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Chapter Text

September, The Third Age, 3010

Heavy rain pounded against the windows.

An ever present pitter-patter that drowned out the rest of the world.

It was a constant drum, filling the quiet room where only the fire crackled and the dry logs popped in the heat; soft murmurs laced with concern were passed in the dim light around the bed as three figures crouched together over a fourth, the last laying still and unmoving. Puddles of water gathered around them, pooled on the wooden floor and mixed with both mud and blood. Bathed in warmth, golden and gentle, the chill in her body was not from the cold but an all too familiar sense of trepidation. She stood away to the side, hidden and forgotten, away from the light. In the shadows. Her back pressed hard against the wall.

Tears trickled down her chilled cheeks, falling onto her already soaked clothes. When the riders had arrived, shouting for aid, she had spared little thought on the heavy downpour outside and followed the others out. Grey eyes had sought out hers then, amidst a great many people hurrying forward to attend to the injured and the horses, and she had pulled herself through the mud into the house after the men. Following the limp form they pulled in with them.

Snippets and fragmented sentences were all she could glean from the uninjured Rangers, bringing in reports – orcs crossing the Bruinen, more than their scouts had first spoken of. An ambush. Arrows singing through the air, and little more than a panicked retreat had saved the company's lives as they fled into the woods for cover. Their horses knew the way, sure-footed between boles and strangled roots over the darkened forest floor, lid only by the faint light of a crescent moon, and they had managed to outmanoeuver their attackers.

But several of their men had suffered injuries.

She swallowed, mouth as dry as parchment, and she clenched her fingers into fists. Her father had been one of them; she had seen the dark-feathered shafts protruding from his back as they lifted him off the horse. Now dark patches ran along the floor, from the door to the bed, glinting crimson in the light of the fire. First only a few droplets, but quickly they then grew in both numbers and size. He was bleeding out fast. There was no better healer in the entire village than the one present, but even still fear pressed down on her, suffocating, until her breathing was but shallow rasps for air.

Where had the arrows pierced?

How deep?

The white linens became soaked in blood; a bowl of water turned muddy, a swirl of brown and red. Groans of pain erupted. The first arrow was pulled out, tearing muscle and flesh, and another wave of blood oozed from the wound. Pressing her eyes tightly shut, hands on her ears to drown out the horrid sounds, she prayed repeatedly in her mind with desperation. Over and over. Please hear my prayer, she called, o great Estë. Please help my father. Do not take him from me. I beg of you ...

A shout tore through her thoughts, piercingly sharp.

Spare him.

Her eyes snapped open and she felt faint; head heavy as a hollowness seeped from her heart into the rest of her body. Spreading through her chest, running along every nerve to the very tips of her fingers. Her hands fell heavy down her sides. Where there had previously been soft moans of pain and struggled breathing, now there was nothing. Everything was quiet. All too quiet.

She looked toward the bed.

The last arrow had been pulled, discarded on the floor, and the men now struggled to still the bleeding.
The world felt grey, as if a great cover had been pulled over her; smothering all her senses into nothingness. Her sight, her hearing. Only the hammering of her heart resounded in her head. It was not the first time; she had been here before, standing as she did now. Watched as they tried to save her mother, crying out in childbirth – not for herself, but with pleas and prayers to protect the life in her stomach. But the Valar had not listened.

The grasping hands had fallen limp, the words turned feeble until they, too, stilled into silence. She had lost a parent then, and only a few days later her infant brother, frail and born too soon, left for the Halls of Mandos. To be reunited with their beautiful mother waiting for him there.

Was she now to lose another dear to her?

Was her mother waiting once more?

Please, Estë, no.

A soft voice, weakened until it was barely a whisper weak against the din of the downpour, called to her. "My little heart ..." She knew that voice; the first she heard when she woke in the morning, and the last she heard before falling asleep. The one that chased away her fears; taught her how to ride a horse, and told her stories by the fire. Scolded her when she did wrong, and praised her when she did right. Roughly she rubbed her eyes, wiping away the tears, and sniffled. He could not see her cry – she would not let him worry, even though she wanted nothing more than to scream until breaking. Until she felt hollow. "Come ... so that I can see you."

Her eyes flickered to the door. She suppressed the urge to flee.

The adults stepped aside, making enough room for her to move closer. His face was pale, almost white despite the light, and clotted blood ran down his cheek. But she knew him; she recognized him in spite of everything, and she always would. Swearing then, to any greater being that would listen, she would always remember her father as he once was. Not like this, she thought.

Her fingers gripped his much larger hand, squeezing tightly to let him know she was there by his side, for the grey eyes saw naught. They stared ahead, clouded and veiled as if another world was already calling. He did not see her. Did he see her mother? "I am here, father," she croaked, voicing breaking as she willed away her tears. She stroked his hand, tracing every line and scar, so familiar in her own. She would be strong.

A weight was laid carefully on her shoulder, a reassuring presence to support her, and she glanced back onto her uncle. His eyes held compassion; sadness and grief; but also strength enough to help her through this waking nightmare. She held his gaze. Teeth dug into her lower lip and a taste of iron filled her mouth. Swallowing, breathing deeply, she steadied her voice.

"Right here with you," she said.

His hand grasped hers, tighter, a thumb running slowly across her skin. "My sword?" He rasped.

One of the others stepped to the table nearby and fetched a long sheathed blade. It was laid upon her father's chest. Too weak to lift his hand, they helped him clasp the hilt, fingers white as they locked around the metal bound in leather strips. He grasped his sword for the last time. At his neck a silver pendant, shaped like a six-pointed star, was fastened. Gleaming.

It should have been her brother kneeling here, on the cold and hard floor, and not her. And certainly not so soon – far too soon.

"You need not take it," he wheezed, the air now barely filling his lungs. Blood was sleeping in, something was punctured, somewhere, and it took his remaining strength to stay conscious. The dead were calling, she knew that well enough.

She shook her head, then remembered he could not see her. "Of course I will," she said instead, attempting to smile. "I am ready."

Whether it was a cough or a laugh she could not tell, but they both knew the lie she had spoken with honest intentions. She gently pulled one hand free, already then missing his touch, and placed it on his over the hilt. "May the Valar–" He paused, attempting to calm his ragged breathing. He coughed violently; blood trickled down the corner of his mouth. Her sleeves were soaked in crimson as she wiped it away. "–bless and protect you. May your uncle guide you where I cannot."

Tears now ran freely down her face, and sobs pressed against her clenched teeth, but she kept her lips sealed so that no sound could escape. Be strong, be strong, be strong ... Her hand on the sword trembled. Be strong. In those last moments, that felt both agonisingly slow yet so soon gone, it seemed as if the world had frozen; with baited breath she waited, dreaded what was happening. But it was inevitable.

"Rell," he spoke her name. For the last time. "Be safe."

His chest rose no more.

The light left his eyes, turning blank and dull, empty, and the fingers slackened their grip on hers.

She lowered her head. At the age of twelve she took her father's sword as her own, and with it his duties as a Ranger of the North fell upon her shoulders. A Dúnedain sworn to protect the lands from evil; she gently, carefully, loosened the hilt and drew the sword to her. It is heavy, her mind noted dully. Watchers from the Grey Company, now she too would wear the silver star. So very heavy. Clutching the sword to her chest, she looked up onto her uncle. "Will you avenge him?" Despite it all and as a surprise even to her, her voice was even. There was no rage, no sorrow. Acceptance; many before him had fallen in battle, died in the line of duty to protect the hard-fought peace. He would not be the last. Many would fall still.

She knew what it was like to lose someone, for she had seen it time and time again. For a Ranger to never return, and a family to wait yet never see them again. To take a blow, but still be able to get up and to keep going. To carry on living, regardless of the heartache and the loss that would never truly leave. She, too, would get up again. "Will you see to it that the orcs will not live to witness another sunset?"

His dark hair fell into his eyes as he bowed his head.

"Scouts are tracking their trails and reporting back as we speak," he said, "–we have not left them out of sight." With care he pulled a cover over the body, hiding her father from view; then he eased her onto her legs, put a hand over hers on the hilt, and grey eyes pierced her own searchingly. A silver ring rested on his finger, gleaming in the warm glow of the fire, and the two snakes, twisted and intertwined, became almost alive. It held her gaze, unfocused and shaken in her grief, until she calmed her breathing. The Ring of Barahir.

Her only remaining kin now stood before her, promising to bring death upon the orcs.

"I will ride out with the men at dawn."

With that promise she allowed the hollow chill to fill her, sealing the grief from escaping any more than it already had. It would be unbearable. She lowered her gaze, nodding. "Thank you, uncle." She breathed, exhaling slowly through her nose. Silently she made a vow, a vow only she would ever hear. But in the years to come she would cling to it, remind herself over and over of this promise, when she was faced with hardships and the weight of the world bore down upon her.

I will be strong.

When morning dawned, a light grey piercing the darkness through a heavy cover of clouds, she had yet to leave her father's side. White fingers were drawn tightly over the hilt of the sword, resting heavily in her lap as she crouched on the cold floor. Drenched from the downpour, her clothes had turned damp and clammy, and sometime during the night someone, likely her uncle, had draped a blanket around her. Her eyes were dry, itching, and her face swollen from tears. But she could spill no more.
A chill had overtaken her, and her heart was heavy.

Several of the men, that had brought her father home, proposed to take the vigil to show their final respect, but she had declined. She was grateful for their kindness and compassion, but it was her duty to keep the flames alive and hold the long, sleepless, and devoted watch throughout the night. Not once had she strayed from his side nor dozed off, despite heavy eyelids and a pounding in her head – and in her heart.

But she did not feel the physical struggles of her body, for a numbness dulled her mind.

She could hear the village rousing with the sun's climb across the horizon, and soon a large company of Rangers would depart. Shouts and orders were passed around, horses neighed and stamped as they were prepared for battle; scouts had reported back in the long hours before dawn, having trailed the band of orcs across the plains near the Trollshaws. The light of morning slowed them down, for evil creatures feared it more than anything else, and so now it was the Rangers' hour.

A thrum of vindictive anticipation hung thickly in the air.

Her father was not the only one claimed by death that night; one had been returned only so that his family could light the funeral pyre, and another had succumbed to his injuries early after their return. A third still struggled between life and death, and the healers feared he would not wake again from the fever. And if he did, he would never walk again. No orc would ever step foot on the other bank of Mitheithel, nor ever enter eastern Eriador.

They would be met with a rain of arrows, and only death would welcome them.

The stream would run steadily, carrying the filth and dark blood away with its waters; the corpses would be piled and burned, and the pillar of smoke would be seen for many miles in the distance. A warning clear to all that saw it. Vengeance would follow swiftly. It was a thought that brought some comfort to her mind when she finally rose from the floor.

Her limbs were stiff, frozen and asleep from the long lack of movement, and she braced her body against the bedpost. The sword hung down her side, scraping over the wooden floor boards, much too heavy for her. Streams of light filtered through the shut windows, finding a way in to the darkened room. She went to the door, pushed it open, and shielded her gaze from the sudden brightness.

Pools of water dotted the ground, and boots sank into the deep mud with squelches; a group of riders was already mounted, their grey cloaks drawn. They nearly became one with the misty dawn, ghostly pale figures. Their horses were sturdy creatures, bred for swiftness in difficult terrain and to move without being seen, but not without strength.

The Rangers were armed with spears and bows; swords hung about their waists, but none wore much armour. It was not a clash between two opposing forces in open battle, but an ambush carried out in swiftness. It would all be over long before the orcs would have much chance to retaliate. There was no need for honour against such an enemy.

It would be a slaughter.

Some looked to her when she emerged, lowering their hooded heads in solemn greeting. She glanced about in an attempt to find her uncle. Only when the last riders joined the company, did he arrive amongst them; pulling his horse by the reins he walked to her side and crouched down, making them see eye to eye. He had always been tall. Taller than anyone else she knew, but in that moment he appeared small; burdened with not only grief but also a duty he had hoped never to fulfil. For it to never fall to him. A gale wind swept down from the east, cool and fresh, and pulled at her clothes; tangles of hair brushed her cheeks, and he tugged them away behind her ear.

The riders were waiting, silent grey shapes swaddled in mist, ready to depart.

"My sister's daughter," he said, words weighed with great care, "I would never have wished for this to happen. Your father was a great warrior – a great man, and he shall be missed dearly by all. Know that I will do my utmost best to raise you in his place, though I know not how. I pray that you will have patience in me, for all my shortcomings that he would not have had. I shall teach you, and I will learn in return."

She nodded and smiled faintly. How tired she was. "Teach me what you do know, teach me all your wisdom. Let me be a Ranger he could be proud of." Placing her hand on his, so warm against her coldness, and staring into the deep grey eyes, she vowed to follow her chieftain wherever he would lead. She did not wish for a new father, for she only ever had one, but her uncle could help her become something else. So much more. "I will ask of nothing else."

His smile was one of sadness, though she then knew not why, but then he came to his full height. The hood masked his features.

"So it shall be."

With his cloak spread out around him he mounted swiftly, and the riders followed close behind as he left the village square. Mud and dust whirled up after them. It was not long before they vanished into the mists, and soon the trampling hoofs stilled to nothing. Women and children watched a while longer, a silence heavy in the air, but they soon returned to duties of their own; funerals were to be prepared, the dead to be washed and cleaned, the injured to be taken care of.

And life had to carry on.

Only a few men remained, to keep guard of the village, and soon they hauled wood over to the nearby field. There, on the green hill in the distance, pyres would burn and in silence they would say their last farewells. They would mourn and remember the fallen; tell tales and share memories. With honour they had died in battle, defending a world that thought itself at peace. How long she stood there, watching the pyres take shape, she knew not; only when one of the elderly women came to her, wrapping arms around her in a tender embrace, did she stir from deep thoughts.

They would help her prepare her father.

It was not work for a child.

October, The Third Age, 3016

As the light grew a little, she brought her eyes back to the ground at hand, studying her next move. She lay crouched, almost flat, against the soft grass and her gloved fingers moved over the trail. Ahead and eastward, the early sun of morning climbed the mountain range, setting its peaks on fire in a golden light. To her other side a dark forest edged into the horizon; fading to the distant blue, and out of the forest a river flowed to meet them. Her lips pursed in thought, brow furrowed as she attempted to read the signs before her.

She could feel eyes watching her, assessing her work, and she squared her shoulders with firm determination. The ridge upon which she and her companion stood went down steeply, and before them spread an open landscape of plains and hills. Stepping around the trail, careful not to ruin her only lead, she peered out over the stony shelf. The grass swelled like a green sea where she had previously found indentations in the wet ground; how she hated tracking through open land. There was very little to be found in grass.

The wind was on her back, tugging at her woolen cloak; soft and warm, scented faintly with wood flowers, as late Autumn was stirring the lands before passing to Winter. Such a wind was of no use to her. "It is headed south, over the plains," she spoke, hoping he could not hear the hesitation in her voice – although she felt it clearly. And so she turned to face her companion. "We are not far behind."

The weather-beaten gloves held their horses close at hand; his heavy dark-green cloak, stained in his travels, was drawn close about him. He returned her gaze evenly, but the gleam in his grey eyes was unmistakable. The corner of her mouth twitched. "Indeed?" He mused. "And what makes you draw such a conclusion to our hunt?" Stepping closer to assess the trail, he bent down and carefully ran his free hand over the muddy dips in the grass. Reading them better than she ever could. "I wonder how you came to such an answer. But, indeed, the grass has been trampled recently, and you are correct when you say it is headed south. Did you gather this by the shape of the marks, or by some other means?"

He came to his full height again, waiting for her to answer. The horses tripped restlessly, eager to be on their way again, for the air was cold and gnawing on the ridge. Clearing her throat, eyes flickering from him to the ground, she gave a short nod. "By the shape of the hoof-print, yes." She pointed and gestured. "Do you not believe the same?"

"Indeed it is so," he answered, but the amusement in his voice concerned her. What mistake had she made this time? "Though the fact I can see it down below in the valley made my trackings all the more easier." Her mouth snapped shut, and she quickly turned to look out over the edge to the lands below.

And surely enough, a black dot between the green, the deer grazed on the open meadows with little concern to the hunters following. With a scowl in his direction, she bit back a sour remark and pulled the bow free from her back. Then she nocked an arrow. I should have noticed, she scolded herself in her mind, irked by the novice mistake. Hearing, touch, smell, taste, and sight. Foolishness! Taking aim, she gauged the distance and deemed it within easy reach. The string was pulled tight, stretched to its fullest.

"Remember where to hit, Rell," he guided, fondness clear in his voice, much rather than the edge of a master's stern appraisal.

"I know."

And so did he, too, of course. She exhaled. While she could not boast of her skills at tracking, for they were poor indeed, she knew well how to handle a bow. And she did so skillfully. Her hands were steady. It would be costly to have a wounded, bleeding deer running about in terror across the plains. A clear, true shot penetrating both lungs was her aim, and she would make sure it was so.

Then she loosened the string.

The arrow carved the air, and the deer had no time to react; it pierced the spot she had aimed for, and the animal collapsed with a violent twitch but moved no further. A hit made with certainty saved her a trek through the hills, attempting to find the dying animal wherever it had run off to in terror. She slung the bow across her shoulder, gave her uncle a look, and took the reins to her horse; mounting, she descended the steep hill with the other Ranger following behind.

Rell found the deer easily in the tall grass.

Black, lifeless eyes stared up on her as she approached. It was large enough to last weeks, and they had tracked it for many miles through the forest; they would not have starved without it, for a Ranger could always find food in the undergrowth, so instead her uncle had used it as a lesson in hunting. Carefully wedging the arrow free, hoping it could be used again for she only had few left, she then proceeded to hoist the animal up onto the back of her horse.

She would have preferred to gut and clean it then and there, but they had still a while to go before making camp for the night. They had been on the road for a month and were now returning to the village of her birth; in earlier days they could be away for more than half a year, trading news and reports with their fellow Rangers when they met in the wild, but it was not so any longer.

The world was changing – and not for the better.

The darkness stretched far, and its reach grew ever longer. Grasping for footholds where Men allowed it to enter. Trouble brewed in the horizon to the East; orcs gathering in large numbers, bolder and stronger than ever before, and the watchful peace they had long enjoyed was drawing to an end. Still, they only spoke of it with quiet voices laced with alarm, for they knew how to read the signs yet also wished dearly that the readings would be wrong.
It was but a glimmer of hope that the omens of ill were but rumours.

