rýndir, but then Aragorn called to her again and the hallucination ended.

"Am I dying?" She slurred.

"No. Not today," Aragorn removed the cloth from her head, replacing it with one that was cooler. The chilled water felt good against her burning skin. "You fought bravely, but I need you to fight a little longer."

Elladan had removed the arrow, having had to cut into Daeril's back with a blade to get the head out. It had bled, quite a bit, the blood thick and blackened. Most of the tarry poison had come out when he irrigated the wound, but much had also entered her blood. Aragorn knew that any average man would have been dead already, but those of Numenorean blood did not succumb so easily.

"Try to drink this," Aragorn helped Daeril to drink the warm liquid that Elladan had prepared, some mix of herbs and Athelas. She choked it down, the taste of bitter herbs nearly making her retch.

Aragorn beckoned Daenir over, and he came to his sister's side. Daeril's eyes were glazing over, the fever not yet broken. Her breathing had slowed and deepened, a good sign. The Athelas appeared to be doing its job, under command of the future king. Aragorn took Daeril's hand in his, but she had already drifted off to sleep again. He said something to her, so quietly that Daenir couldn't hear what he said, then stood up.

"I believe she is out of immediate danger," Aragorn told Daenir. "The fever is breaking. If she awakens, have her drink more of that. If she gets worse, you know where to find me."

He clasped Daenir on the shoulder as he left. Elladan stayed a moment longer.

"I will stay with her if you need rest, Daenir."

"No, I will be fine. Thank you, Elladan."

The Field of Cormallen was a constant buzz of activity. Men were arriving in droves for days, many wounded, but almost everyone was in good spirits. Daeril knew there was much to be joyful for, but her heart was heavy. She had been laid up for several days, ill beyond anything she had ever known. Daenir barely left her side, but she could not remember anything she had spoken to him of in her delirium. It wasn't until she was finally on her feet, limping around on her own, that he told her that Aeldis had fallen in the battle.

The pain of losing another dear friend was worse than any wound she bore, and she wished the arrow had taken her at the field of battle so she did not have to mourn anyone else. She had screamed when Daenir spoke the news, so loudly that guards had come running. She had loved Faron, and he died. Boromir had been a friend to her, and he died. Halbarad had been part of her life since she was born, he died. Her mother, she hadn't even known, had died because of her. And now Aeldis.

"I should have died." Daeril's voice was hoarse, spent from hysterics. She had never felt so much overwhelming grief and anger, and it all hit at once. Too long she had been strong, too long she had pushed the thoughts of Faron's untimely death at the hands of the Nazgul aside.

"No. Do not say that." Daenir clung to her as they both knelt on the ground of the tent. "You live for a reason."

"Everyone died because of me," She sobbed. "I could not save any of them."

"You can't save everyone. If we could, I would have saved father. I wasn't there, and I don't know If it would have changed how things turned out... but I don't regret that I got to raise you, because he died. I've lost many friends, and not a day goes by that I don't wish them back... but they died so all of us could be here, standing at Aragorn's side."

"But Faron... I loved him."

"I know you did. And he loved you. But he will not be the last to love you."

Thannor appeared at the tent flap, and Daenir nodded that all was well. The older ranger left the siblings alone. Daeril's energy was spent from crying, her wounds aching. She had wanted to get out, and take part in the festivities and fresh air, but healing was tiring. It felt, however, as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, one that had been burdening her since that night at Sarn Ford, which seemed so long ago. Daenir helped her back to the cot.

"Rest. I will not be far if you need me," He said, kissing her forehead.

When Daenir was certain his sister was asleep, he quietly left the tent. Thannor was not far, sitting outside the tent they shared, drinking ale by the fire.

"Everything well?" Thannor asked, taking a swig.

"As well as things can be," Daenir sat. "She carries a lot of guilt when she shouldn't. You were right about Faron."

"Of course I was right!" He laughed. "Those two thought nobody knew, but we all did. Boy couldn't stop staring at her when he thought no one was looking."

"It's a sad loss. I wish I had known when I saw her in Imladris, she never told me."

"She wouldn't have," Thannor handed Daenir a mug of ale. "She's just like you that way."

"I fear I'll lose her," Daenir let the bitter ale wash over his tongue. "What if she can't handle the life I dragged her into? She's lost so much so young."

"She is harder than you give her credit. I saw her face down the Nazgûl twice." Thannor's eyes flicked upward, as though saying the word would bring them back. They were gone for good, hopefully. "Scared to death, no doubt, but she knows her duty and she does it without question. Most men cowered at the sight. And she's not so young anymore, mind you, we're getting old."

"I suppose you're right."

A new day brought peace to Daeril's heart. She rose at dawn, feeling better than she had in a week. The wounds ached, but it was a dull pain, and strength was beginning to return to her. She left the tent, venturing in a different direction than the only one she had been traveling since waking up here, being the path to the woods which served as the privy. Today she had an old friend to find, one whom she wished to see above all others. Not many residents of the encampment were awake, but upon reaching the corral area, she could see that the horses had been attended to, and were eating hay peacefully.

Some of the horses were far out in the paddock, grazing, and when she did not see Rocky in the closer herd, she went into the paddock, making her way across the field. One of the brown shapes in the distance had to be him. She could hear hoofbeats coming up behind her, and turned to see Mithrandir's horse had decided to follow her.

"Shadowfax," She stopped as the great silver horse approached, sniffing her. He lowered his head, and she rubbed his forehead. He closed his eyes in gratitude. He may be the lord of all horses, but he did not deny the simple pleasures of horsedom. "I am looking for Rocky. You may join me, if you like."

She began walking, and Shadowfax followed. Rocky was on the far end, eating in a massive patch of clover. She took a moment to admire how different he looked from the scrappy horse she got in Bree. His black mane was grown out a few inches, and he even had a forelock as opposed to the little tuft he had in Rivendell. His brown coat had started to shed, and shined with luster in the sun. He was well muscled, his stocky legs bulging at the shoulder and his gaskins. He did not look up when Daeril approached, rather moved away, not wishing to be disturbed from his busy work on maintaining the clover field.

"Rocky, do you not miss me?"

The gelding twitched an ear towards her, but continued to eat. Fine laughter startled her, coming from nearby. She looked up to see Legolas, walking up from the nearby river's edge. Of course he had heard her talking to her horse, blast that perfect elvish hearing.

"He has been beside himself with worry, Rýndirien! Nearly ate the entire field in anticipation of your return."

"Prince Legolas," She placed her hand over her heart, bowing her head. The elf returned the greeting.

"You look well! I hope your wounds do not pain you too much."

"I feel much better than I have. If I rested any longer I fear I would have gone mad."

Shadowfax sniffed at her side, clearly looking for pockets and what may be in them.

"It appears you have made a friend."

Daeril laughed as Shadowfax twitched his nose, trying to get into her pocket. For being chief of the Mearas he certainly could act like a normal horse.

"Feed a horse once and they love you for life. Unless of course it's Rocky."

She turned out her pockets, showing Shadowfax that they were in fact empty. He snorted, and walked over to Rocky, pushing the smaller horse away from his feast. Rocky pinned his ears, but complied. He picked his head up, walking toward Daeril, but then going to Legolas instead. The Prince of Mirkwood laughed, scratching the gelding behind his ears.

"I do not think it is personal, mellon."

In the two weeks since the battle, much was done in the Field of Cormallen. In a clearing by the river, away from the encampment, three grassy thrones stood, the banners of Rohan, Dol Amroth and Gondor standing behind them, and many pavilions had been constructed nearby. On the largest throne, in the middle, sat Aragorn, dressed in meticulously polished mail with Anduril across his lap. Daeril stood with the Dunedain in the front rank of a battalion of Rangers of Ithilien and soldiers of Gondor. The reflection on everyone's armor, shined up for the occasion, was almost bliding. Her own mail had been replaced, unsalvageable after being wounded in battle, and she had to admit she looked like a warrior out of legend, even If she did not feel as one.