Everyone knew war was soon upon them.

On the open plains the wind blew unrelenting; it began as a whispering in the air and she pulled her cloak closer, feeling the first droplets hit against her cheeks and back. The two Rangers needed not speak, they both knew their destination and the way, and so she steered further south while keeping the flowing river to her left. Its stream was slow, lazy, as only little water fed it from the mountains in the far distance. The shimmering surface dulled when grey and black clouds drifted over them, and soon the rain fell heavily; beating down on their bent and hooded backs.

So much rain fell that the sound blurred into a long, whirring noise, grating on her ears and it drowned out all else.

The horses knew the path, an easy and flat stretch straight onward, trotting through the tall swaying grass. The landscape was an uninterrupted and endless ocean of green and soon she found her thoughts to be wandering as they often did. Through seven winters and seven summers, Rell had followed her chieftain into the wild, but only in the last two had she been able to wield her father's sword; finally strong enough, where previously a much smaller blade accompanied her bow and arrows out into combat.

Over the long years their journey had taken her far; through ever-changing landscapes and seasons. Through a heavy blanket of snow, painting the world a blinding white, she had traversed the treacherous pass of the Redhorn Gate. Sheer and steep slopes of Caradhras, into the Dimrill Dale. Over open plains and grasslands, where great herds of horses roamed free, the trampling of hooves like thunder; where shepherds shared meagre meals over the fire, trading stories from far away lands. Beneath the ancient mallorn-trees in the kingdom of the Silvan Elves, in a world where time stood ever still and the songs were beautiful. Rell knew the stars in the sky well, and many a night she had spent gazing upwards to the small, shimmering gems strewn across a vast darkness. She had learned to hold her head high, indifferent to the disdainful looks turned her way. Unashamed of the hushed whispers and gossips in dim tavern-rooms, or harsh voices spit to her face, where few saw their presence as little more than a nuisance at best.

She pulled a sleeve across her face as water trickled down her brow, obstructing her vision, but she was otherwise not caring about the downpour. Her uncle had pulled his horse ahead when her own had lessened its pace, matching her slow wandering thoughts. Rell bothered not to spur her horse forward, and instead followed behind and kept her gaze on the muddy ground below. The chill of late Autumn was approaching swiftly, and soon their vigilant watch would be needed, for ever did evil stir when light wanes.

When Winter came, so did all things horrid and malicious.

Often they had hunted great wolves in the deep forests and mountain passes, using spears and torches, keeping the peace in the region of Eriador; bandits became restless and increasingly desperate in order to make it through the Winter months, and orcs took advantage of the longer hours of night. There was little rest for a Ranger.

The pair was then returning from the Ettenmoors, where they had hunted small packs of goblins venturing too close to the valleys before the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Her cloak was still flecked with dark, almost black, patches of blood that smelled almost as horrible as the creatures themselves; the quiver on her back nearly empty. In the midday sun, blinding in the eyes of a creature of Morgoth, a pair of Rangers had easily brought death with them. The fleeing remnants they had hunted through the jagged stone-lands with ease.

But now it was time for them to find their way home.

Rell and her uncle had for a long while followed the Hoarwell, the waters bleak and dull from which it had earned its name, a dreary companion. Mitheithel – grey-spring – but when the waters turned and skirted the edge of a forest of beech trees, they too turned away and moved the straight way west.

Her uncle had steered them only through parts of the wood, never straying far from its edges, and only ever when they would save time by passing beneath the large shadow of branches. Ever watchful, with the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves as company, they followed a downtrodden dust-path seldom used by any other creatures. The upland woods were haunt to trolls, in shallow caves deep within the darkened forest, but they met no enemy on the road so far from the hills.
Soon they left the cover of trees and entered the last leg of the journey, now crossing the green hills she knew so well. Many years had she spent here, learning how to track and hunt in the wilderness; how to tell apart edible roots and berries from poisonous ones, to scavenge for food and to stomach what others could not. Not far now, two days at most if they did not rest for the night, they would reach her childhood home, although she knew her uncle had other plans first. To a valley where the sound of running water was loud, and where every day throughout the year was here blessed with beauty and song; to the house of Lord Elrond, in Rivendell where her uncle had resided as a child. Words of guidance and news of the world were there shared, and the weary could rest their feet. Rell pulled herself from thought, feeling the rain lessen to a light drizzle until it ended completely; she brushed back her cloak and looked up.

Cloudy skies of grey stretched unending above her, but ahead rays of light pierced the cover as wind swept across the land.

Morning had turned to late noon while she had been lost in thought, and peering back she could no longer make out the ridge they had earlier climbed, nor the ravine they had followed down. The river was but a thin, glowing line of silver far away, and it would soon be swallowed by the green. On her right, the tangled and dark forest followed their path, wretched boles fencing in the dark world beyond.

Muddy pools of water sloshed beneath her when she spurred her horse forward. She fell into pace next to her uncle, pushing wet strands of hair from her face before voicing a question. "Do we continue throughout the night or do we rest?" Contemplating grey eyes peered ahead into the distance at her words. They likely both looked forward to clean clothes and a warm bed, but neither were they in such a hurry as to push the horses unnecessarily through the night.

"We shall make camp at dusk," he said, "Once we reach the moors for shelter."

Rell nodded, glad to rid herself of the drenched cloak that clung uncomfortably to her skin.

They continued on in agreeable silence, their shared company familiar, and it was only broken by soft neighs or a bird startled from hiding. The clouds soon drifted away on the wind, leaving only thin strips of white on an otherwise clear sky, and the chill in her body subsided to some extent; it would not be many hours before the sun would sink towards the horizon in streaks of red and gold, but the Rangers would continue on until then.

When finally the dark hours were about them and the road began to fall gently into the dusk, they sought a place to camp for the night between steepening hills and solitary outcrops of trees. The horses were tied to a nearby oak, and while her companion scoped out the area and collected firewood, Rell fed her horse a wrinkled apple and patted it down.

With the look she then received, almost human-like in its indignation, she quickly fished out another apple for her uncle's horse. "I apologize for my thoughtlessness, o great lord," she laughed, receiving a soft nuzzle against her arm. Then she proceeded to heave the deer off of her saddle, feeling the coarse fur rub against her cheek. It was a young doe, but still too heavy for her to carry far, so she was forced to drag it across the grass and away from their resting place; there she placed it on a slab of stone and pulled the knife from her belt.

Rell crouched on the ground.

Starting between the hind legs, she slit the skin and peeled it away with practiced ease; then the blade cut across the abdomen all the way to the jawbone, careful not to cut too deep to avoid puncturing anything. Rell then pulled the deer onto its side, and it did not take long before she had cleaned out the worst guts. Digging a hole in the soft ground, she discarded what she could not use, and covered it in a layer of dirt; it would do little to keep scavengers away, for the smell travelled far, but at least their own noses would be spared.

Then she began carving off the most tender meat for their evening meal, placing it on a nearby stone along with both heart and liver, before tying a thick rope around the hind legs. Making sure it was fastened, she hung the deer from one of the sturdier oak-trees, high enough off the ground so that no large animal would steal away with it during the night. Satisfied, she returned to the horses and found her uncle tending to a small fire that soon after roared to life.

With her waterskin she cleaned her hands for blood and grime, then quickly dried them against her outer tunic.

The wood was damp, letting out small crackles ever so often, and the smoke was dark; a spiral of blue-grey whirls. But they skewered the meat and let it roast over the flames as they settled, laying out covers for the night, and then they shared dried berries and roots from her satchel while waiting. The wind was sighing in the branches, and leaves were whispering. There was always a sense of disquiet when she was on the road, ears trained for sounds, but after a time, as the stars grew thicker and brighter in the sky, her unease lessened.

An air, earthy from the earlier rain, hung heavy around them. Her fingers worked a way through her braided hair, tugging insistently and loosening it until it fell down to her shoulders; tangled and knotted, she wrung the last dampness from her tresses.

Then she stretched, shoulders popping into place, and she crossed her legs. The warmth slowly crept over her skin, prickling but welcome as the numbness shied away.

She pulled a whetstone from her satchel and then meticulously began to sharpen her knife. It was sharp as is, but the familiar motion felt calming to her, a repetitiveness that kept her mind from wandering. Over and over; back and forth. The blade shone, reflecting the golden-red tendrils licking over the wood, when she twisted it in her grasp. Rell paused to check on the meat, turning the skewers halfway around, and inhaled the smell. With a yawn, she then leaned back on her elbows as her gaze found the other Ranger across the fire.

Smoke welled up, twisting in light grey puffs before vanishing into the dark, as her uncle was now drawing thoughtfully at his pipe. The sweet smell of pipeweed mingled with the cold air, and she smiled at the familiarity and the memories brought with it. Weather-beaten lines cast shadows across his face, brow furrowed in deep thought and his gaze adamantly looked into the flickering flames. Rell likely knew what he was thinking. A feeling of frustration clutched at her stomach, coiling around uncomfortably like a serpent writhing to get out, until her grip around the whetstone cut into her palm. She chewed the inside of her mouth.

They had not only stayed in Rhudaur, patrolling the area between the mountain range Hithaeglir and the swift-running Bruinen, to guard the small settlements scattered about the landscape. The Rangers were on a hunt. A long and weary hunt, following trails that had long since gone cold, in their search for a strange, elusive creature.

Not a beast, but neither was it a man.

Time and time again they had failed. It knew the waters well, both rivers and lakes, slipping away into murky depths, and it scaled treacherous cliff walls with ease, where they could not tread. She knew not fully the reason why, for the Grey Wizard had only opened up his heart to her uncle for council. That was now some fifteen years ago, and long before Rell had joined him on the road. It had been the start of a long and hopeless search for news. With naught but a few footprints in the softest of mud along a riverbank, or whispered rumours of an evil creature stealing children from their cradles, to follow.

Cunning, it hid from both daylight and moonshine, and often made a way through the dead of night that was both swift and soft. Never before had she heard tales of such a creature; the stories made her skin turn cold, and the secrecy between her uncle and Gandalf the Grey was equal measures curious and worrisome. What need drove them to continue a fruitless hunt?

Over the years he had explored the Wilderland, to lands she had never – nor wished to – see. To the fences of Mordor, in the shadowed regions of the world; searching dark hills and rotting mires. But always had he returned to the village without success. Face grim with both dejection and determination. Her curiosity was great, but she did not ask. If her chieftain deemed it necessary for her to know, then he would tell her – and only then. Though Rell could not help but wonder.

Why had the watch around the Shire doubled?

Beasts and birds, spies of many sorts, gathered around its borders, and she found it to be strange. Concerning. What use had the world of the gentle Hobbit-folk? She looked up to the stars, watching the Valacirca bright above the shoulder of a darkened mountain range to the east, its light ever growing and dimming as clouds drifted by. Further, Elemmírë twinkled, its light kindled long ago to welcome the awakening of the Elves, and it was so beautiful and unreachable. The sight renewed her strength. They could never be touched.

Even if the Rangers and all the free peoples were to face the evils of the world, against the Lord of the Black Lands himself; even if the Dúnedain would cease to exist, this light would never truly be quenched. It could never be tainted. The wounds on the world could never run so deep, never leave scarrings on the truly beautiful once, so long ago, created by the Valar.

Finally, the meal was ready, and a hungry stomach pulled her from her brooding thoughts. With a skewer each, Rell found the meat to be tender but with little flavour; they had no spices or salt to season it with, making the taste rather bland in her mouth as she chewed. But the food was filling, and she could ask for nothing more so far from a homely hearth. The waxing moon loomed huge upon the speckled expanse, climbing as darkness settled. Neither Ranger spoke much as they ate, and soon Rell settled on the ground with the cover pulled close around her body.

He would take the first watch.

At first she listened to the sound of night around her, eyes closed and hand resting on the hilt of her sword. Fingers clenching and unclenching. The breeze made the trees around her murmur, soft singing voices in an ancient language she could not understand, and the fire danced across her eyelids. Despite the drowsiness, making her arms and legs feel as if stones weighed her down, she struggled to fall asleep. But with the warmth of the fire and the soft rustles of her uncle's shifting movements, Rell finally gave in to sleep. Again she could smell the low burning of his pipe. It would not be long until her watch, and rest was always precious.

The world turned dark around her.

Chapter Text

After their morning meal the Rangers began to pack their belongings through easy habit, movements practiced and fluid for they had done it many times before. Each had their own role, and they found it without speaking. Rell stomped out the last embers, making flakes of ash flutter into the air around her, while her uncle hoisted the deer up onto his horse. In the early morning light, he had roused her to take the second watch, and she had watched the sky slowly turn lighter. Dark blue, until the stars faded and the dim sun rose above the eastern horizon. A misty glow of paleness, red and yellow intermingled.

Nothing happened that night worse than a brief drizzle of rain an hour before dawn. And as soon as it was fully light, they started on the road again, their horses well rested and fed from the moist, dewy grass about them. The plains were covered in mist, thinning in the rising sun, and the world appeared ghostly pale in the dimness. The further they travelled, the pair was soon fenced by steep grey hills whose sides were clad with trees, until the grass beneath them made way to grey rocks.

Time passed, and they continued on; through willow-thickets and past great oakwoods, climbing on the skirts of the hills. In the shades of dark boles and cliff walls. In the distance to her left, the mists lay over the marshes fed by the Loudwater, and an acrid stench was in the air as the wind was brought to them. They followed the path in silence, taking the winding way up the green shoulders of the hills; and down once more.

Mile by mile the path wound away, all the lands were green and grey and still.

At length the rocks towered up as the sun climbed across the sky. The clear light bore down on her, warm on her dark hair until beads of sweat trickled down her brow, despite the passing of seasons. She rolled up her sleeves, and it was not long before she had emptied her waterskin. It had been a warm Autumn. Clacking hoofs reverberated between the rock walls, now jagged ridges so tall on both sides they obstructed her view of the surrounding lands.

Nevertheless, she worried not, where she might have any other place, for there was a thrum in the air that spoke of ancient and powerful magic. Elvish magic. White flowers bloomed, their green vines twisting around saw-toothed stones with little care; in the distance a roar rose, first but a soft mumble in the air that steadily grew, but soon the first waterfalls came into view in the valley below.

The path was narrow, following the bluff while slowly descending, and an abrupt drop met her when she gazed down.

Rushing waters cut through the valley, white foam crushing against the riverbank in rapid swirls. Rell expected guards had already spotted them upon entering the valley, bringing news to the Lord of the Last Homely House East of the Sea, who would soon stand ready to receive them. Around them there were no great walls nor fortifications save for the natural protection, provided by the valley's high ridges; yet Rell felt no worry once the silent hum of magic engulfed her. Here was safety.

There was only a single pathway across several bridges, spanning the rolling river, too narrow to be taken by any host of enemies if there were any within that could hold weapons. And certainly they would be met with resistance, for many a great Elf-Lord called Imladris home. Rell gazed with wonder, for it was more splendid than any other place she had visited – only truly rivalled by the woods of Lothlórien, where she had walked only once years before.

No matter how many times she came to Rivendell, she would admire its beauty with reverence.

They passed beneath the arch at the last bridge, and the warm sun that shone down beyond the ridge glowed here on the smooth walls and pillars. Blindingly white and with an ethereal beauty that left visitors breathless. Rell dismounted and pulled her horse into the courtyard. Already it seemed, just as she had predicted, that word of their coming had gone before them.

Servants of Lord Elrond took away their travel-weary horses, neither mount appearing in the slightest reluctant to part with their masters at the soft words of Elvish promises, of oats and carrots. Traitor, she thought with good humour, knowing well she would have done the same. Another Elf, fair to behold as they all were, led them inside, but here the Rangers parted ways. This time it was promises of a warm bath and fresh clothes that lured Rell to a small and private chamber. Her uncle had council to seek in the Hall of Fire, which interested her very little in that moment. She had smelled terrible for weeks now.

The small room was familiar; Rell had stayed there many times before when they returned from the road, and she could not help but wryly wonder if not the Elves soon thought the place to be hers. Clothes were already laid out for her on a small cabinet; soft wool and silks brushed against her hands as she pooled them, feeling the fabrics run through her fingers. A dark blue shirt embroidered with thin, golden threads, and trousers in a brown almost black fabric. Simple but indisputably beautiful.

Rell loosened the belt around her waist, setting her weapons aside as a large tub caught her attention. The wood was carved with small, intricate flowers and leaves, running along the edge. It was already filled with clear water; steam welled up, filling the room with a floral scent of honey-flowers and daffodils, and she dipped her fingers in to gauge the temperature. Perfect.

Then she stepped fully out of her clothes, folded them carefully before putting them aside, and quickly submerged herself in the warm water with satisfaction. A sigh escaped her lips. Her muscles instantly responded to the heat, the tautness draining like a dam breaking. Holding her breath for a few, long moments to soak her hair below the water, she soon resurfaced with droplets trickling down her skin.

Rolling her stiff neck, she watched rings forming on the surface, growing large only to soon disappear, while scrubbing away at the grime and dirt on her skin with vigour. The water swirled to a murky brown from all the gathered dust and mud from the road, and she absently fiddled with a few small scabs running the length of her leg. It would not be long before they would heal fully, fading into small and white-dotted scars to accompany the many others that littered her skin.

Her body was flecked with bruises and injuries, most naught but small nicks collected during practice, though a larger mark bloomed over her lower abdomen, a yellow-blue flower of blackening discoloration. A hand brushed over the skin to appraise her injury and she winced, pulling a face. She had dodged the blade swung at her, aimed to separate her head from her shoulders, but in her resulting fall she had instead landed down hard onto rocks.

With a sigh she leaned back, resting her head against the edge of the tub, and allowed her mind to wander.

Golden light shone through the opened doors, leading out to a small balcony overlooking the valley below. Thin curtains fluttered in the breeze, and long shadows danced across the ceiling; Rell stayed in the water long after it had turned cold, knowing well her presence would not be needed until evening. There was no rush. And she was tired and weary, and all the on goings of the world she left to her wise uncle for there was little she could say. The world was a vast place; with many people, from the common farmer in his field, to great kings and queens in halls of white marble. Rell knew very little of such things, and she was much content leaving her uncle to handle matters of great importance.