They had been told that the halflings had risen and were on there way, and had formed their ranks accordingly. After the first half hour of standing in formation, Daeril was getting antsy. Her leg hurt, the muscle not fully healed, and her back was starting to nag at her. She could hear rustling of chainmail as almost everyone started to fidget, bending knees so as to not pass out. If this was what life was going to be like serving directly under the King, she wasn't sure she could hold up with the ceremonies for very long. Finally, after the agonizing wait, two small figures appeared, followed by Mithrandir in his bright white robes. At Prince Imrahil's signal, they drew their swords, raising them high, the opposing battalions creating somewhat of a tunnel for them to walk through. Everyone began shouting praises to the halflings, the ringbearer and his loyal friend.

"Cuio i Pheriain anann! Aglar'ni Pheriannath!"

"Praise them with great praise!"

"Cormacolindor, a laita tárienna!"

"Praise them!"

The noise was overwhelming, and the poor hobbits looked like they would die of embarrassment. Aragorn stood, coming down to greet them. Frodo, the ringbearer, recognizing Aragorn even in his finery, ran forward. Aragorn dropped to one knee, and taking their hands, led them to the thrones on either side, Frodo at his right and Sam on the left.

"Praise them with great praise!" Aragorn cried, and the rest followed once more.

To Daeril's great dismay, a young man came forth, asking to sing. She had never liked minstrel types, having had a spat or two with a rather annoying one in Bree who liked to swindle money in any way he could, on top of being tone deaf.

"Lo! lords and knights and men of valour unashamed, kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Riders of Rohan, and ye sons of Elrond, and Dúnedain of the North, and Elf and Dwarf, and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my lay. For I will sing to you of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom."

Daeril had to admit the minstrel was quite good, as he sang a song both sweet and sad, in both elvish and common, and his powerful voice carried through the crowd leaving them in silence. She had to blink away the tears that threatened to fall, nearly failing in preventing them until the minstrel finally finished.

"Praise them with great praise!" He said as he knelt.

Aragorn stood, and led the great migration to the pavilions where a feast would be served. The Dunedain, save for Daenir and the sons of Elrond, gathered with the Ithilien Rangers to feast together. It had been a long time since Daeril had taken part in any formal dinner, having skipped out on the big feast they had had in Rivendell, and she was more than relieved to not have to sit at the King's table. She already felt out of place being a woman among thousands of men, even though she knew there were women among the Rohirrim, having to eat and drink in front of royals was not an attractive concept.

After all honored the Standing Silence, looking to the West in a moment of silence as was the tradition in Gondor and among the Ithilien Rangers, the feast began. Wine and ale were brought forth, and massive amounts of food. The rangers had a toast, to fallen friends and new friends, and a new age for middle earth. Before all had finished their meals, many more toasts were given. Daeril almost could not keep up with the toasts, even having to change over to ale from the wine lest she drink herself under the table.

"Mae Govannen, Rýndirien!" One of the Ithilien Rangers slid in next to Hador, across the table from her.

"Suilad," She replied.

"You probably do not remember me. I am Mablung."

She studied his face, noting his bright grey eyes, well trimmed beard, altogether handsome features. She shook her head.

"Sorry, cannot say I do."

"It is no matter. You were quite injured when we met, I'm afraid. I know your brother from his time here."

"Do you? Tell me, then- the Mumak story... did it really happen?"

Mablung laughed, long and deep.

"I do not know if he actually saw one, but I was with the patrol that came back with him to look. Biggest doe I've ever seen, but no Mumak. He will never live that down."

The table was quite loud, a drinking game having begun at the center of it. Daeril had drank too much too quickly, and was becoming hot and dizzy, especially wearing all the armor for ceremony's sake.

"I need to... feed the horses." She said, standing and having to grab the table as she swayed.

"The horses are being looked after already," Hador said. "Sit. Enjoy yourself for once."

The feast continued into the evening, many revelers going off to continue drinking and celebrating. Daeril, having sobered up considerably, walked with her cousins, Corudan and his brother Aglaron, to watch the sunset over the Anduin. The three looked very much alike to anyone that saw them, young but weathered and stern, all dark haired and grey eyed. Corudan, who was only one month older than Daeril and thus very close to her when they were growing up, was quite drunk. Daeril and Aglaron walked close by him as they went out onto the docks, lest he stumble and fall in the river.

"Cousin... remember Pelennor?" Corudan chuckled.

"Yes, I remember." Daeril steadied him as the dock moved under their feet.

"I didn't know you couldn't swim." He teased.

"I can swim, dear cousin. If you desire to know what it's like to fall in a river in full armor, I would be much obliged to demonstrate."

"No, no. Just reminiscing."

The three cousins passed the great ships docked on the river, those of Dol Amroth with carved swan heads at the prow. They were much more stable looking than the Corsair ships they had commandeered, but Daeril was still apprehensive about taking them back to Minas Tirith. She had half a mind to leave early on horseback, but Aragorn had made it clear he needed all the Dunedain at his side, and that meant traveling with him on the ships.

"Have you thought of where you will go once all of this is over?" Aglaron asked as they took a seat on a bench at the end of the dock.

"Nay," Daeril rubbed her thigh, trying to quell the itch of her wound but wincing at the contact. "I did not expect to survive, truth be told. I supposed I will go wherever Aragorn sends me?"

"Some of us will go to Annuminas," Aglaron kept his voice low. "Aragorn has plans to rebuild it. The last I was there it was overrun with Southrons. Our father is there still. When the King gives us leave, I will go join him. You are welcome to come."

"She's going to turn into a lady of the court the moment she gets her first taste of it," Corudan ruffled Daeril's hair. "Marry some elvish prince."

Daeril nearly choked with laughter.

"Aye, cousin. I only have eyes for men two thousand years and older."

"That's too bad. Poor Mablung will be heartbroken." Aglaron said.

"What?" Daeril's attention went straight to her eldest cousin.

"Mablung? The Ithilien Ranger?"

"What did he say about me?" She was very interested now.

"Nothing... just asked your name."

"Whether you really were a girl," Corudan added.

"Marital status. That sort of thing," Aglaron winked. "Did he talk to you at the feast?"

"He did, a little... did he really ask about me?"

Corudan was chortling now.

"That's all he asked about you," Aglaron said. "I didn't pry any further."

As the last of the red glow disappeared into the horizon, the cousins continued to talk, listening to the gulls calling overhead. Soon they would sail down that very river, and the King would return to Gondor. But for now, they world was still, and all those present enjoyed rest in a beautiful land, in a new age.

Chapter Text

The days flew by while preparations were made for the return to Minas Tirith, and many were growing restless. It had been weeks since the battle, and most minor hurts were healed, and those that had gone further into Mordor had returned. Every day was spent planning logistics for traveling back, and the situation in the city upon Aragorn taking the crown. Faramir, the new Steward of Gondor, was still recovering, and thus stayed in the city, but sent word with messengers who had traveled with the halfling Meriadoc.

Daeril's restlessness was made even worse by the inevitable journey by ship. They would sail out from Cair Andros, on the ships from Dol Amroth, arriving at the Quays of Harlond once more. She wanted to ride all the way back, to avoid being on the boats, but the road was a longer route and it made her look weak. If she couldn't handle a boat ride, how could she ever be taken seriously as one of the King's men? Especially as a woman.

"Rocky, please just go on," Daeril muttered to the gelding, walking down the dock to their ship. "We have been through much worse. We're going home now."

His ears were forward, eyes focused on the great ships ahead and everyone milling about. He lifted his legs over-dramatically as they crossed the dock, snorting at everyone they passed. It didn't help that she had not been able ride him while recovering, and then everything became busy... he had too much energy for his own good. They got to the ramp, this one wider than the one on the Corsair vessels, and far more welcoming. Daeril walked forward, determined to get on the boat without Rocky putting her in the water. Rocky hesitated, momentarily, and then followed. Daeril didn't release her breath until he was in the bowels of the ship, safely tied in the narrow stalls. She bid him a quick thanks for not making a scene, and returned topside.

"He seems to be doing better," Daenir remarked, joining her at the rail.