She was no great leader of Men.

Rell had spent time in Rivendell before; here she learned to read and write, to speak the languages of the Eldar – although the ancient Quenya proved a challenge that, in the end, she gave up on. Her teachers, Elves, who had indulged the young mortal in her quest for knowledge and with little else to spend their eternal time on, had found her sullen temper delightful and pressed no further.

Here was a place of learning, of shared knowledge, but it was never forced upon its visitors. Of course, her uncle had another opinion on that matter. He relented when she instead mastered Sindarin; for most Elves still living East of the great seas understood the language, and – as Rell interjected – she spent much more of her time amongst Men. They would understand very little. All the foregone days of old had long passed to be forgotten, and her interests lay in the open lands and a world yet to be explored. While she could recite every lineage of Kings, backwards and forwards; standing on her head; from the First Age to present day, her passion drew her mind elsewhere.

In the great libraries she found beautifully preserved scrolls, the thinnest of parchment so light to the touch that it would almost crumble, and trace every border of land, mountain range, and river until they became unforgettable in her mind. They called to her. Gripping the edge of the tub, she climbed out and draped a soft towel around her body. Water pooled around her feet. Youthful rashness, her uncle fondly called it, whenever she attempted to shy away from lessons of nobility and courtly manners. Avoiding subjects she found of no interest.

Pointless, was her usual response.

Rell stepped out onto the balcony, the cloth secured tightly around her, and felt the warmth of sunlight on her skin. Down by the river a small group of elves rested upon the stones, and the music they created weaved up in the air; it was playful and light, the tune a witty race against the roars of rushing waters, in a race to find the quicker one, and she leaned against the banister with eyes closed.

She listened, drying in the warm air for a while she knew not how long.

When finally dressed, the young Ranger left the small chamber and ventured out into the house. First considering to track down her uncle, Rell followed the corridor and passed several doors on both sides; on second thoughts, she instead steered towards the gardens, for even if he had finished council with Lord Elrond, surely the Dúnedain chieftain had sought out other company rather than hers. For, earlier that very year, word had been sent for Lady Arwen to return to Imladris as the lands eastward grew increasingly dangerous.

Rell smiled at the thought.

The courtship was the very epitome of bashful propriety, but the affectionate looks and hidden glances did not go unnoticed by Rell. Indeed not, the endearment between Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar, and the mortal Estel, Aragorn son of Arathorn, was obvious for those who knew them well. Rell prayed he would find happiness, for the life of a Ranger was often grim, walking the road of hardships and tribulations, and surely peace could be found with the beautiful maiden.

He deserved happiness.

Rell stepped outside.

White flowers bloomed, the air heavy in sweetness, as if the passing from Autumn to Winter had no power over Imladris; the path she walked was cast in shadows, branches intertwined above her head where the trees grew dense, and it winded down the slope away from the main house. A stream wove in and out between flat stones, chuckling as it went along, but soon a small clearing opened before her between silvery boles.

For a moment Rell halted, gaze transfixed on the still statue bathed in golden beams of light that fell upon the trees and glade. But then a wind drew a blanket of clouds over the sky, and the glow faded. Her eyes grew accustomed to the newly fallen gloom; then she stepped forward, the pebbles crunching below her boots as she approached the grave. Rell had never met her grandmother, for Gilraen had resided in Rivendell ever since her husband's death many years ago.

She kneeled at the foot of the statue, so life-like in appearance; solemn and sorrowful, in a way that spoke much about the woman's life. Rell could scarcely fathom what it would be like, to lose the one you love and live more than seventy years without him. No beauty or magic of the Elves could heal a wound to the grieving heart. But she had raised two children to adulthood, done her duty to carry on the bloodline of the old Kings of Arnor, before she had joined her husband in the world beyond theirs.

"Greetings, grandmother," she said softly, a smile playing at her lips. It was but a silly notion to speak with the dead, but she found some unexpected comfort in doing so. "I have returned – and I made sure to keep your son out of trouble." Rell pulled a face, considering her own words for the briefest of moments. "If he was here with us now, he would likely claim it to be otherwise and rather I, that need watching. But we both know better, yes?"

Calloused hands gently brushed away fallen leaves and earth from the marble stone. The Elves were diligent in their care of the grave, but still it was seldom visited upon, as to them years were but the blink of an eye. Only the Dúnedain truly came to pay their respects, and more often than not they were called away by duty. Time and neglect showed, even if only in the smallest of details. The slight discolouring; the pure white turning dull. Greying. Shifting in discomfort from the cold protruding stones digging into her legs, Rell gazed up on the smooth face.

A soft and melodious laugh stirred the quietude, and even though she knew not to fear enemies here, under the protection of Rivendell, she nonetheless startled at the sound. Rell turned quickly; not with the intent to strike at the person, but rather with a wry smile spreading across her features. "Le suilon, Lady Arwen!" She scampered to her feet, bowing in greeting at the revered half-elven. A palm pressed flat against her chest. "I did not expect to meet you here."

Not when my uncle is elsewhere, she added in silent thought.

The Elf, an ethereal beauty rivalling that of the fair maiden Lúthien of olden legends, mirrored her motions – though with a whole lot of grace more than Rell. "Avarell," the lady spoke; her voice was kind, other-worldly gentle and light-hearted, and the grey eyes twinkled in the sunlight. More than likely with amusement. "My father wishes for you to join them, and I was tasked in finding you for him."

"My lady, you should have but sent a servant to collect me, and not yourself," Rell said, apologetic to have forced one so fair to such a task.

It felt awfully wrong to her.

A smile was the first reply, but then Arwen shook her head; dark locks of hair rolled down her shoulders, gleaming almost inky black in the dimness of the glade, and she held out a hand. Beckoning for Rell to come to her on the path. "It was no inconvenience to me, for I much enjoy the freshness of the air before dinner. And the garden is beautiful this time of year. Now come, if you please, let us walk together."

While Rell was tall for a mortal, due to the blood of the Númenor flowing unbroken through her veins, she was of no match against the maiden at her side. Slender and tall in the perennial blue robes girt with silver, a regal air in her bearings that bore the half-elven forward with grace; where the Ranger was lean and toned, with strength to throw most men she came about. Even those twice her size. The Elf turned and went slowly up the path towards the house, barely making a sound on the gravel path.

In the presence of the other, Rell felt like a mûmak trampling through the garden; despite the quiet, accustomed feet of a Ranger that left her steps still, in comparison it seemed not so. The sky above and to the east was darkening, fading into distant grey, and wind-blown clouds approached with a promise of rain.

Far away lightning flickered among the tops of hidden hills, but in the wind she could feel a shift to the north, and soon the storm would recede. It would roll away to the rough sea, sparing them from the downpour and the thunder. The pair walked in silence, and it was not long before they passed back into the great house. Lady Arwen led her to an open hall, with windows overlooking the valley below and light slanting in, and here she found her uncle seated. While Rell had enjoyed a long bath, it appeared her companion had had little time to do the same.

His muddied cloak had been discarded, but he still wore the boots and clothes from the road. Sharp-eyed she regarded him, a frown upon her features.

How long had his council been with Lord Elrond? And what about? His eyebrows were deeply furrowed in thought, and many small puffs of smoke welled up from his pipe. Rell knew that look all too well; news – and no good ones for certain, she thought glumly – had reached him. Besides her uncle, four guests sat she did not recognize, and the Lord Elrond. When the customary greetings had been exchanged, and the the great lord gave a brief and humoured comment on her successful hunt, Rell was showed to a seat at the high table with cheeks and ears flaming.

Dinner was served.

After so long journeying and camping, and days spent in the lonely wild, the evening meal seemed a feast; pale yellow wine, watered down for her, was cool and fragrant. To eat bread with butter; salted meats on clean plates, with a fork and a knife. Without dirt under her nails! It was all a very quiet affair, where she first spoke only little and ate much. Over the evening she came to learn that the guests were emissaries from Mirkwood, the great forest in Rhovanion – although they, of course, introduced it as Greenwood the Great. And rather pointedly, at that.

What news brought on behalf of the Elvenking Thranduil they would not speak, but one silver-haired Silvan Elf seated to her right told her other tales of the world. Rell listened more than she spoke for she had little of her own to share that could be of interest. There was much to tell of the events in the northern regions of Wilderland, and in the lands between the Mountains and Mirkwood neither orc nor wolf yet dared to go. Or, at least, ever managed to escape alive.

"Though it is still a hazardous journey to Imladris," the Elf explained. His words were in Sindarin, for Rell had quickly learned how little he could speak in the Common tongue. It had not come to her as a shock; Silvan Elves were known to be secretive and proud, and often they preferred seclusion from the other races, unlike their distant kin that were open to the neighbouring lands. They had little use of other the tongues of the wide world beyond their borders.

Dangers lurked in many places, he told her, and while the gates to the Elvenking's Halls had previously been barred for most, they now broadened their relationships with both Men and Dwarves. One more welcome than the other, the Elf had added, and Rell, of course, knew of which he preferred. He shared with her stories of great spiders, with webs un-pierceable by most weapons, and goblins and trolls venturing further from the Grey Mountains. Darkness spreading, reaching ever further. The enemy grew bolder. Too bold. She latched on to his every word and was an ever captivated listener, asking many questions about all he said.

At length the feast came to an end. Elrond and Arwen rose and went down the corridor, and the last of the guests followed them in due order; they then entering a great hall flanked by pillars on either side, where a bright fire burned in the hearth. It was a place of stories, one where they had often spend the hours of night and the first of dawn, listening.

While the elves each found a seat and minstrels began to make music, Aragorn led Rell to a alchove partially hidden from the company. Her gaze swept across his features attentively, for her unease had grown much during the dinner. The Dúnedain chieftain had spoken only very little, hushed and in secret, with Lord Elrond and no one else; weariness was in his face, even more than it had been on the road, and it was a great concern to her.

Rell chewed her lip, debating whether to voice her thoughts or keep quiet.

But then Aragorn made the choice for her. He pressed a sealed envelope into her palm, insistently, and, as she turned it over in her hands, he then spoke. "I need you to return on your own." Her thumb ghosted over the gleaming seal of red wax, the six-pointed star, allowing the words to settle in her mind. Her brow furrowed, and her finger paused. "Bring this letter to Halbarad, in it he will find instructions to follow while I am away."

"Away?" She repeated in surprise; Rell found the word to be strange in her mouth, foreign, as if she had heard him wrong. He was to go, and she could not follow? So very little sense it made to her. "Am I not to go with you?"

Sensing her apprehension he placed a hand on her shoulder, but his tone was strict and closed for discussion. There was no patience in his words. "You have yet to finish your training, and I have received news from Rhovanion that must not be ignored. I cannot do both, and this is of grave importance. I will depart soon, tonight at the latest. And for this task I shall go alone."

"Then surely I should come with you!" Rell argued, brushing aside his words. She clutched at the letter until it was crumbled in her hand. If she had been a little younger, she would surely have stomped her feet. "It would make much more sense in order to complete my training as a Ranger. I have yet to experience those lands so far beyond the mountains; I know everything there is to know about Eriador, the rivers and hills are as familiar as my own hands. The paths, well-trodden and hidden – I know them all. Every bird and beast. Should a Ranger not know all of the world?"

Aragorn shook his head, but she did not allow him to speak.

"If you will not allow me to go with you, then I shall just follow on my own!"

At this his gaze hardened. "No, Rell, you will return to Halbarad with the letter. As your Chieftain I command this of you." His words made her divert her eyes, ashamed, now turned to the shadowed floor in quiet resignation; even if she wanted to, there were some things she could not argue against. This matter was not for disobedience, and while her uncle gave her many liberties now was not one of them. The order was direct, and she was sworn to follow. "Do I make myself clear?"

She remained silent.

"Rell?"

She chewed the inside of her mouth, remaining silent.

"Avarell?"

"Yes," she murmured, "I understand, uncle."

Yet her mind reeled in disarrayed thoughts. Where was he going that made it too dangerous for her to go? Was it the strange creature he had hunted for years, now to bring the Ranger far from home? When would he return? With her mind still jumbled, Rell was then informed of her own departure that very same evening; a light meal and water had been prepared by servants of Lord Elrond, and her clothes cleaned, washed, and dried. New arrows, long and strong, filled her quiver. She was to depart from Rivendell at the same time as her uncle, but soon the road would split and she would continue on her own – and he would disappear into the thicket of trees, going into the East.

Where the enemy's power grew ever stronger.

Without her.

Riding was not unpleasant, for the slopes were but gentle hills and the sun was shining, clear but not too hot on her hooded head. The woods in the valley were still full of colour, and it all seemed so peaceful; Rell followed many turns, winding between great boulders and small chuckling creaks, and indeed it would not have been at all unpleasant – if not for the fact she was returning to the Angle alone.

She saw no sign and heard no sound of any other living creatures, except for a swift-passing shadow of a bird high above, or a quick-footed fox slipping through the bushes, and she was left alone with her thoughts. Despite the letter weighing close to nothing, it felt heavy in her pocket; a feather coated in lead. Burning into her mind, gnawing at her heavy heart. Rell had left Rivendell in the late afternoon, and she had spent the day feeling miserable and lonely. Worried. Ahead, a line of hills rose from the horizon, and soon it would close in around her and the slope she now walked would steadily descent.

All that day she plodded along, until the cold and early evening came down upon her. Mists lay heavy over the plains, grey and damp, and the bleak and treeless backs of the hills loomed on above. The road was still running steadily downhill, and there was now much grass and nothing else growing on either side. Soon the light of the sun paled, dimmed, until the sphere set in a last blaze of orange and red. Then darkness came about her. The only warmth radiated from her horse, trotting faithfully along and proved quite undisturbed by her sullen mood.

Several times she found her fingers absently fumbling with the silver brooch, fastened to her cloak, turning it over in her hand.

When finally lights gleamed through the vapours, only tiny dots in the dark at first, she could soon make out the contours of a village. Dark, almost one with the night, but there it was. The Angle was a bowl-shaped hollow, sheltered by steep cliffs and hills, just a day's journey from Imladris to the south-west; the only road was the one Rell was following, winding through a landscape of hills watched by both Elves and Rangers. Here lived the last remnants of the Dúnedain of Arnor – her family, and friends she had known since childhood.

She reined in her horse on top of the last hill and looked back, away from the village lights, into the darkness of night. Hesitation fell on her, her gloved fingers balled into fists, and a pull drew her heart to the distant east. Foreboding thoughts drained away her already waning resolve. Biting the inside of her mouth, she stirred her steed forward, and they scrambled on through the weary night. A wind brushed against her face, chill and damp.

With her head bowed, she reached the small village of thatched roofs and stone hedges.

The guards, huddled around a brazier for warmth and cloaked in wool and fur, stepped forward upon her approach. They wielded long spears, but could easily recognize one of their own even in the dim light, and greeted her with cordiality. She lowered her hood, nodding a swift acknowledgment to all three Rangers. "Well met, Avarell," one said and stepped forward, spearhead now rested against the ground. Then his gaze flickered past her and a look of bewilderment came over his features. "Has the chieftain not returned with you?"

"No," she responded tersely, saying nothing more. Bowing her head in farewell, she motioned to carry on and her horse tripped in mirrored impatience. The guards stepped aside, allowing her passage down the uneven road. Their faces held confusion, and she paused. "His presence was needed elsewhere," Rell added quietly.

There were no more than a dozen houses in the village, and often more than one family shared a home; the women found solace in each other when the men were away, and – her mind added – so few remain. Many homes stood empty. Their numbers were ever dwindling. Lights still burned in a couple of cottages, but most had turned in for the night. A quietness lay heavy over the settlement, only broken by her horse's clip-clop of hoofs beating down on the dust path. A goat bleated softly. Rell came to the largest house in the village, and here she found the orange glow of a fire pouring out from the windows.

She dismounted, quickly securing her horse to a wooden post and, after digging a carrot from her satchel to feed it, stepped up to the door. At first no response came from her swift-falling knocks, but then booted steps approached from beyond; the door was pried open on screeching hinges to reveal a familiar face. The man, hands relaxed but hovering close to the hilt of his sword, appeared surprised and his grey eyes swept swiftly over her. "Already, you have returned?"

"I have," she said and stepped past him inside.

The heat of the room hit her immediately, setting her chilled skin ablaze. Rell pulled off her bow, quiver, and cloak before turning to him; Halbarad, trusted captain to the Dúnedain chieftain, looked the same as when she set out a month earlier. Dark greying hair, a weathered face, and the large build of a warrior – other than the already healing gash across his cheek and purple-swelling marks.

Rell nodded her head at the injury. "What happened?"

"Just a bandit that got lucky," he replied.

The door was shut with a low click. "Or you are getting slow in your old age," she laughed, and even more so with the look he leveled her way. Discarding her cloak over a chair, she then walked to the fire and crouched, hands outstretched before her. A pause followed, where Rell watched the dancing flames in deep thought, as dreadful fears chased one another through her mind, but finally she spoke again. "I bring a message from my uncle, for he had to continue the journey further east and could not yet return."

She rose, finding the letter, and she handed it over. The Ranger quickly broke the seal, pacing back and forth across the floor, while she slumped into a chair by the fire. Her gaze followed him, waiting quietly, silently; her weariness and concern slowly giving way to fatigue, though she refused sleep to claim her mind. Not yet. "I see," Halbarad finally spoke, pace lessening, before he glanced her way thoughtfully.

He quickly walked off, entering what she knew to be the small adjacent pantry, and soon after returned. Rell was then offered a wooden bowl and a loaf of bread, and so her attention was turned to the pot over the fire with a nod of his head. She did not argue against the offering of food, for her stomach churned at the mere thought. The road and her worry had been long-stretched.

The soup was hot, almost scalding, but it warmed her chilled body – and she was starved.

While she ate, the pair sat in silence, but her gaze flickered ever so often to the letter now on the table before her. Rell chewed slowly, carefully thinking, before finishing a second bowl. The bread was long gone. Stifling a yawn, eyes watering, she fell back in the chair and stretched. How long had it been since she last slept properly? The freshly made and comfortable bed in Rivendell had been left behind, unused.