"The real test is getting off the ship," She ran her hand absently over the smooth wooden rail. "How far is it from here?"

"Not far. We should reach Osgiliath in the evening."

The sailing was smooth, and although Daeril felt somewhat ill, she did not spend the trip hanging over the side of the ship. There was something to be said for the great ships of Dol Amroth, they barely rocked in the current. In the last of evening, they reached the city of Osgiliath, the ruins a stark reminder of how much of a toll the war had taken on this land. Men were manning the port, catching lines as the ships pulled in to the docks.

Daeril waited until the ship had mostly cleared out, those on foot disembarking, and slipped down to the lower level to fetch her mount. Elrohir walked up the ramp leading Roheryn, but stopped when he saw Daeril.

"Daeril, take him. You don't want to go down there."

"What is wrong?" She took Roheryn's lead, confused.

"Just go, I will find you."

Roheryn was professional in everything he did, and walked off the ship with no fuss. Daeril spotted Legolas leading his horse Arod, and caught up with him. The elf nodded to her.

"Roheryn appears to have fared better than some of the others," Legolas said.

"What happened?"

"A stallion got loose and picked a fight. There were some injuries."

"I knew I should have stayed with them." Daeril felt immensely guilty.

"It is not your fault, these things happen."

The elf and ranger reached the stables, handing the horses off to the stablemen. It was the first time in a very long time that the horses would sleep in an actual stall, and although the city had seen better days, the accommodations for the horses were quite welcoming. Daeril felt herself longing for the stables of Imladris, and her dear mentor Ladrochan.

As Daeril made to leave the stable yard, Aragorn entered leading Rocky. Her horse was limping, badly. She ran to him, panic setting in. She had promised Rocky safety, and he trusted her, and now he was hurt. Everything they had worked for was going to be ruined, and he would never trust her again. Flesh was hanging from his chest below a gaping wound, blood making his fur dark all the way down his right front leg.

"Daeril, I can help him but he needs to stay calm. You are not helping in this state."

She backed away, trying to composed herself. She had been terribly wounded and barely batted an eye... but her horse she had grown very found of, and seeing him bleeding and in obvious pain was too much.

"What can I do?" She more ordered than asked.

Aragorn turned his grey eyes to her own, and she feared he would send her away.

"Go to the stable master. Ask for needle and thread. And Valerian root."

She hurried to find the stable master, knowing that Aragorn had more important things to do than to help her poor horse, and wanting to stop Rocky's pain as fast as possible. Finally she found someone who knew where things were, and returned to Aragorn with thick thread, a needle which she managed to stick herself with, and the root he had asked for.

"Aragorn, I can see to the horse," Elrohir held Rocky's lead now, as Aragorn washed the wound on his chest. "You must be busy."

"No," Aragorn snapped. "Daeril has served me faithfully, I can spare a moment to heal her horse."

Daeril approached, having overheard them and had to stifle a grin. This was what would make King Elessar a great one, his love for his people and even horses, and selflessness were not lost upon his status.

"I have what you asked for," Daeril presented her findings.

"Good," Aragorn tore off a piece of the root, handing it back to Daeril. "Feed this to him, it should help to calm him. I cannot sew the wound if he decides to rear up."

Rocky sniffed at the root apprehensively, but then ate it off of Daeril's palm. He snorted, looking for more treats. Aragorn finished cleaning the gash while they waited for the root to take effect. By the time he had finished, Rocky's head began to droop. Elrohir passed the lead off to Daeril, called away by Elladan. Daeril watched Aragorn's handiwork, folding the flap of skin back into place, and slowly stitching it with practiced grace. When he finished, it was far less ugly to look at.

"Walk him over there, then trot back." Aragorn ordered.

She walked forward, her now complacent horse following after. He moved gingerly, but did not limp as severely as before. Once she brought him out far enough to turn around, she clucked to him and ran beside him as he trotted back. Aragorn watched him move, then ran a hand down each of his legs when he stopped.

"Will he be alright?"

"He may be a bit lame for a while, but he will recover. It's best if he is on stall rest for a time."

"I have to leave him here? In Osgiliath?"

"I am afraid so. We will find you another mount for the time being. I need all of you by my side when we come to the City."

The host stayed in Osgiliath for a day, arriving at the Pelennor Fields the next evening, where they set up camp for one more night. All last preparations were completed, and in the morning the host headed for the city.

Daeril rode Arraben, her brother's grey mare, as Daenir had bought a war-steed off of one of the Rohirrim. Daenir had never looked more proud as he strode next to them on his massive red stallion. Daeril was saddened by the absence of her Rocky, but had to push all feelings aside- they were so close to the fulfillment of years and years of waiting for the most important moment of their lives.

The company dismounted on the road to the front gate, leaving the horses as they continued to the city in procession. Aragorn walked foremost, flanked by Gandalf, Prince Imrahil, and the four hobbits. The Dunedain followed. Daeril tried to focus on Aragorn, and not on the crowd that was gathered in front of the gates, but they walked right into the midst of the soldiers of Gondor and the citizens, until Aragorn came to a halt before the (still broken) gate. A single trumpet sounded, and silence came upon all. Two men came forward, flanked by four of the Tower Guard bearing a black and silver casket

Daeril had to catch her breath when she saw the man who now knelt before Aragorn, thinking him to be Boromir for one hopeful moment. It could only be his brother, Faramir.

"The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office." Holding a white rod out to Aragorn.

"That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall last," Aragorn spoke, handing Faramir back the rod. "Do now thy office!"

Faramir stood before all, speaking loud and clear.

"Men of Gondor hear now the Steward of this Realm! Behold! one has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Númenor. Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?"

The cries of approval were deafening.

"Men of Gondor, the loremasters tell that it was the custom of old that the king should receive the crown from his father ere he died; or if that might not be, that he should go alone and take it from the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid. But since things must now be done otherwise, using the authority of the Steward, I have today brought hither from Rath Dínen the crown of Eärnur the last king, whose days passed in the time of our longfathers of old."

The guards brought forth the casket, out of which Faramir drew a white winged crown. Aragorn took it from him, raising it high.

"Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!" He handed the crown back to Faramir, a move nobody expected. "By the labour and valour of many I have come into my inheritance. In token of this I would have the Ring-bearer bring the crown to me, and let Mithrandir set it upon my head, if he will; for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory."

Gandalf and Frodo the halfling went forward, and taking the crown from Faramir, Frodo passed it off to Gandalf. Aragorn knelt, and Gandalf placed the crown upon his head.

"Now come the days of the King, and may they be blessed while the thrones of the Valar endure!" Spoke Gandalf.

Tears threatened to fall from Daeril's eyes as she beheld her Chieftain, finally wearing the crown he had worked his whole life to earn. He had always been a king in her eye, but the man that stood before them now was so different from the ranger she had known all her life. He was now Elessar, the king of the reunited kingdom.

"Behold the king!" Faramir cried.

Trumpets sounded, and music and voices of joy and celebration filled the air as they entered the city. The streets were laden with flowers, a stark contrast to the still heavily damaged city that surrounded them. The celebration continued through the whole day, and Daeril found herself overwhelmed with all the people she was being introduced to, and the crowds and the noise. Maybe nobody would notice if she slipped out and made a run for it, but then there was the problem of finding her way through the city now that they were in the citadel, so far from the main gate.

Her salvation came in the form of Prince Imrahil, escorting a figure she nearly did not recognize, draped in an expensive looking white gown and her golden hair flowing in the light breeze. She bowed to the prince, but could not take her eyes off the Lady Eowyn, how different and happy she now looked.

"My Lady Éowyn, this is Daeril of the Dunedain. I do not know If you have met."

"Well met, my lady," Daeril greeted with a slight bow of her head. Éowyn returned the nod.

"I did not know a woman traveled with the Dunedain," Éowyn's face looked both thrilled and suspicious.

"There were two of us, my lady. I supposed I looked quite like a man when we came to Dunharrow, we had been traveling for quite a long time."

Both the prince and Éowyn laughed.