"You look exhausted," Halbarad said, keen eyes watching her. "Take my bed and get some rest, preferably before you fall over your own two feet! I will take care of your horse."

Suppressing the urge to inquire about the letter, she mumbled her thanks and slipped into a small alcove, shielded from view by heavy curtains. The wind howled as the door was opened and shut again, but then she focused her attention on the bed. While her trousers were mud-flecked from the road, Rell found herself to be too tired to discard them, and instead left the problem for the morning light.

She pulled off her boots, loosened the belt and her weapons to rest them against the bedside within reach; then she rolled the coarse covers around her body, and attempted to settle for the night. Turning over once, twice, thrice until she finally curled into a bundle of sheets with only strands of hair poking out.

The only problem proved to be that, despite how tired both her mind and body felt, sleep evaded her.

At first Rell lay with her eyes closed, attempting to empty her mind of whirling thoughts, while lights danced across her eyelids. Listening, as Halbarad entered the house once more, the footsteps across the floor, and the rattling and creaking boards as the winds of the night raged outside. With a soft sigh she turned over, now watching the darkened ceiling. Despite her best attempts, conflict still brewed in her gut, and she was no less against leaving her uncle than she had been in Rivendell. In fact, if anything, she felt even more obstinate.

She pressed open palms against her eyes, letting out a muted groan.

How could she disregard the orders from her chieftain? Disobedience would surely – and rightfully so – deserve punishment, but neither did it feel right to leave her uncle. Whatever the Grey Wizard had tasked him with, and even if she had not been allowed in on the council, surely two Rangers were better than one. The letter has been delivered to Halbarad, the alluring call of her mind whispered, enticing her to act, that was all he asked of you.

Rell sat upright, eyes snapping open.

Her uncle's orders said nothing about her staying in the Angle.

Knowing well she was twisting his words to fit her, warping the truth, the idea quickly settled in her mind. If it ever came to her arguing what was right or wrong in this matter, she was likely to be scolded worse than ever before. But it was an excuse, good or terrible mattered little to her in that moment. Rell took it without hesitation.

Now waiting, Rell listened intently for Halbarad's breathing to calm beyond the curtains, and she carefully slipped into her boots. It was no easy task to sneak past a Ranger, and she could feel her heart hammering in her chest. When finally she felt assured he was asleep, a good hour of agonizing anticipation later, she pulled the curtains aside and stepped out onto the floor. He was sleeping in a chair, arms crossed over his chest by the warmth of the fireplace – and the letter on the table nearby.

Silently stepping closer, she picked up the letter all the while her gaze flickered nervously to the sleeping form. It would be wrong to read the contents, but knowing very little of her uncle's destination Rell needed more information. No harm could come from it – and no one would ever be the wiser. Inside, written in his strong but swift script was the following message:

Halbarad,

News have reached me here in Rivendell, and I must go off at once. I shall leave command to you in my absence. It is imperative that the watch around the Shire must remain until my return, and you may choose who you must for the task. The training of Avarell I leave in your hands, and if you deem her fit for it, she may join the western post alongside you. I will be travelling through the Pass of Imladris and further along the Anduin, but I will disclose no further of my way for I know not what I will find. The road may lead elsewhere. I will return as soon as I am able.

Strider.

Rell read the letter twice over, committing it to memory, before returning it to its place on the table. She swept the pantry for dried jerky and apples, as well as a couple of honey-breads; a wrapped block of cheese, and a small bag of nuts soon followed. Her waterskin she could refill on the road whenever she passed a stream. With her sword at her side, bow and quiver across her back, Rell breathed deeply. Then she grabbed her satchel and noiselessly slipped out of the door, hoping the hinges to be silent as to not alert the Ranger of her departure.

Outside was black, the waning crescent but a thin line of silver in a cloudless sky. With purposeful strides she crossed the square, knowing well a figure sneaking through the dark would raise suspicions, and slipped into the large stables. Most horses were fast asleep, only few stirring as she passed them with ears twitching; halfway down the line, Rell found a pair of clever orbs watching her. Halbarad had fed her horse a good deal of oats, and it was far too occupied to be asleep – let alone pay her any attention.

"I am sorry to take you from a well-deserved meal, Luin, but we must be on our way again."

Pulling the saddle down from the fence, Rell prepared the horse in a hurry, while her ears were trained on any sound from outside. The grey-dappled mare tripped back and forth, and more than once nudged her with its long neck to show its reluctance. When done, she took the bridle and steered the horse from the stables into the cold night. As if sensing its owner's mood, the mare made no sound, and she could mount without issue; then they rode through the sleeping village in a slowed pace, until finally reaching the guard-post once more.

Rell quickly explained her purpose; that she had only returned as a messenger, and that she was to join her uncle in the Wilderlands. They did not question her – and she pretended to let their hesitant glances go unnoticed. Then, hand raised in farewell, she spurred her horse forward. At once it sprang away and sped like the wind along the path, hoofs thundering in the silence. She looked back for a moment over her shoulder, fearful to see shadows springing out after her.

But the shadows of the village grew smaller, and soon only the lights of the braziers could be seen; two yellow eyes in the dark. She rode far in the cold chill hours before the first stir of dawn, and the moon was low; if she did not know the lands as well as she did, never would she have risked such a pace. But a distance had to be made, before the older Ranger would notice her disappearance and a pursuit would begin.

She felt no pull of sleep, but rather a vigour renewed with the fresh wind against her face. Cold stars were glinting in the sky. Eagerness welled up inside of her to hurry southwards, and she pushed Luin through the night and further still. With morning, the weather was grey and overcast, with an unrelenting wind bearing down on the traveler. The great green hills passed her in a blur, and the sunset was pale over its contoured ridges. Only a few hours after dawn, she left the jagged rock-lands of the Angle.

Ahead stretched open and unclaimed lands, for many miles still, until they would reach the foothills of the mountains.

Faintly she could make out the snow-capped peaks of Hithaeglir, through the haze that lay about the plains as a grey cover draped over the world. A stillness in the heavy air foreboded storm, and she urged her horse forward. If luck was on her side the rain would hide the trail, and the pursuers – for surely Halbarad would send someone out for her – would lose track of her path.

I shall apologize upon my return, she thought, knowing well the trouble she was causing. And hope that they will come to forgive me.

Chapter Text

It was not long before heavy raindrops fell from the skies. Puddles formed, and water splashed about as her horse pushed on, soaking her trousers in mud. She felt miserable and cold, but her gaze was fixed on the mountains ahead, growing ever closer as the hours passed. But despite the weather, dejecting as it was, an ever-present sense of anticipation weaved through her thoughts. Never had she been further than the glades of Lothlórien, skirted the borders of the Wold and the lands of the Rohirrim. From what she could glean from her uncle's letter he was to go much, much further.

Only once during the day did she halt; when the storm was at its peak and thunder rumbled in the distance, edging threateningly closer on the wind, she deemed it unwise to carry on. Many jagged rocks, dark teeth in a mouth of green, protruded through the grass, and Rell found an outcrop large enough to fit her horse and herself. Shielded partially from the downpour, Rell pulled her cloak tight and her knees close, hoping to wait out the storm. She tried to find some rest, because she knew the chances grew slimmer once she crossed over the mountains. Elves guarded both sides of the passes of the Misty Mountains, but from that point further onwards it was unknown lands to her – and the unknown was always dangerous.

Her back and legs ached from many hours in the saddle, and this time it did not take long before she fell into a fretful slumber.

For how long she was asleep, leaning against Luin's warm flank, she knew not; no sun could tell her much. But the thunder lessened, and a distant rumble running through the ground roused her suddenly. A tremor through the ground, faint. Finding her feet, she climbed the slippery stone and gazed out over the windy uplands. A line of trees stalked the horizon, still five leagues away to the north-west. Following with her eyes the shadowy eaves and its further slopes fading into the distant grey, she saw forms move across the plain between her and the trees.

There was a silence in the empty fields, but at length she could hear the beat of galloping hoofs as they came closer. Slowly, she took the long bow from her back and nocked an arrow, yet kept it pointed to the ground until she could make out the shape of the horse riders. They followed the trail for a while longer, then swerved off to approach the outcrop upon which she was standing. She recognized the riders, and she held up a hand in greeting, knowing well they had already spotted her.

The horses were lithe, clean-limbed and swift; their coats glistened in the rain, and their manes were braided with silver threads. Both riders had long hair that flowed out behind them, their faces stern and keen. In their hands were tall spears, and shirts of mail hung down upon their knees. While waiting for the elven scouts, the rainfall lessened to a lighter shower, turning to naught but a cold-touched drizzle. A gleam of sun through fleeting clouds fell on her hands as she returned the arrow to its quiver, now knowing there were no enemies about.

With great speed and skill the riders checked their steeds, and soon Rell found herself looking down on them from the stone outcrop. Luin whinnied a soft greeting. They halted at the rock; the tallest Elf rode forward, grey eyes running swiftly over her before he spoke. "What brings a Ranger of the North here, alone?" He asked in the Common Speech, while she climbed down the slippery rock to stand before him.

"I am to meet with my kin," she responded, pointing east to the hazy peaks still far away. "Beyond the Mountains. Do you have any news to share?"

His gaze followed her outstretched hand, and a darkened look passed over his features. "Winter lays claim on the heights of Hithaeglir much sooner than its bordering lands, and its grasp is harsh. The lower pass is taken by orcs," he said, "It would be safer to take the Redhorn Pass at this time of year, though it is a further journey." Rell knew the elf's words were wise, but despite his guidance she shook her head.

"My companion cannot wait for me to take the long way around, and I must therefore find him on the road. The trail will grow cold if I take another path." She lowered her head in acknowledgment of his counsel. "I must take the High Pass. Through its perils."

He said nothing more.

She spent some time longer with the Elves, for they were also heading towards the foothills of the mountains. They were passing messages between the scouts camped at the rocky foothills and to Imladris, and so they rode side by side for a while. When the slopes grew steeper, and there was further between green tufts of grass, Rell bid them farewell and continued her journey alone. With the warning of orcs in the region, she took to the higher path, although it was a longer journey. She knew her uncle would do the same.

While she climbed, the wind suddenly fell and then veered round to the south.

The swift-flowing clouds lifted and melted away, and the sun came out, piercingly pale and bright.

It was a reassuring sight, and she hoped it would last until she passed over the Misty Mountains. Around her the cliff-wall rose ever taller, the path narrowed until she at times had to dismount and gently steer Luin by the hand. The snow-tipped peaks gleamed in the sun, dark and threatening as they bore down upon her. Tall and still distant. At length she passed the last line of trees; she was left in a world of cold grey stone. Rell rode on, climbing steadily but ever more slowly as the road wound up further and further. With the passing of noon the way soon turned white, crunching below her horse's hoofs, for here snow was present throughout the year.

The way became steep and difficult. The twisting and climbing road had in many places almost disappeared, and was blocked with fallen stones and boulders. A bitter wind swirled among the rocks, and she wound her way under a sheer wall of cliffs to the left, and the grim flanks of the mountain towered up in the gloom. Rell felt a soft touch on her face. Cold and numbing. She put out an arm and saw the dim white flakes of snow settling on her sleeve. A scowl marred her features, concerned with the change.

The High Pass was treacherous even in the sun, but a snowstorm was more than worrisome. She went on, but it was not long before the snow was falling fast, filling the air, and swirling into her eyes. Pulling the cloak down to shield her gaze, she set the pace much slower, for the path ahead could hardly be seen. A chill settled in her body, but she pressed on – careful not to slip and fall to her death. She had hoped to make the climb without delay, despite the risk, and now her thoughtlessness would make her pay dearly.

If her uncle had made it across the mountains he would only increase the distance between them further, and he would be lost to her in the wilderness around the Anduin. The wind was piercing, howling in her ears and biting at her skin, and the snow became a blinding blizzard. But still she pressed on. The cliff gave but a little protection, yet the snow flowed down in ever denser clouds until her horse struggled through knee-high piles. Everything around her was hidden in the snowfall, and she could barely see ahead, let alone the path beneath her feet. Often her legs would cave from exhaustion, shivering and numbed, but the snow did not relent.

She could not mount. In the treacherous white, Luin would need guidance, and Rell was then forced to fight her way through the dunes of snow. Careful, searching for footfall where often the path came to a sudden, and abrupt, end. More than once she clutched the rocks, balance almost lost, and the gaping white pit below loomed dangerously close.

Rell knew not what time of day it was, or for how long she struggled forward; the sky was dark, grey clouds heavy, and her eyes watered in the cold. Keeping her head bent, watching and struggling for sure footings, she tried to ride out the storm. Even if she could find a place to rest, to find some form of shelter, she had not brought any firewood to light a fire. There was no heat left in her body.

It would be a cold and sleepless night.

"I am sorry, Luin," she whispered through clattering teeth, running her gloved hand over the coarse hairs; countless flakes turned the mane white, but there was still heat to be found in the large animal. "You probably preferred the warm stables rather than this. And your oats ..." Rell found support against the horse, her limbs aching. She was chilled to the bone, her head dizzy at the mere thought of the long and painful march across the mountain. Black specks swam before her eyes, and then she feared the snow would get the better of her.

Would she succumb to the cold? Let it lull her to sleep until death claimed her, here on the mountain slope – where she would not be found before spring-time thawed the snow. When her eyelids became too heavy, and her legs gave in, Rell could still not see an end to the climb. Going further up and up. An unending whiteness, towering up ahead of her on the path. She had anticipated the coldness and the sting of the snow, but not the ferocity of the wind. All she could do was bow her head until her chin touched her chest, and to keep walking. Though her feet were freezing and her footsteps were small, sinking in past her ankles with every stride, she also knew each step took her further.

She could not stop.

It was growing darker still; the snow falling heavier and piling ever taller around her. Finally deciding to find a place to rest, she huddled down below a cliff-wall, where the bottom leaned in but a little. She hoped it would take the worst bite of the wind. Rell kept her back to the wall, and Luin stood patiently but dejected in front of her, screening her a little. Her skin burned in its numbness.

The snow kept mounting.

A great sleepiness came over her. Rell felt herself sinking fast into a warm and hazy dream, despite the warning in her mind; needle-pricks pierced her exposed skin, coloured red in frostbite as she drew the cloak tight. With a last effort, she came back to painful wakefulness, and gasping for breath where every inhale was painful. Her hands trembled and shook as she pulled some bread from the satchel. The snow whirled about them thicker than ever, and the wind blew louder. She wished for a fire, the smallest of flames, to keep the cold at bay; but in her hurry, she had been thoughtless. Reckless.

The meal was damp, tasteless in her mouth, but it did give some warmth and strength to her body. She knew that the storm was far from over, and the coming long hours of night would be much worse; neither pressing on nor going back down the mountain-path was an option, and the Ranger was forced to stay, praying for the best. With no choice but to wait and hope the Valar would be merciful. For the storm to pass.

The time dragged on.

It was soon evening, and the grey light was waning fast. The mountains were veiled in deepening dusk, the wind was cold, but not once did regret flicker through her thoughts. A premonition – or foreboding intuition, she knew not which – but she was certain her uncle should not go on his quest alone. Rell looked up at the sky, hoping to see the stars through the clouds, but all was dark. Her throat burned and her nose runny, a misty haze forming in front of her face whenever she breathed.

A dulled thought made her smile with little humour. I should have taken the lower pass, risked the orcs – at least I could fight them. Shooting arrows at the skies would do me no good ...

Then, but a tiny pale flickering light peered down through the cover of clouds. Relief welled up inside her chest at the sight of Valacirca. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to Varda for the glimmering hope, rekindled, for soon after the snowflakes grew large and the harsh winds lessened. The clouds lowered and thinned. It felt like another hour before she could see the faint outlines of mountain peaks, grey teeth about her on all sides.

When the blizzard calmed and slowly a dim light began to grow, night had almost passed. Rell came to her feet; pain ran through her fingers when she pulled at the reins, urging Luin to its feet. The layer of snow was soft but deep, and her horse had little trouble carving a path through it for her to walk, albeit for her shivering body it was still with difficulty. The climb continued for half a day more, though it seemed far longer, before the slopes evened out and the path widened enough for her to mount. The heights above were hidden in great clouds still heavy with the threat of snow, and she quickly pressed on before the storm found renewed strength to unleash upon her.

Hithaeglir had proven an overwhelming opponent.

It was a much welcome respite when she returned to the saddle, rubbing her arms and legs for warmth, and the slope began to descent. The wind was still cold, and snowflakes whirled about, but she barely noticed it by then. She was much too grateful for the change. Another day had soon passed on the mountain. While it was growing darker still, the landscape, covered in white, almost glowed. Rell flexed her fingers, then drew them over her face to wipe away the frosty chill. The path bent, and as the moonlight grew stronger it showed a world silent and shrouded, and the shapeless depths below were lost to sight.

When at length the mountainside began its true descent, the storm had waned enough for Rell to see the silverly sphere of the moon above; faint and veiled in grey clouds, but it was there. Watching her, lighting her path down. Sharp cliffs reared up more than twice the height of her horse, towering walls enclosing on both sides, and she had no other way to go. The Elf's warning resounded in her head – orcs were about in the hills. Rell could only hope the weather had deterred them from climbing this high, and that by morning they had retreated to their caves to hide from the long reach of the sun.

She could not safely enter the forest before the banks of the Anduin, at least not while night was still about and enemies could hide unseen. She would have to wait. Even if now were the hours of orcs and goblins.

But still she could feel the malice of the mountain, shivers crawling over her skin, as her eyes peered out over the great expanse. The Ranger was very weary; the blizzard had tired her out, and she wished deeply for rest. The wind was hissing among the rocks, and there was howling and wailing all around in the empty spaces of the night. Luin's nostrils flared as the horse shifted nervously, smelling something on the wind. Rell became immediately aware.

Her sword-hand curled around the hilt, while with the other tightened her grip on the reins.

There were servants of the Enemy in the mountains, but how close and how many she knew not. Drawing Luin to a halt, Rell weighed her options; to wait for the light of dawn, hoping the storm had passed for good; or to venture down to the lower pass with swiftness, but in the dark of night? She feared her horse could not make it to the forest, not with the icy and snow-covered path in their way. Broken bones would be her companion down, or worse. It would kill them both.