"I will leave you two to talk," Prince Imrahil said, clasping Daeril on the shoulder and then slipping away.

"Come, let us walk. It is far too noisy out here."

The two young women left the courtyard, Éowyn leading the way. She was constantly bombarded by well-wishers as they walked, and Daeril overheard some congratulatory remarks. Finally they reached a quiet stairway, which led up onto a deserted lookout point on the walls. They stood looking out over the Pelennor, the blue sky and green grass gently blowing in the wind so much more serene than it had been just over a month prior. Both had fought on that field, neither knowing the other was there.

"I heard what you did at the Battle of the Pelennor. That was very brave."

"Brave? Nay, it was my duty. I should have gone with your company into the Dwimoberg, but Lord... King, Aragorn forbid me."

Daeril remembered it clearly, Éowyn begging Aragorn to let her come, to prove her worth. She had pitied her then, but she did not pity her now.

"It was a journey I do not wish upon anyone," Daeril said quietly. "Had Aragorn not been leading us, I believe we would have died of fear itself on that path."

Daeril studied Éowyn's face, her stern gaze set far out beyond the field below them. She looked as though she wanted to say something, but did not speak. She knew the girl had some infatuation with Aragorn, but he very clearly rejected her in the nicest way possible. She was so young, especially compared to him, and he already had Lady Arwen in his heart, and could love no other. Of course he was handsome, and lordly, and everyone who knew him loved him.

"Are you the woman..." Éowyn paused, as if pondering how to deliver what she was about to ask. "Whom Aragorn loves?"

Daeril had to stop the laughter that threatened to spill forth from her quivering lips. She was the last person in all of the land who she would ever think could be mistaken for Aragorn's lover.

"Well, I would hope that he loves me, as I am family." Daeril laughed. "But I am not she."

"I am sorry, I just... wanted to know."

"It is fine, my lady."

Éowyn seemed to warm up more to her, and laughed.

"It should not bother me anymore. I have found one whom I love, and he loves me. That is all that matters. But tell me, how are you of relation to the king?"

"Distantly. My mother was his cousin. Her brother, my uncle, was a great man. He perished on the Pelennor."

"I am sorry," Eowyn said. "I lost my uncle in the battle as well."

"Yes, King Théoden fought bravely. I wish that I could have met him. If he was anything like you and your brother, I am sure I would have liked him."

There was silence once again, and they could hear sounds of celebration in the streets below them. The sun was just starting to set, and a pink glow overtook the distant clouds. The warm air and the late sunset gave promise of a beautiful summer to come, and Daeril couldn't help but feel happy, more so than she had in a long time.

"Do you have anyone, Lady Daeril? Are you married?"

"No... I had someone, but he is gone now. He died half a year ago, slain by Nazgûl."

Éowyn looked shocked, and embarrassed for asking, but Daeril smiled at her.

"It helps to say it, out loud. I think I refused to believe it, for a while, but it happened. His death has been avenged a thousand fold, and I hope he is at peace. I am at peace with it, now."

"What was his name?"

"Faeron. Son of Fuirchon."

They were interrupted by Daenir, appearing with none other than Faramir.

"There you are, my love," Faramir kissed Éowyn's hand.

Daeril's heart skipped a beat seeing Faramir again, how much he looked like Boromir.

"Lord Faramir, this is Daeril, my sister."

Faramir's eyes lit up.

"I am honored to finally meet you," Faramir said. "Your brother here has told me much about you."

"Likewise, my lord."

"Daenir tells me you were a friend to Boromir."

"Yes, we met in Imladris. We talked much in the months he was there."

"I am glad he had a friend in such a strange land."

"And I am glad to have known him."

It was not until late in the evening, nearly midnight, that Daeril returned to camp on the Pelennor with some of her kinsmen. The city was still under construction, leaving very little lodging for anyone save those most important people, and she would not have wanted to stay in stone walls anyway. As she lay in her bedroll she almost felt that the whole day had been a dream, and she would soon wake. Aragorn was king... King Elessar. The war was over. Good had prevailed over evil. Now where did she go from here?