Making up her mind, she dismounted. "Let us start as soon as it is light tomorrow," Rell said. Then, with hesitation, added, "–if we can."

She worried about the jagged walls around them, knowing well it was a perfect place for an ambush, but in the otherwise snowy landscape the shadows gave some cover. For her defence in the night she found a gap between boulder-stones, large enough to hide her horse to some extent, and then she took to the long and sleepless watch. The bow lay over her knees, an arrow twirled between her fingers, as she looked out into the darkness.

Never was the sighing wind silent, weaving through the rocks; she sat rigid and alert, waiting for glowing eyes in the dark to spring forward, for the cries and howls to be orcs, hunting the lonesome figure in the snow. Sometimes nearer and sometimes further off. In the dead of night she knew not if it was stars in the sky, cresting the broken hilltop, or shining eyes. Was she being watched? Or was her weariness tiring her out enough to see things that were not there?

Everything appeared hostile, lurking dangers amidst the shelterless lands.

The night was growing old, and westward the moon was setting. It gleamed through the breaking clouds, and only a little snow had piled up throughout the hours of darkness. The first light of dawn came dimly in the sky; she watched it, eyes hooded, and a sigh of relief escaped her lips. The bleakness parted and gave way to crimson streaks.

Rell had made it through the night. Cold and exhausted, but alive. She had seen no sign of enemies apart from the sounds, and when she checked her surroundings in the growing light, she found no traces of orcs. No footprints. Nothing, and she nearly laughed; how exhaustion played tricks on the weary mind! The snow looked untouched.

Pure.

She fed Luin the apples from her satchel, took another bread for herself, and while eating watched the steep snow-clad slope as it led down the mountain. Ahead, the lands were uncovered with the parting of the clouds; rocks and crevices gave way for grasslands and trees in the far distance, and the region of Rhovanion spread out before her eyes. A light was upon it, pale and new, and she took a moment to trace her road. What little she knew of her uncle's journey, he was to follow the great river as written in his letter.

But how far? She wondered. It would do her no good to wander aimlessly in the woods. From the road there were now many paths to take, and unless she by luck found his tracks there was little way of knowing where to go. In the end she decided. If she was right – and he was hunting the strange creature – then surely all things evil would seek out like-minded kin. She would follow the banks of the Anduin south, through forests and marshes, hoping to hear news of a lone Ranger spotted in the wild. Even if it took her as far as the Black Gate.

With the full light of morning she mounted. The weather changed again, and the turning wind brought the clouds north-west until they vanished beyond the peaks of the mountain. The sky was opened, high and blue, and as she stood upon the hill side, ready to depart, a pale sunlight gleamed over the snow. She thanked the Valar for allowing her to pass through the night, unscathed, and tried not to think of how badly it could all have turned. She could feel the sunlight heating her skin, fighting off the cold that had long rested in her body.

Rell pulled her horse forward, carefully descending as often stones and snow rolled down ahead of them. While Luin remained constant, treading through the knee-high snow, the Ranger watched the cliffs and edges with vigilance. Although there had been no sign of orcs, the horrid creatures could still be hiding in the cracks and fissures, and her bow was ready to meet them.

As it would turn out, her concerns were unfounded, and she reached the foothills of the mountain without difficulty. From there she could press on at a greater pace, and she spurred Luin forward. It was not yet evening when she reached the first copse of trees, and the land turned green. The oaks were wretched and gnarled, twisted in the biting winds that often swept across the lands from the west. But soon the branches grew thick, intertwined, so that a cover was formed above her head and she moved on in shadow.

She had reached the great forest, following for many miles the banks of the Anduin. The Great River of Wilderland flowed from its source in the Grey Mountains to Belegaer, the deep seas in the south, and the current was ever strong and turbulent. While Rell only skirted the edge of the forest, setting a swift and direct course, she could still hear the roaring waters ever so often, carried by the wind over the treetops.

The blue sky faded, for the day was drawing to its end, and cold stars were glinting in the sky high above the sunset.

With a bit of searching she found a dell, not far into the woods, and in the most sheltered and lowest corner she prepared to camp for the night. There were many branches to be found on the forest floor, and it was not long before Rell could start a small, and much welcomed, fire. The trail of smoke wove into the growing gloom, while she sat close by the heat and ate a little of her food. She was aware of her great hunger, for she had not eaten much in the last few days, but she touched only little – saving the rest for the long journey.

Rell would have to look for berries and roots soon, but she also had to make haste. There would be little time to resupply along the road if she hoped to catch her uncle. The cold increased as darkness came on. Beyond the dell the grey land was now vanishing quickly into shadow. There were no sounds, except an occasional beast scampering through the undergrowth in search of prey. She huddled round the fire, wrapped tightly in her cloak, while memories of the blizzard came back to her. She wondered how long the chill would haunt her.

The cloak made her blend in to one with her surroundings, rested against a large bole and with her sword at hand. As night fell, the light of the fire began to shine out brightly, and it would easily be spotted by those who knew how to look; but she allowed it to burn until it was but embers in the ash, for she needed heat. Despite the chill long subsiding, the icy touch of Hithaeglir clung to her. In the very marrow of her bones, cold hands clasping tightly; unwilling to let go.

With only little sleep that night, she was greeted by the cold and clear dawn, and the promise of another day on the lonely road.

She ate very little before departing.

One day soon passed into another, and another followed after. Rell grew weary, uncertain about her road, and advanced only slowly. She had to pick a way through a pathless country, encumbered by fallen trees and tumbled rocks, through wide-stretching plains of grass and dust. There were no settlements in this region; Elves kept to their strongholds, in Imladris and Lórien, while Men had never ventured this far north and stayed. Without Luin, her only other company was that of birds – dark shadows, as great swarms carved through the skies.

It was her third day after passing the Misty Mountains when the weather turned wet. Fine drenching rain fell throughout the day, and by nightfall, while setting up a cheerless camp, she was soaked. Rell could not get a fire to burn. That night she camped on a stony shelf with a rock-wall behind her, and only in the morning had the rain stopped. The wind was shifting again, but the clouds were still thick. Pale strips of blue appeared, though most was grey and dull. She lit a fire to dry, and she ate the last of the bread and cheese.

When she looked out, she saw a faint trail glittered in the rising sun, silver cutting through green.

The river ahead was short, its mouth somewhere to the west where it sprung from the Misty Mountains, and it was by then a welcome sight. She now knew where she was. It would be a day's journey before the Anduin would turn, and she would reach the Undeeps. From there it was the open plains, realm of the Horse-lords; here she hoped to hear news, for her uncle had often visited the green steppes of Rohan and it was the quickest road to the Dark Lands.

She finished her meal and went on her way.

The rest of that day was spent scrambling over rocky ground, and often she would find the path barred by ridges of high land; bare points like teeth, and she had little choice but to go back and around. While climbing on to a narrow saddle between two higher points, she saw the lands fall steeply away and the river clearly visible in the valley below; they went down the southern side of the ridge, and before long Rell was able to ride again.

When she reached the Gladden River, the sun was high and shone down through half-striped clouds, and lit the path with bright patches of light. While slowly guiding Luin through the waters, searching for sure footings between slippery stones, her mind wandered. Not many miles east, where a wilderness of marshes and wetlands formed by the meeting of two rivers, an ambush took place long ago. It was there that Isildur, and his three oldest sons, met their end.

The story was told in speculation, for the body of the great king had never been found.

She wetted her lips, glancing down into the shimmering waters. A heron startled from hiding between withered bulrushes, large wings flapping across the still surface before vanishing into the forest. What had become of the High King of the Two Kingdoms? He, who had cut off the Ring of Power; defeated the Terrible Enemy?

Beyond the river she found the clear beginnings of a path, that climbed with many windings out of the hills and thinning woodlands; in places it was choked with fallen stones and trees, faint and overgrown, and it appeared seldomly used. As it provided the easiest way, Rell followed it, but she remained wary, knowing not who had once trotted the path before her.

There was still far to the nearest outpost of Men, at least from what she had been taught and the maps she knew, and the path grew ever broader as she went along. She found old trees had been cut or broken down, heaved aside, and if not for the signs of abandonment she would have turned from the path by then. It was too wide to have been made by her kind.

Again, her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, at the ready.

But Rell found no enemies on the road, and soon the river lay far behind her and the forest thinned. She looked back. Through an opening in the trees she caught a glimpse of the clear waters, but then she turned away. Now open plains stretched further than the eye could see, the green becoming one with the horizon. There was nothing between her and the woods of Lórien, nested between the south-eastern end of the Misty Mountains and the great river Anduin, when she spurred Luin to a quicker trot.

It was less than a day before the tall trees came fully into view ahead.

The area was relatively safe, guarded by the grey-cloaked marchwardens from flets high in the trees, and seldom any beast or man ventured close in fear of the White Lady. Though neither would she; for Galadriel, Mistress of Magic, saw many things and knew the minds of many. She could not risk being send back, with an escort of Elves close at hand, making sure she returned properly. Instead she finally steered east, approaching the great and wild river; with a last look she watched the dark edge of the forest, where even in the waning light an ethereal glow hung over the trees of old.

It was a beautiful warning, and within the shadowed realm all enemies would be met with a swift and painful death.

She pulled the cloak over her head, hoping any scouts would see her as nothing more than a common Ranger passing by their lands. Then, with the sun sinking behind the mist-covered mountains, and as the shadows were deepening in the woods, she carried on in to the thickets where dusk had already gathered. Night came beneath the trees as Luin brought her further from Lórien.

Suddenly she came into the open again, and Rell found herself under a pale evening sky prickled by a few early stars high above. There was a wide treeless space before her, and here the grass turned to muddy riverbanks; reeds grew in dense clusters, and the wide river – mindful of none – rolled lazily by, bending and twisting between boulders and rocks.

There was no path to follow; instead she steered her horse between ancient boles and young saplings, between gnarled roots and fallen trees, keeping the Anduin on her left. As the night deepened, more lights sprang forth in the sky, and she watched them reflected on the waters. Diamonds on the blank surface, flickering with every slow wave lapping against the shores. The breeze died away and the river flowed without a sound; no bird nor beast broke the silence.

Rell carried on for a few dark, quiet hours, but then she looked for a place to rest. A sharp bend in the river, flanked by tall reeds, was where she set up camp; small fowls whistled and pipped in malcontent between the reeds, before they fled across the waters with wings flapping. Rings on the surface spread, then stilled once more. She lit no fire that night, for she had passed beyond the borders of Elves. They did not venture so far east, and the Men of the Riddermark had little business so far from their homes. This was orc-land.

So she made do with berries, wild and sour, then lay down for the night. For a while she listened and watched the stars, but there were no signs of living things. The steady river was a constant companion, lapping against the muddy banks, and the rustling and swaying reeds lulled her into a fretful sleep. The night passed without event; morning came bright and clear. Setting out, sharp-eyed and rested, days blurred into one until the country began to change rapidly.

The banks began to rise and grow stony. Soon she passed through a hilly rock-land, and the shores turned to steep slopes of thorn and brambles, making her path all the more difficult. It was not long before crumbling cliffs and dark, weathered stones forced her to turn from the river; once more turning sharply to the south. Every day she scoured the ground below, the branches on the bushes; smelled the air and watched the sky for trails of smoke; turned stones that looked out of place for hidden messages, but never did she find signs of her uncle.

Often she would dismount and survey the ground, then leap back into the saddle; ride for some distance, then again she would dismount and examine the ground, going backwards and forward on foot. But never was there much to discover. The trails she found were confusing, and mostly stepped by animals, some leading off to the great river and others out of the forest.

While the blizzard had delayed her some, surely, she could not be so far behind? Not with the pace she had set, and the distance she had covered; and so doubt began to bloom in her mind, a small seed growing with every day that passed. Have I missed him? Taken a wrong turn? As if to mirror her bleak mood, the weather turned dull and grey. The mornings were chilly and overcast, coverings of dark clouds stealing away her light. The certainty she had felt, both in Rivendell and in the Angle, was slowly chipped away by hesitation.

Had she been wrong?

Still, she carried on. The woods began to thin once more, giving way to places green with wide plains of grass. Rolling meadows, and far beyond she saw the contoured ridges of hills in the sunrise of the morning. Rell kept to the shadowed cover of trees, only skirting the plains, but as the day grew a thick and heavy fog swathed the undergrowth. Ahead, Rell knew, she would soon be met with another river; where the Limlight emptied into the Anduin, a large area of fens and wetlands cut off her path and forced her from her set road.

She was not pleased, but neither would she venture into the bog when there was another way around. Turning south-west, she at last in the afternoon reached the eaves of the forest; ahead were highlands, gentle and rolling hills with tall grass. The world here lay still, formless as green flowed over the wide-open plains of Rohan. Far to the west stood the Misty Mountains, blue and purple peaks rising with tips of glimmering snow. It was many days since she had trudged through the high snow and fought off the chill of the storm.

The sky was pale and blue when she pulled Luin into a fast trot. The grass was tall enough to brush against her feet, bending softly beneath the animal, and they shot across the plains in a blur of grey. Morning turned to noon; soon the sun climbed and then rode slowly down the sky. Light clouds came up out of the sea in the distant South, and a breeze swept across her face. Biting and fresh.

Rell drew her horse to a halt as a smell came to her on the wind.

Chapter Text

Her eyes flickered across the hilly plains, attentive and alert, for there was something in the air; Luin, too, could scent it, and the animal tripped skittishly on the dusty ground. Blood. She moved again, this time with slow deliberation as her hands pulled the bow from her back. When she approached, the smell became pungent and heavy, even more so as she climbed a ridge on horseback. The wide and rugged shelf ended suddenly in the brink of a sheer cliff, but gave a good view over the dale below.

The green plains of the Rohirrim stretched away before her to the edge of sight, though it was something white that caught her gaze just below the cliff. Turning down, at the bottom she found the source of the smell. Four large animals protruded from the grass, stripped from most meat, and the guts were strewn across the surrounding field; their bones white in the sun, broken and torn apart. She dismounted quickly and crouched at the carcasses, while her eyes swept across the area. These are not deer, she thought with a frown. The animals were too large, almost thrice the size of a normal buck; Rell hovered a hand over the closest remains, feeling a faint, lingering heat.

The kills were still fresh.

Next, she looked at the tracks surrounding the animals, and what she came across sent a chill down her spine. Many footfalls had trampled the grass, telling her that a great number had passed by not long ago; they wore boots, but were travelling light for the dirt was barely touched or flattened in their wake. There were no signs of a fire, and likely they had avoided any attention with smoke or flames by eating the meat raw.

Then she found the first head, milky-white eyes looking into nothing, thrown away when the animals had been slain. They were horses. Her concern turned to dread, for not far from the carnage she came across a well-kept saddle of dark leather as well as a dagger, its hilt decorated with small figures on horse-back. She turned the blade over in her hands.

It was little comfort that she did not find the bodies of the riders, knowing well they would either be held as captives or lay dead elsewhere in the fields. Rell stepped to the edge of the circle of flattened grass, where likely the large group had set up camp, and searched their path; they had come from the west, now heading further over the plains south-east into the Eastemnet. Rell imagined them to be Wild Men, passing close to the forest of old and raiding any village or settlement they came across – but how had they passed the Fords of Isen unseen? Covered more than a hundred miles through Rohan, without encountering armed resistance?

They should not have come this far ...

There was no uncertainty in her choice, for it could barely be called a choice; she called Luin to her and swung into the saddle, then followed the tracks across the hills while her attention was fixed on the horizon. Her pursuit brought her swiftly over many leagues, over the wide solitude and her cloak faded against the background of grey-green fields. The track led straight on, without break or turn until a thin, barely visible, line of smoke trailing through the air caught her attention. A white thread against the deepening blue.

Dismounting once more and giving a soft order for her horse to remain, knowing well something was ahead, she carefully climbed the hilltop; bending down to peer over its edge. A fire had raged previously, but now only toppled ruins of a large farmstead remained; soot-covered and blackened beams and stones lay in great piles, as the house had partly crumbled. The thatched roof of the stables was smoking still.

She circled the buildings, keeping to the top of the hill to secure a lookout both ahead and back, and here she found the track continued on; but it was split in two, one larger party heading straight south and another, she figured no more than a dozen men at most, parted from the group and veered north-east again. Her brow furrowed at the sight, attempting to key together her findings. No maps she had gone through showed much of the region, except for the larger settlements close to the fortress of Aldburg. She could not imagine a host of Wild Men would be foolish enough to attack such a stronghold.

Rell then slipped down the slope, hidden in the tall grass and constantly on the look-out for stragglers.

The house appeared to have been abandoned, and the Dunlendings had continued on with their march, leaving only rubble and destruction in their wake.

But she found something else instead.

Rell whispered a soft prayer to the Valar, head lowered and hands clenched, when she finally found the missing riders. They lay in the dry and short turf, hewn with many cruel strokes, and the ground was wetted with their blood. Their armour had been stripped from them, piled and burned. The heads looked with unseeing glazed eyes from tall wooden stakes where they had been speared, mouths agape and helmets thrown aside, and she only looked at them briefly before diverting her gaze. Her stomach churned at the smells.

The sight chilled her heart. It took her a few long moments before she approached the house, now searching with little hope for the farmer that had lived there, and for his family, though she knew well their fate had likely been just as cruel. Smoke was heavy in the air, dark and curling with every gust of wind, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. Her other hand found the hilt of her sword, ready to draw it from its sheath.

Stepping into the house, careful of beams and broken stones, she first came across the farmer. Blond hair was matted in blood, and he had been cut down in a single stroke not far from the door. An axe, meant for cutting wood and not bones, lay by his hand. Unused. She did not check if he was yet alive, for the crimson pool told her much. Chairs, tables; everything was broken and tossed about, as if done for no reason but to destroy in evil and resentful, old malice.

When she then came across the farmer's wife, Rell swiftly turned away and swallowed back bile. The woman was dead, that much was certain, but the attackers had not been swift; her clothes were torn, skirts hitched over her legs, and it had not been a sword that ended her life. Hands and nails were caked in darkened blood, and she had likely fought against her attackers; clawing and kicking until the very end.

Rell fled the house, seeking clean air to calm her mind.

Heaving for breath, she settled her gaze on the white clouds drifting overhead, and Rell felt hot-boiling anger welling up inside her stomach. Burning and clear. What had they done to deserve such an end? Whistling a shrill and short tune, Luin appeared on the ridge, neighing, and the horse trotted up to her side with dust trailing behind; with nostrils wide, the clever animal could smell not only the butchery, but also its rider's darkening mood.

"You and I," Rell started, attempting to still her wavering voice that shook when she spoke. She pressed her forehead against the soft and warm muzzle, then breathed deeply to calm her fast-beating heart. "We will get them for this."

As she was about to climb into the saddle, a noise – barely discernible over the small crackles and pops of still-burning logs – caught her attention. It was faint, soon vanished once more into silence, but she had heard it nonetheless. Rell looked out over the yard, attempting to determine the root of the sound; an unnatural silence lay over the razed house, grating on her ears. The sound had been a scrape, like iron dragging on stone.

"Friend or foe – come forward now, and I shall not raise my weapon against you unless you bare yours!" She called out, voice resounding in the quiet, yet no answer came. Then she walked with slow, deliberate, steps over the dust ground towards the buildings; attentively listening for another sound to mark her target, her instincts telling her she was not alone. The main house had been checked, finding only death inside, and so her eyes fell upon the stables. She pushed aside fallen boards between thick layers of ash, discovering rounded stones below. They echoed hollow as she tapped them with her sword.

She crouched, now carefully searching the ground for openings. While Rell still remained watchful, she no longer expected to encounter any Wild Men, but rather scared survivors of the raid. They could still prove dangerous, for in their fear they could not know if they attacked an enemy before it would prove too late. A soft shuffle, muffled, ran like a tremor through the stones, and Rell was now certain.

Standing up, she spoke again. "I am a Ranger of the North, and I am not here to hurt you." As she gazed over the ground, Rell became aware that there was now a stir and movement; a scraping sound rang shrill, as ash and soot fell through emerging cracks that ran over the floor. The hatch was pulled aside, and a pair of blue eyes looked at the Ranger in fear. Rell sheathed her sword immediately and held up her hands, attempting to placate the young girl. "I will not hurt you," she said carefully.

Several moments passed, where the farmer's child – no more than ten in age – watched Rell with conflicting emotions; the blonde hair was dirtied, her skin covered in soot and white lines ran down her cheeks. Streaked with tears. She must have hid before the Wild Men noticed her, Rell thought, crouching to appear less frightening. Then finally, deeming the stranger to be no threat, the girl climbed out of the small basement that had saved her life. A small, wavering voice followed her up, sounding distraught and choked up, alerting Rell to another presence.

"You are not alone?" She asked.

The girl blinked, head tilting sideways, as she sat down on the floor; trembling hands wrapped around her legs, while her eyes ran across the ruins around them. Tears fell silently, but no answer came. Rell chewed her lip, wondering if the child spoke Westron, although she strongly doubted it. Repeating the question, pointing to the hatch, she finally stood and walked over; at first the girl tried to speak, words in a language Rell did not know, but then allowed the Ranger to walk closer. Peering down into the basement, she saw two tiny figures huddled together at the end of a narrow staircase. Both yelped in shock when they saw her, and the youngest burst into fresh tears.

They appeared unharmed, and had likely escaped into hiding before the attack.

Rell's gaze softened, and she motioned the girl over.

Without any other way to communicate – and she had many questions in the need of answering – she started to draw in the ashes. Rell made a rough outline of the farmstead, while pointing to the place they were sitting, then small figures of men heading in two directions. With her other hand she pointed south, then to the drawing; repeatedly, until the child understood the gesture. The girl made a long trail over the stones and finally a large building, surrounded by stick-figured horsemen. Rell assumed it to be the stronghold of Aldburg.

After doing the same, this time for the smaller host of Wild Men heading north-east, she inhaled sharply. For in their path, the girl instead drew several small houses and people; no riders, and when Rell drew a sword on one of the villagers, looking up questioningly, she shook her head. Haste was needed now. Ignoring the shriek, Rell picked up the girl and lowered her down into the small basement once more; eyes casting one last look down on the three siblings, she spoke a command they could surely understand.

"Stay."

Then she drew the hatch over the hole.

Rell tried to conceal the hiding place with ash and half-burnt boards, hoping it would be enough in case the Wild Men returned. At least it was no longer obvious unless one knew to look for it. When she stepped outside, the land was bathed in warmth, and it was not yet long passed midday for the sun was still high. Her heart was hammering, loudly beating in her chest, as she mounted Luin. Rell did not fear battle, but a sense of dread for the villagers made her spur her horse into a fast sprint.

Hoofs thundered over the ground, sending tufts of grass and earth soaring through the air after them.

They shot across the plains, through the tall grass and over small creaks; the land was green, and in the wet meadows grew many willow-trees. But despite the beauty of the land, there was a chill in the air that made her press on with ever growing need. How far ahead were the Dunlendings? Would she arrive too late? Ever so often she watched the tracks, following them carefully, making sure she would not miss a sudden turn, but at the same time she also kept a keen watch on the rolling hills.

A smell of burning was in the air, and Luin grew uneasy beneath her. A great weight of dread settled on her, and time seemed poised in uncertainty. She was too late. "With haste, Luin!" The horse sprang away, hoofs beating against the ground, as Rell drew the bow from her back. Wisps of grey-white smoke rose into the air, and when the Ranger approached, screams and shouts blew on the wind to meet her.

Despite the fast approaching battle, a calmness fell over her – beaten into her through years of practice. Ready, poised so that no mistake would hinder her nor risk her life. Luin's muscles tensed as Rell released the reins, instead pulling back the bowstring. She exhaled, then released the arrow and watched it carve through the air. The look-out on the hilltop tumbled down the slope, dead, before he had a chance to shout a warning for his comrades.

A dark arrow jutted out from below his mandible, blood spluttering through the dark filtered beard.

The horse sprang past the Dunlending, climbing the hill swiftly, and now Rell had a clear look over the village. Fires were blazing, roaring to life as thatched roofs fed the wild flames; terror rose up to greet her, panic and screams, as her gaze attempted to gauge the extent of the battle. Several villagers lay slain in the streets, yet chaos was ongoing. Another arrow was released, and the string whirred by her ear; but still Luin rode on, mane rolling and whipping about in its speed. Arrow upon arrow sang through the air, and three Wild Men lay dead before Rell reached the first burning houses.

With the sun in her back, blindingly clear, she managed to kill one more before they spotted her.

Shouts of alarm brought their attention to her. The faces of her enemies were now drawn upon her, but Rell did not blench. Soon after, she was forced to put aside her bow, finding the hilt of her sword instead, for the Wild Men sought cover behind walls and fences. Arrows became useless. But the weight in her hand was calming on her nerves.

There were cries in the air, and among them the harsh voices of an unfamiliar language; barking orders, and her quick ears caught heavy footfalls around her.

Surrounding, blocking her escape.

Rell dropped swiftly out of the saddle and shouted a command. "Maetha, Luin!" The horse tore off, and the Ranger drew her sword. It rang hollow in the sudden silence, the world holding a deep breath before a storm's release; her feet shifted over the ground, drawing up clouds of dust, while her gaze flickered over her surroundings. Soon ...

Dark smoke blew across the streets, twisting and obscuring her vision; she flexed her hand over the hilt, breathing quiet and calm, but she knew it would not be long now. The weight shifted to her legs, prepared for the first strike, though she was not sure from where it would fall. A dog was barking loudly, snarls weaving between the buildings.

Movement from the corner of her eye flashed, and a jagged blade hissed past her chest. Rell whirled around, blocking the attack with her own sword and a dull, metal clang trembled up her arm. She allowed the blow to slide by, twisting out her free arm, and levelled a hit across the Dunlending's temple with as much force as she could muster.

Stumbling and disoriented, momentarily put out of the fight, he fell to the ground. Rell could turn her attention on to the next; she drew blood, cutting deeply into flesh. Warm droplets flecked her face, but she had immediately moved on and returned to the first attacker, knowing well her blow had been clean. The sword sank into the soft tissue below the ribs, grating against bones, and he slumped down, lifeless.

She was glad there was very little order between the Wild Men, for clearly she was outnumbered if they charged all at once. No more came openly at her. Carefully moving around the corner of a building, wiping blood from her face and eyes, she followed the sound of anguished screams. Urging her forward with haste. Rell could no longer hear barking. Animals lay dead in the streets and in their enclosures; horses and sheep cut down and gutted.

A loud scuffle welled up from without the nearest house, accompanied by pleas and cries.

Rell passed through the broken-down door, but recoiled swiftly. Pain erupted where the blade met her arm, stalling the man's attack, and jolting tendrils ran down her arm to her fingers. Numbing. She cursed and fell back into the open yard. Finding her footings, turning the sword in her hand, she met the second blow; she held the blade even, a perfect, undaunted horizon. Second nature, as her uncle had taught her.

He hissed something in his dark, guttural language; yellowed teeth bared in a grin, and they stood close enough for Rell to smell his breath. Rotten and putrid. She drew back, swung her sword to meet his, and, with his attention on her, the other free hand found the smaller knife in her belt. It slit the great vein in his neck, and air wheezed through gaping lips as he drew his last pungent breath.

Pulling back the blade and stepping aside, Rell looked into the house.

A woman, clothes torn, clutched a small bundle tightly, huddling together in a corner of the room. Fearful eyes met hers, but both mother and child appeared unharmed. She pressed a hand to her wound, wincing, and felt a warm dampness soaking through the fabric; then the Ranger returned to her duty. The wound could be dressed later.

Even if it stung horribly.

The villagers had put up a fight, and Rell came across several bodies of the Wild Men. Tangled dark hair, coarse leathers and wools, and weapons caked in rust. The fires grew in strength, and the heat made beads of sweat trickle down her brow; she could taste salt and iron in her mouth. Dust and ash. Her eyes watered and her vision blurred.

Reflex kicked in and she ducked back, creating a distance between herself and the figure that had sprung out through the smoke. The man dashed at her, attempting to knock her over, but Rell swung her sword in a wide arch. He stumbled, and she made a grab for his shirt; balling the cloth between her fingers, she slammed her other elbow into his ear.

She forced his head back, intending to sweep his legs out from beneath him, when something hard collided with her shoulder. Pain bloomed, numbing her grip and the man staggered back. A quick glance back revealed a burly figure holding a wooden club in his hands, raising it again to strike. Knuckles white over the hilt, struggling to keep her hold on her weapon, she weakly blocked the blow.

For a moment she was unguarded, muscles screaming in effort, and if her enemy's weapon had not been so heavy, she knew well the danger that could have been. She shoved into him with great force, knocking them both down, and her sword slipped from her aching hand. Outnumbered, and she had now lost both her footing and her weapon. He was larger and stronger, and the grasp on her was iron; her mind had not forgotten the second man, knowing well the blow would not keep him dazed for long.

Rell felt neither pride nor shame, for this was not honourable combat – this was a struggle to win and to live. Baring her teeth, she dug into the thin skin; tearing flesh and tissue, warm blood pooled into her mouth. She fought back a choke. He howled and trashed, landing several blows to her back to throw her off, but finally he lessened his own grip and she stumbled away. Scraping over rocks, fumbling to hold on to her sword, she whistled sharply.

Luin came thundering down the road, an unstoppable and wild force, summoned by the earlier command.

They had trained the maneuver many times; the horse skirting the perimeter of a battle, at the ready to attack when needed. The dazed Dunlending had little chance to react before he was crushed below the large animal, trampled under hoofs, and while Rell turned to her own adversary it was to the sound of breaking bones. Shock was apparent on the man's feral face, astonished, but she did not hesitate. She could not afford to.

Finding strength in her grip, twisting the hilt, Rell retaliated. Blinking in surprise, hands fumbling around the blade now buried in his guts, his eyes slowly grew clouded. Fading. Blood pooled around him, soaking into the dry ground and turned it crimson, but soon the body lay still. Staggering to her feet, Rell withdrew her sword and called Luin to her side.

She did not need to look at the other man.

With ears flat and tail flickering, the horse walked to her side; nostrils flaring before the large, warm head burrowed against her shoulder. She rubbed the rough coat, feeling the heartbeat pounding strongly, and she soothed her steed quietly. "Thank you for your help, Luin." Rell looked into the large brown eyes. "You saved me." But there was little time to calm her uneasy companion, not when there were still screams in the air.

The fire raged on. Running her palm over her horse's forehead, gently, she allowed it to return to the hills. Then she ran further into the village, passing buildings and stables; carts and stacks of hay, turned over and devoured by large flames, and the air was heavy with smoke. Turning a corner, Rell startled to a halt as she came face to face with a group of men. They raised their weapons – pitchforks, axes, and one large greatsword – against her.

"Wait!" Rell cried, stepping back quickly with both arms raised. "I am here to help."

The one brandishing the sword stepped forward, towering a great deal over her, as he surveyed her keenly. His feet were planted firmly apart, and the hand gripped the handle with practiced familiarity; light-blue eyes flashed. Her own grip tightened on the hilt, but she would not draw it on them – they were men of Rohan, and they were not her enemy. "Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?" He asked, using the Common Speech of the West, but in a manner and tone indicating he knew very little of the language.

His companions stood restlessly glancing about, huddled together with weapons close, and she knew the large man to be the leader who had rallied them. He looked to be the only warrior in the group. But his sword was old, unsharpened, and he had likely not used it in a long time. The wound pulsed as she gripped her own weapon tighter.

Farmers protecting their lands.

Rell pointed to the clasp at her neck, to the six-pointed star, and then motioned to their surroundings. "I came out of the North. I was passing through when I came upon the Wild Men's trails, and I decided to follow." Then she drew her blade, coated in crimson, and held it up for them to see. "There is little time, but know that I am on your side. Now, please, lead the way to battle."

He watched her a moment longer, but then nodded gruffly, leading them through a narrow passage between two houses.

Shouts in the Dunland tongue ricocheted between the walls, growing loud and pressing, and as they entered the open square beyond they were met with a large group of Wild Men. Behind them Rell saw several villagers; gathered together and tied up, many bleeding and beaten badly. There was little time for Rell to orientate herself, for all around her people leaped into the fray with cries and shouts.

Rell was weary and tired when she blocked the first blow, stumbling under its weight, and the wound on her arm pulsed.

Her stamina was soon spent. But while the blow numbed the senses in her hand, she twisted and kicked out her leg. As she made contact, beating the air from his lungs, her attacker dropped to the ground. Her next attack followed swiftly, shattering his nose and knocking him unconscious. Heaving for air, crouching down on her knees, Rell attempted to catch her breath. A taste of iron filled her mouth.

Warmth trickled down her arm. The wound had opened further, and she felt light-headed and dizzy.

Advance, her mind urged her forward, advance.

Shadows danced over the ground, whirling up dust and blood; blades clanking and hissing, carving through air and bone, and Rell staggered to her feet. The fight was not over. Children were crying and screaming. The armed Rohirrim had pressed on, holding their own against the Dunlendings, but several on both sides lay dead on the ground.

Rell put aside the ever growing pain in her body, taking a step forward. Then another. Exhaled, inhaled, as her eyes came into focus on everything around her. Drawing the smaller blade from her belt, turning it over, she threw the knife at a nearby Wild Man before quickly following it herself; raising her sword to strike despite her muscles' screams of agony.

The head landed with a hollow thud, rolling away, as the body collapsed to the ground. She retrieved the knife from his back, wrestling it loose, then jumped to help one of the Rohirrim fighting alone against two. Time was lost to her, hacking and slashing, as the world became painted in red; her eyes stung from dark smoke, breathing ragged, and her ears rang from every blow she had taken.

But then, at last, it was over.

Rell sheathed her sword, then slumped down onto the hard ground as her legs caved. She stank of sweat and blood, her hands trembled, and she felt like throwing up. For a while she sat and shivered; clenching and unclenching her hands to gauge the damage, but finally she carefully pried away the sleeve of her tunic. It burned, as the matted blood made the fabric cling to the cut. But Rell knew how to handle a wound; the quicker she was, the less damage it would be.

And so, biting her teeth together, she uncovered the still bleeding gash despite the pain.

To her great relief, the cut did not run deep, and she did not fear any permanent damage as only little blood oozed out. The blow had missed her tendons. Another scar, but both arm and fingers would work fine in time. She brushed aside strands of hair from her face, undone from the braid during the fight, and her fingers stilled against her brow. Her body felt as if on fire, and it was hard to find even one place that did not hurt.

The uninjured men were quick at work, searching for villagers and putting out the fires, and soon the square was a mesh of people. Nearly twenty Dunlendings lay dead, several more than she had expected from the trails, and they were laden on waggons with little care to be hauled off. But nearly the same amount of Rohirrim had been killed. It was a sad hour, filled with anguished cries as men and women found their loved ones, and Rell could do no more than watch.

If only I had arrived sooner, she thought with a heavy and disheartened mind, how many more could have been saved?

The pillars of smoke rose high into the air before the wind caught hold of it; dark birds were drawn in by the smell of blood and death, now watching with beady eyes from the rooftops. But still the westering sun gleamed, painting the blue sky in vivid colours, and a peaceful silence had settled over the lands. Luin answered her call, and soon after the horse stood faithfully by her side. Waiting calmly.

Water was drawn from wells, and Rell washed and cleaned her wound; it stung, but soon she had dressed it with clean linen and herbs – fine-grounded athelas from her satchel. While she had not learnt much of the healing arts, unlike her uncle, the sweet-smelling herb eased her pain still. Only few noticed the lone Ranger, sitting off to the side, for they were deep in their own grief and spared little thought on anything else. Rell leaned against the wall of a building, closing her eyes for a moment as exhaustion spread throughout her body.

Her head pounded, and the taste of iron lingered in her mouth.

She ran her tongue over her teeth, making sure none had come loose during the fight.

But it was not yet the hour for rest, and despite her throbbing head and aching muscles, Rell returned to her feet. There were still many in need of aid, with deep gashes and injuries that would likely claim lives throughout the day. She found the wounded had been laid in long rows on the ground, a smell of vomit and blood heavy in the air. Groans and sobs. Walking down the line, seeing most had been cared for to some extent, she kneeled down beside a young man; he had a gash across the side of his head, inexpertly bandaged, and blood oozed sluggishly out.

Dark crimson trails ran down his forehead and over his eyes, pinched together in fevered delirium. Rell carefully began to unwrap the stained linens, glancing about for someone to fetch water to clean the wound. Her hands soon became sticky with warm blood, stroking away the matted blond hair. He moaned, fingers fretting as they opened and closed.

When finally a crock of warm water was brought to her, she cleaned the wound to her best ability and pressed the crushed herbs into the gash. Then she wrapped a fresh bandage around his head, making sure to apply enough pressure to still the bleeding. Rell did not linger, for her presence could do no more for the boy, and instead she passed on to the next one in the line. She moved from blood encrusted cuts to broken limbs. Bones shining pale below torn muscle. In no time at all, Rell had used up her supply of athelas; but with the light waning, most of the injured had been helped inside the houses for the night.

Her work was at long last done.

Rell wiped her brow but managed only to smear dried blood across her skin, looking out over the square to the men remaining in an attempt to find the warrior from earlier. She called for Luin, grabbing the horse by the reins, and pulled it along with her. Following the trail where the Rohirrim had hauled off the Dunlendings, she found a large fire taking shape over the first hills; a great valley lay beyond and further, in the deepening shadows, unending stretches of land was all she could see until her gaze reached the horizon.

The corpses were piled onto the wood with little care, and soon all-devouring flames were lit about them.

He was not hard to find between lean farmers, for his large and muscled body stood out rather prominently. Rell stepped closer, finding her voice that had long been unused. "Have you any men that can ride out?" She asked, drawing his attention to her and away from the flames. "There is danger still. A larger host of Wild Men are heading south as we speak."

"How come you know of this?" He said.

"I found their trail not far from here," she said and pointed in the direction of where she had found the burnt-down farmstead. Her glove was coated in darkening patches of blood, stark against the green fields and the blue of the sky. Her head was pounding, heavy with exhaustion and the dull throb of her injuries. "Surely a warning must be sent out, before it is too late."

Chapter Text

Another day of riding and a night of journey had fleeted by. The cold dawn was at hand again, and chill grey mists were about them as they broke camp; they had rested their horses only briefly, and now they were ready to set out once more. His horse stood steaming with cold perspiration, but Firefoot held its neck proudly and showed no sign of weariness. Many tall men were mounted behind him, heavy cloaks drawn about them as they awaited orders, and their spears gleamed sharply in the dim light of the distantly rising sun.

"My lord." A voice broke the silence, and he looked back to the rider at his side. Gloved fingers tightened against the reins. "Is it not the hour to depart?"

Behind, the heavy mist swallowed up most of his riders, but the ever-present breathing and stamping of hoofs welled up between the hills. An ever-growing echo. They had skirted the banks of the Entwash, first following the swift-flowing river as it left the old forest of Fangorn; deeply carven into the stones and land, and further still as the flow became sluggish. Languid and chuckling. The grasslands gave way to brackish fens, and a stark smell permeated the air. They were far from home and hearth, and had been for a long time now.

But the Emnets were growing increasingly dangerous, for fel creatures crept down from the mountains, and from the west the Dunlendings became bolder; patrolling was important, if not more than ever, even if it kept his men from their homes and families. It was a dull and disheartening task, but also a mantle he had welcomed with pride.

For a while he sat silent in the saddle, pensive, but at last he spoke. "We will ride the straight way east. Call the heralds."

He put on his helmet.

Then he went out, and behind him trumpets rang out in the mists, answered by many calls and shouts. Thundering over the wide flats beside the noisy river, he led his riders onward down the grey road. Swiftly following their lord in pairs, two hundred strong. His heart felt heavy, thoughts of better days – now long gone – haunting his waking hours, and always he was burdened with great concerns. The voices of counsellors whispered promises of peace in the King's ear, and the people of Edoras, so far from the wilderness, knew very little of the dangers surrounding them.

Two swift hours passed, and they rode on through meads and riverlands. Often the grass was so high that it reached above the knees of the riders, and their steeds seemed to be swimming in a grey-green sea. They knew the lands well, skirting around hidden pools and treacherous bogs. Taking the fastest way over the lands. Firefoot found the way, and the other horses followed in his swath.

Looking out over the plains he saw the climbing sun, red tendrils across a clouded sky, low upon the edge of sight. A bitter chill clung still to the air, and a wind swept across their path, rushing through bent grasses. But soon morning was bright and clear about them, and birds were singing in the meadows, and he wished the tranquil world was not so fleeting. So easily broken by war. So soon, Autumn was to pass, and the bitterness of Winter blew with increasing strength.

The riders climbed and descended rolling hills, making easy marks against the pale sky if not for their great numbers, and his grip on the spear was ever vigilant. Ready. An unease hung heavy in the air, for their scouts had not returned from their patrol through the night. They were good men, and he prayed to the Valar that his fears would be but horrid thoughts with no claim to reality. But there was a sinking feeling in his chest.

At that moment a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see a large bird swoop down over the riders; wings beating, before it was borne away north on the wind. It was gone again. "A carrion bird," said his squire, risen in his stirrups as he gazed after the shadow. Deep brows set in thought.

Then they carried on.

Day came about them, and the sun blinked over the lifeless hillocks, yet still the sight of the dark bird gnawed at his mind. He turned his eyes every so often northward, over the sundering leagues of land; far away he gazed, to the edge of sight where thin stripes of cloud grew into one with a red-tinted haze. Unease bore his thoughts still further on, beyond the dimness and to the open fields of the Eastemnet.

The host rode on, driven by need, and with all the speed they could muster. The steeds of Rohan were swift and enduring, and seldom they paused in their vigilant watch. Though he could not see it, he knew that beyond the haze there was a growing darkness, as if a great storm was moving out of the East. Brooding, a shadow creeping ever closer, and their people had only few allies left to help ward off the storm. The light was in his eyes, turning all the rolling fields of Rohan to gold, and the clouds waned.

Outcrops of beech trees littered the land, between large boulders of hard rock, and there were not many settlements to be found in the region. Herdsmen lived a nomadic existence on the fields of the Eastemnet, driving their great herds across the grasslands as they followed the seasons. But it had been a long while since they had last passed such a camp, let alone any other people, and it worried him greatly.

He drew up his hand, and without a word or cry, the riders halted.

There was a silence in the empty fields, and he could hear the air sighing through the grass and stone-crevices. "Éothain," he called, and his squire drew closer. "We will not go further east, but northward from this point. There is something not right about these lands." He could see the wonder in the man's eyes, but never would his decision be argued. "Send Alger and Bana ahead to Aldburg with word, let them know we shall soon be returning."

His orders were carried out swiftly, and two riders parted from the host; disappearing into the grey mists, while the rest swerved away north-bound. They carried on for several hours, yet nothing caught his attention that could explain his unease, and cold morning turned to noon. The sun rose out of the haze, sending golden beams down upon the scattered trees and glades about them. The wind had died.

Ahead, dark smoke rose in thin curling threads.

Shouts welled up as others noticed the trailing spirals against the blue-grey sky.

With increasing speed, they pressed on towards the fire, and he called for scouts to ride ahead. He spurred Firefoot, grip tight on the reins. Further, covering another five leagues, the vanguard returned with haste. They had spotted a black speck in the distance. A horseman riding back towards them; they halted and awaited him, spears and bows now at the ready, for they all knew a battle was close at hand.

He came, a young and weary man; caked blood marred his face, and slowly he climbed from his horse and stood there a while gasping. He struggled to stay on his feet. At length he spoke. "Is the Lord Éomer here?" He asked, stumbling for words in his haste as his wild gaze flickered over the Éored. "We have been attacked by wild hillmen! They razed our village, and while we drove them back a larger host has been seen heading south in the direction of Aldburg."

Urging his horse forward to meet the outrunner, the young boy's face lit up with joy and wonder.

"My lord Éomer!" He cried, then kneeled with some difficulty. His head lowered.

Éomer drew himself up in the saddle, checking Firefoot. "How long ago was this?"

"They came just before midday, and there was little we could do to defend ourselves. But they were few in numbers, for most of their forces appear to march for Aldburg, my lord. I was sent ahead to give warning before it was too late."

With his head still lowered, all seemed quiet and watchful, and the riders of his Éored listened silently; grim-faced and waiting for their lord's command. The news were grim, and anticipation was heavy in the air. "Give this man a fresh horse!" Éomer called, pulling at Firefoot's reins as his gaze was drawn to the rising smoke. "Ride back to your village – tell them that the message has been received, and we shall soon come to you with aid."

"Thank you, lord!"

The courier climbed into the saddle of the offered horse, bowed his head in farewell, and then spurred his steed. Like the arrow from a bow the great horse sprang away, but they did not spend long watching him for time was of the essence. Haste was needed now. Horns sounded across the plains, and the host turned away from the road and bent their course westward. Spears glistened in the sun. Like teeth bared at the scent of bloodshed.

Red shafts of light coloured the grey-clouded skies; the now high-risen sun was on their backs, dull and chill, and he looked once more to the trails of smoke in the distance. The dreadful feeling had been true, a premonition of something evil, yet they had arrived much too late to protect the settlement. They rode further still, watching the rolling hills and the horizon with keen eyes. Hoofs beat against the ground, resounding throughout the plains, like the rolling of thunder until drowing within the green sea.

The wind changed, harsh and savage against his face, as the light waned.

It was not long before a hurrying darkness, gathering with great speed, rushed up from the East and swallowed the sky. For a moment the air calmed, died, and all was quiet; there was a dry splitting crack of thunder, flashing across the dark and, with it, mingling with its roar, came a sudden rush. Many great droplets of water poured down on the riders, beating against their helmet and shields, obscuring their vision as if the old evils of the world had turned their eyes on them with malice.

Another crack of thunder. The rain came as a blinding sheet, bitter cold, and soon the ground turned to a slippery trail of mud. But they were men of the Riddermark. The cruel weather did little to halt their horses; while the lands were covered in shadow, he knew the hills and grasslands well. They did not falter. As he gazed, Éomer became aware that there was a great stir and movement on the distant plain before them.

Dark, crunching figures weaving through the grass some leagues away.

His men stirred. "Éothain, take your men over the other ridge!" He called over the din of trampling horses, pointing south where contoured rocks stood darkly in the grass. His voice carried by the wind, clear and sharp with order. "Flank them – but keep some alive!"

The rider raised his spear, shouted into the din, and soon thirty horses broke from the host. Éomer led the remainder of his Éored with him, taking the straight path to the Dunlendings down a slow-descending slope; the Wild Men had been alerted to their presence, and there was great movement as they huddled together to face the advancing Rohirrim. Hunting-horns rang loudly. It was not long before the riders were upon them and the horses tore into the raiders.

Splintering bones as horse met man.

Cries and screeches came, a wall of sounds that made blood thrum in his ears, but there was little to be done against heavy mail and spear, nor against the greatness of the horses. The hillmen shot all their arrows, but under the great weight of warhorses most were trampled in the onslaught. Éomer threw his spear. The riders ripped through the group with ease. The line held on up the hill, and then they wheeled round and charged again; here the line broke, as each sought out new foes. An arrow whirred past his head. Hewing, slaying, driving the Wild Men together. They ran like herds before the hunters, and the Rohirrim went hither and thither at their will, the downpour swathing the fields in grey.

He had drawn his sword, now hacking down any that passed him by; Gúthwinë soon gleamed crimson and dark, carving bone and tissue. He felt a blade pierce his thigh, stinging as blood was drawn, but in one swift stroke the adversary lay dead. Head parted from his body. Pressing a gloved hand to the wound in an attempt to gauge the depth of the cut, Éomer cursed himself for his lack of attention.

It will heal. Firefoot sprang forward at his next command, skilled and deadly as he sought enemies.

Most of the Dunlendings that were left alive then broke and fled, pursued one by one to the death. A few held together upon the hillock, driving resolutely forward, yet here they were overtaken and brought to bay by Éothain's men that came from beyond the slope. The cloudburst carried on, unrelenting, and another gleam flashed across the field. Thunder rumbled, deep tremors through the ground. Bodies lay trampled in the grass, broken under the overwhelming force of the riders, and the murky pools of water were dyed a dark red.

Over the wide fields, the riders hunted down the few stragglers that had escaped with strength enough to run, and soon the sounds had died away.

A deadly quiet lay upon the slopes.

Éomer reined in Firefoot, and his steed trampled restlessly; agitated and excited. He spoke quietly to calm it. Then, with mud and rain trickling down his face, he looked out over the field of battle. His squire approached, checking his own horse, and gave a brisk nod in greeting. "Eight injured, but none too severely that they will not heal," he reported. "And all men are accounted for. Victory is ours."

A silence fell over the pair for a long, thoughtful moment.

The sight before them left him despondent, for while there was no fondness for the vicious men of Dunland, he never wished for war. There had been some peace between the two peoples for some time, and Éomer did not know what had caused the raiders to enter the Riddermark once more. But the thought troubled him greatly. How had they made it this far into the Emnets? What had incited them to pass the mountains?

"Did you capture any alive?" Éomer asked.

Éothain nodded. "Three, although one bit his own tongue before we could stop him." He pulled a face. "Choked on his own blood before we could do much against it."

"Watch them," Éomer said, "I need to know how, and why, they came into our lands."

The riders piled the corpses of their enemies, and he left a handful riders to light a fire once the downpour ceased. The ashes would be scattered, and the smoke of the burning would rise high to the sky; any watchful eye would see it and know that the Eorlingas remained ever vigilant. There was still strength left in Rohan, and any enemy would be met with a swift death by the ends of their blades.

With the end of the raid, Éomer gathered his chosen men and rode once more for the village. Around them, day had turned to late afternoon. Dark clouds smothered the light still, and the ground sploshed beneath their horses as they sank into the deep mud. Only a frail line of light in the far horizon showed the westering sun.

Water dripped from his armor, washing away any signs of battle, and a grim mood was on the riders. While the villagers had fought back the Wild Men, Éomer feared the cost of victory. The plains of the Eastemnet were home to farmers and herdsmen, caring for the earth and its crops, or driving packs of sheep and horses over the grasslands. Only few wielded weapons. Death would surely greet them – he had come too late.

It will be a black night.

When they finally rounded one of the hills he caught sight of their destination, disappearing and appearing every time they climbed a slope. Many houses lay clustered together, with straw-thatched roofs and well-trodden paths; there were no fires burning for the heavy downpour had doused the flames, leaving only dark black smoke heavy in the air. Only a few figures hurried forward to meet the riders, while Éomer approached with a handful men at his side. Éothain, some of his personal guards, and healers followed Firefoot down the hill; the rest remained behind, in readiness, dark silhouettes against the bleak sky to guard the village.

"Welcome, my lord!" One boy ran to his side to greet him.

With a nod in response, Éomer gestured to the village. "Show me to the injured."

He was then led to the heart of the town, a cobbled square fronted on three sides by houses and stables, and here they found many people afoot. Dismounting, allowing the reins of his horse to be taken, Éomer was guided to a large building as people parted to give passage; even before he entered there was a stark smell of blood and urine. Fear and death hung heavy in the air.

Upon stepping inside, he rocked to a halt on the threshold. The tables had been pushed back against the wall and the wounded lay in long rows on the floor. Women and children; wails and screams muddled together over the shouts of healers and the trampling of hurried feet. The light was dim despite many torches, and long shadows wove across the wall. His gaze rolled over the injured, feeling anger spark within him at the sight.

Éomer removed his helmet.

"Éothain, put our men to work where they are most needed." Then he turned to the young boy that had led them through the streets. "Who is in charge here? Bring him to me, at once when he is able." At the message the boy hurried off, and Éomer approached the first in the line of wounded. Teeth ground together to repress the slow-boiling fury that grew in his mind.

The man's face was ashen pale, eyes flickering but unfocused and the skin was burning upon touch; picking up a small bowl, he fed the patient a little bit of water, although most trickled down the chin and spilled. Cuts ran down his upper body; jagged and dark patches of blood seeped through the linens wrapped tightly over the wounds.

For a while Éomer sat with the man, pressing a cool hand against the fevered brow, but his stare was fixed on the floor. The flickering light from the torches made work difficult, and healers rushed by with fresh water and bandages. A woman sobbed hysterically, her cries of anguish turned into indiscernible screams, but then followed silence. There was much clamor and noise, yet the underlying silence was much worse.

Éomer was about to move on and rise from the spot, when he felt a weak tug at his tunic that made him turn.

A child looked at him, a trembling hand closed rigid around the fabric of his shirt, and she feebly tried to pull him closer to her cot. Fingers whitened. Her face was blackened and discoloured, swelling so that she could barely see, and small gashes dribbled blood down her front. He shifted. Stroking hair from her face, gently coaxing her to lie down again, he motioned for a healer to fetch water. The girl whimpered and small sobs escaped, through lips pressed together in an attempt to appear strong. "Hush, now," he whispered, "You are safe."

Now tears spilled, glittering droplets in the torch-light. "Mother," she moaned. "Mother ...!"

Éomer's heart contracted with pity, eyes roaming across the room once more. Has her mother survived? He feared the answer to the question, for surely the woman would have sat by her daughter's side – if she could. He could not answer the desperate call, and he strove with the anger once more turbulent in his mind. War was ever cruel and cold, but this? What right had the hillmen to attack a peaceful settlement?

When the healer returned with a large pot of hot water, he set to work cleaning the cuts and bruises with careful tenderness. His thoughts were deep at work, for still he could not see the path they had followed. The Fords of Isen were closely guarded from both the Hornborg at Helm's Deep and the fortress of Isengard; and only there, where the river became broad and shallow, could it be crossed. It would have been impossible to slip by unnoticed. So how?

A sweet smell flooded his senses, and he felt the weariness wane and his spirits return; his brow furrowed, for suddenly the air became clear, fresh as if a wind had brought it down from the mountains to be breathed for the very first time. New, like grass touched only by the first dew of morning. His mind calmed, anger abating as evil drained from his very bones.

"What is this?" He inquired, looking to the healer still waiting at his side for his next command.

The woman was about to respond, when another voice spoke instead. She quickly stepped aside. "Athelas, my lord Éomer." A man, grey-haired and aged, hobbled foward with cautious steps. Shakily, he tried to bow, but Éomer swiftly brushed off the greeting; standing up from the floor, the horselord approached and handed the pot of water to the healer.

"Athelas?" Éomer asked.

"Indeed, my lord, it was given to us by the Ranger. Its healing properties are most astonishing–"

Éomer interrupted curtly. "What Ranger?" He stepped further from the wounded, and the elderly man followed as they came to a clear area on the floor, where they would not be in the way. "Please tell me all that has happened. I know you were attacked in the hours before noon, but by how many and at what cost?" A darkened look overcame the other man, recalling what had transpired; there were but few details he could clearly remember and explain, nor did he know where to begin, except the all-devouring flames and the screams.

But Éomer learnt that twenty-five Wild Men had come into the village. They were all dead now, their corpses laid upon the pyres to burn without mourning, and left behind were sixteen other dead – men and women of the Riddermark. Children, hewed down without mercy, to never see another sunrise. Even more lay injured.

"They came from every side, my lord, and we were soon overmastered." The man's hands trembled as he spoke. All blood had drained from his face. "If they had not been so scattered in their assault, there would have been no hope for us to fight back."

Clasping the shoulder, finding it thin and withered with age but not without strength, Éomer nodded; there was no shame in fear, even the greatest warrior would feel its touch on the eve of battle. Farmers, attacked without warning in their own homes? It would be a terror that would not soon leave; clutching their hearts for a long time and haunting their dreams even longer.

"Take courage," Éomer said, "Bravery is fighting where there is little hope of victory. And your people fought well."

The old man lowered his gaze.

"We have only few able men left in our village," he spoke quietly, "–they picked up arms and fought back as well as they could. But it was the Ranger that killed the most." Again, this mention of a stranger from the wild north puzzled him, and Éomer asked the village head to tell him more. This wanderer, usually so elusive; bringing forth unusual aid in this great hour of need. "She had followed their tracks here, and it was also her that warned us of a greater host pressing south."

"She?"

"Yes, my lord, for it was a woman that came to our aid." With a hand he motioned to the many injured that lay about them, eyes once more returning to meet the warrior's keen gaze. "–she stayed a while after, helped to tend wounds with strange herbs that were almost like sorcery. But then she slipped away, much too soon before we could give proper thanks."

Èomer's brow was deeply set as he listened, at first a good deal distrustful, and wondered what had driven the Ranger to depart in such a haste. But his uneasiness wore off; by helping the villagers, surely that would be proof of no ill will, and both his uncle and father had told him stories of the Watchers, back when he had been but a child. He should much rather feel gratitude.

"And why did she not stay?"

A grim look came about the elderly man. "Beyond the hills, to the west of here, there is a farmstead. The hillmen passed through there first, on their way to us. When she heard the news of your arrival, she returned with haste as there were still some survivors. She left a message for you, my lord, and bid me give it to you upon your arrival. The Ranger found riders there." For a moment he hesitated. "Slain."

With a heavy heart, Éomer understood what fate had befallen his scouts; why they had not returned in the night. He knew them, like he knew all his men, and they all had wives and children waiting for them to return home. In vain will they now look to the horizon. But they would not return. Then he nodded briskly, thanked the old man, and called Éothain to his side. There was little time before the darkening hours of twilight, but Éomer would not leave his riders for the carrion birds to feed on, alone somewhere in the fields.

"Leave half the company here to protect the village," he told Éothain as the pair strode from the house in haste. "The rest will ride with us."

Placing the helmet on his head once more, he accepted the reins of Firefoot and mounted swiftly. A great stir met them when they rode out from the village, as many horses fell into place around and behind their leader. It was raining still, small and cold drops beating down on them from an overcast sky; leaden and ominous.

They went on for perhaps another couple of miles. Then the sun gleamed golden-red out of ragged clouds, slanting down the hill, and the rain lessened. A long-drawn wail came down the howling wind, like the cry of some evil, but then there was a silence; quiet fell over them. Going west a mile or so they came to a dale, and at last they halted. The hill opened southward, leaning back into the slope but in the deepest hollow lay a farmstead. Here, destruction had raged as well, and the main house was left in crumbled ruins.

It was yet another miserable sight, and a murmur rushed through the riders before Éomer led them down the slope.

A figure, cloaked in grey, coalesced out of the misty haze.

The sun went down, and the very world seemed sorrowful and gloomy in that moment. Éomer saw the light of the sunset fade, and a shadow crept out of the corners of the Wold. He nudged his horse forward, approaching the lonesome Ranger that remained still and watchful. He noticed the sword and the bow, but neither weapon was drawn, and so he brought up a gloved hand in greeting. With the gesture, the figure stepped forward to meet him and pulled back the hood of the grey cloak.

Éomer then saw the face of a young woman.

"Who are you?" He asked, speaking in Westron. Handing his spear over to Éothain, he then broke from the group to approach alone. "What brings you to the Mark, and whom do you serve?"

Her eyes were dark in the waning light, but bright and keen as she watched them; small cuts and black-and-blue marks dotted her face, and her clothes were travel-worn. Blood soaked her sleeve, and mud streaked her boots. A silvery pendant shone at her neck, catching his eye for a brief moment before the light changed to a dullness. "I greet you." She spoke with a quiet calm, never faltering despite the many riders bearing down upon her. Her eyes flickered over him, pausing briefly at his weapons. Éomer, now by her side, dismounted and they came face to face.

She inclined her head.

"I am called Rell," she then answered, "–one of many that walk these lands, seeking to protect what little peace we may have. I came from the North."

"A Ranger of the North," Éomer said with some astonishment, and she nodded. "I am Éomer son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of the Riddermark. But pray tell, what brings you here in these troubling times? It is seldom we see wanderers so far east of the Mountains. Your arrival was certainly timely."

The Ranger drew herself up, and he noted how tall she was for a woman; standing only one foot shorter than he, she responded. "My path is my own, my lord. I am following my kin east, but no more can nor shall I disclose. But do know this for certain, that my presence here is with no malice towards your people."

His eyes blazed and flashed at her inhospitable reply.

"Wanderers in the Riddermark, claiming to be allies or not, would be wise to tread with care," he warned. "There are many spies from the evil lands – and they come in many forms most unpredictable." His gaze flickered over her as he spoke. Eyes narrowed, but naught else betrayed her to reveal her ire, and her stance remained calm. For a moment his eyes lingered on her sword, but unless she moved to attack neither would he.

There was no honour in striking down a woman.

"I serve only the chieftain of my people, and I pursue the servants of Sauron in whichever land they may go. You should give thanks, my lord, for my aid. Not shun it. A dozen Dunlendings lay dead, slain by my hand – where I could just as easily have chosen to disregard the plight of innocents, for they are not my people. I warned your Éored of the second host, enemies that would otherwise have gone unnoticed." His jaw tightened at forthright speech, but he felt some amazement at her for not relenting. For a moment he was reminded of his sister, both proud and stubborn; unbending.

Éomer stepped back. "You have not told me all, but I see the truth in your words. Will you not speak more of your errand? Without secrecy and in full?"

At this she shook her head. "I have no right to share any more than what I already have, and as such I must do you a discourtesy. My lord, I have come on an errand over many dangerous leagues, and I was to but pass unseen through your realm – if not for a duty to protect those in dire need. Forgive me for not speaking in plain words, but I cannot without a heart heavy with regret. I must hope you will therefore pardon it to one who has been given orders of such secrecy."

"Very well," he said, "You are pardoned from not speaking the true and full tale, albeit it is most sought. But know that I must therefore remain wary of you."

Then, with their exchange coming to a close in the slow persistent drizzle that soaked both spirits and garments, Éomer walked around her and found what he had come for. She stepped aside, head bowed, and allowed him to pass. On the grounds between the buildings lay three bodies; coarse cloths had been pulled over them, dark-black patches seeping through the fabric. A hole had been dug in the muddy ground in the first line of grass closest to the house. Swords rested by their side, cloven helmets and armour familiar even in the lessening light.

These men were his riders.

Éomer drew his sword. His men. He kneeled, heedless of the sludge and cold, and lowered his head in prayer as Gúthwinë dug into the ground. May your spirits ride freely by the side of Béma, my brothers!

He could feel the Ranger's gaze upon him.

Twilight was descending, cloaking his surroundings in shadow, when his attention fell on another pair of bodies laid out not far from his riders. His mind recalled the words of the old man – survivors – and so he raised his eyes. Once more he looked at the woman, and he felt his heart pierced by the sudden keenness of her glance. "I knew not your customs, but I hoped a proper burial would be in order," she said, "Much rather than leaving them here for the crows to pick."

"We bury our dead," Éomer spoke with reassurance. "When we can." Then he called Éothain forward and released her gaze. His squire had wordlessly followed his lord's conversation with the Ranger, but quickly stepped up to his side. "Have the men set up camp, we shall stay here for the night. And then we shall dig their graves." Both his riders and the farmers would be laid to rest here, with the green hills and endless skies a peaceful company; hopefully their spirits would find solace. "Who lived here?" He asked.

"Follow me," she said.

The Ranger walked to the stables, halting once to see if he was following, and then slipped around broken beams into the burnt-down building. The smell of burning and ash was heavy upon the air, but the damage could have been much worse; the rain had saved the roof, and as he stepped further inside he came across areas completely untouched by the fire. In one stall he came across a horse; with a shining grey coat, shimmering almost like silver, and clever deep eyes; slung across the fence was a plain but well-kept saddle and several travel-packs, all likely the possessions of the Ranger.

But she carried on to the next stall, brushing a finger to her lips before speaking in a hushed tone. "They survived the raid, but it is their parents I have placed outside with your men." She allowed Éomer to step past her, and in the pile of hay he found three small figures huddled together in sleep. A horse-blanket had been drawn over them. He exhaled sharply, relief flooding him at the sight; the children had been spared. "There has been very little I could do to comfort them, for I do not speak your language. What shall happen to them now?"

"I will take them with me," Éomer said, "To Aldburg. I will find a home for them."

Chapter Text

When the riders and the farmers had been laid to rest, and Éomer had cast the first earth upon their graves, the Éored made their camp two hours or so before the middle of the night. Darkness closed about them when they settled down to eat and rest; Éomer took the time to dress the shallow wound on his leg, once more cursing his brief inattention during the battle. His vexation stung worse than the cut. Under the starry sky and waxing moon, the darkness was brooding, and the cold increased.

Peering out he could see nothing but a grey land now vanishing quickly into shadow.

They lit fires, and guards were set; two at a watch, and the flames shone out brightly on the hills around them, where silhouettes moved about ever so often. The rest, after they had supped, wrapped themselves in cloak and blanket and slept. Éothain sat not far from the fire, head bowed but undoubtedly still awake and intently listening. Hands never far from his sword. Éomer had found a place partially sheltered by the walls of the stables, taking the worst bite off of the wind, and here he watched his men at work.

All were worn out from the long ride, and the battle, albeit swiftly passed, had taken its toll. It was soon becoming a starless and shadowed night, but also accompanied by an uneventful quiet heavy over the Mark. A gloom was about them. The riders shared their food with the Ranger, and she had no objection to what they offered. Stale bread and dried, salted meats. She accepted them all with gratitude, well-accustomed to the tasteless food of the road. All her arrows had been spent, and so she had attempted to trade for new ones with his riders; her quiver was filled for nothing in return. The men knew why the Ranger was without arrows.

They gave her all the best ones.

Éomer was silent for a while.

The children, now orphaned, lay together close to the fire, and the Ranger had come to sit by their side. Steadfast and vigilant. Her hood was drawn, cloaking her gaze, and the flickering flames made light and shadow dance across her face. He heard her sing softly to herself, and to the children, murmuring brief snatches of rhyme in an unfamiliar tongue. A few lines came clear to his ears through the rushing of the wind, and they soothed his mind though he knew not the words; for the language was fair and beautiful even to his ears. He could only imagine it was Elvish.

He watched her for some moments longer, unaware if she could feel his gaze and if she then remained indifferent to it; the dark grey cloak made her become almost one with the night, and the gloved hand never strayed far from the long sheathed sword. There was no edge of concern for her current company, but not once did she appear tired or with plans to settle for the night. Sleep remained far away – just as it evaded him. "Not all is well here," her quiet voice broke the silence, and he blinked her into focus. Clear grey eyes looked at him. "They were so very far from their own lands."

He knew of what she spoke. The Dunlendings.

"Indeed," Éomer answered. The thought troubled him greatly – though he did not voice his concerns to her. Instead, he looked away and turned his gaze to the heavens, where there was neither star nor moon bright enough to breach the cover of darkened clouds. The enemies of the Rohirrim, jealous of the rich lands given to the horselords in the days of old, were ferocious, and their loyalties lay with no lord nor king. They had but one wish; to see the lands of the Riddermark devoured by flames and all its people dead in the fields.

Many a time before had they waged war against Rohan, yet never had they won, and the strife was now many ages ago. There had been peace through long winters and summers. He pulled a hand across his face, rubbing his brow as thoughts wove through his mind. The two prisoners back at the village would be brought to Aldburg for questioning, and hopefully they could shed some light on the mystery of the sudden attack.

Éomer's mind feared some betrayal to be at hand, but his heart wished not to believe it.

It was long past midnight. The sky was utterly dark, and the stillness of the heavy air foreboded storm. A blinding flash seared the clouds in the far horizon, setting the westward hills ablaze for a moment. The rain had stilled some hours earlier, but the wind threatened another downpour. The thunder was rumbling in the distance now, and lightning flickered once more – albeit still far off among the mountains.

Only few stirred in deep slumber, undisturbed even by the promise of a storm, but the Ranger likewise peered to the west. Yet her thoughts proved to not be drawn to the dullness of the weather, for soon she spoke again. "Are the Fords of Isen not controlled by the Rohirrim?" Over his heart crept a shadow, the gnawing fear of great danger from an unknown place, and her words were but echoes of his own thoughts. They resonated in his mind and chest, like the heavy beat of a drum it pressed against his bones with unrelenting strength. A cold chill crawled across his skin.

Thoughts that had stirred his mind ever since news of the Wild Men reached him.

Perhaps even long before then.

She watched him with honest eyes, expectant of his answer, and the grey orbs flickered in the light of the fire.

"At Helm's Deep, indeed, the great fortress overlooks the deep valley at the foothills of the Misty Mountains. There is no other way to cross the Isen unnoticed," he said, though his thoughts belittled his trust. Then how did they cross? There were no other places where a large force could effectively cross the river without fear of drowning, yet no word had been sent forth to warn his people. Surely the sentries in the Westfold would have seen them pass. They would not have let them pass unhindered.

He hesitated.

"Unless they headed far north and crossed the pass at the Gladden River," he muttered; more to himself than to the Ranger.

"I cannot tell you how they came to be here, but I do know that the lands to the north are well-guarded," the Ranger replied, certainty clear in her voice. "The Elves would never allow them passage, even if they would pose no threat to them or their lands. You may not believe it, but you have an ally in the woods of gold. No ... The tracks came from due west, straight across the Eastemnet." She drew in a deep breath, shifting in her spot, as if from discomfort, and an anxious tension flickered across her features. Now it was her turn to pause. "While it may not be within my right to speak of such, my lord, I fear you should be watchful of your closest allies. Of those you call friends."

"Such a statement would seem too bold to many," he said, words sounding colder than he had expected. But she appeared unfazed, except perhaps for a flicker in her eyes that showed she was startled; alarmed. The Ranger lowered her gaze, and the hood fell down further, shadowing her features. Éomer did not intend to sound cruel, but her words felt far too true. "But tell me, then, what advice do you have for a Marshal of the Mark?"

"I am not certain, so I will say no more," she replied carefully, and he knew her words were weighed. "Perhaps it is simple to speak when you are a stranger looking in; speaking of things I know little of, in a land that is not my own. I apologize for the rashness of my words, my lord. I only spoke of what I believe to have seen, nothing more and nothing less."

For several long moments he watched her, and neither spoke in the wake of her regret; instead the crackling fire and the shuffling of his men and the horses filled the quiet, settling about them. One hand was drawn to the silver brooch, fastened to her cloak, fingers slowly trailing across the pointed star as she peered into the flames. With careful deliberation, Éomer considered her words in his mind.

A keen wind was blowing from the North again. The clouds were torn and drifting apart, and the first faint and pale stars peeped out.

Despite the darkness in his heart, there was still some light in the world; and in the quiet he saw, above the rolling hills, the westering moon flicker between the breaking clouds. Glimmering yellow in the storm-wrack. It hung low on the horizon, barely reaching the summit of the rock, but its light was enough to cast the lands in silver. "There was no reason for your apology," he finally spoke, gaze once more returning to the Ranger. "Your words did not stem from mindlessness. They ring true in my heart, though I much wish they did not."

She stirred and looked up.

"My uncle often warns me, that I think very little and speak too much." A wry smile played on her lips, but it disappeared not long after, and again her face grew grim. "I know only little of these lands, and most from the words of others and ancient writings, but I do know what surrounds your borders. I know the Elves, and I know my kin – the paths to the North are kept safe, and there is no doubt in my mind." Her eyes were shining with resolution. "The Wild Men did not cross Limhîr. So we must turn our gaze westward."

Éomer knew of what she spoke. For there was another way, one that would bring the Dunlendings to the plains of Rohan unseen, but only if a great betrayal had seen the light of day. His blood ran cold. In the great tower of Isengard, the white wizard Saruman had been a close ally for many hundreds of years; he had been welcomed to take command by King Fréaláf, to protect an otherwise little guarded region in return for the keys to Orthanc, and so he had done. Faithfully and unfaltering ever since.

"You speak of Saruman."

It was not a question.

"He is held wise, and his words are known to be just," she answered; Éomer noticed her hand once more came to clasp the six-pointed star, and there was little warmth in her voice. It was now low and secret, and none save Éomer heard what she then said. "Yet how can there truly be trust in one whose name means the Cunning One?" In that very moment a great rustle came upon the wind, and her free hand grasped the bow on the ground by her side; birds soared by high above their heads, large wings beating until they were gone once more into the darkness. "Master of beasts and birds."

"Fair are his words, and many a time he has come to the aid of Rohan," Éomer said, "–but it would not be a first for allegiances to change."

The fire was burning low, and the sky was quickly clearing to the east. The sinking moon was shining brightly, but the light brought little hope to him. The enemies of the Riddermark seemed to have grown rather than diminished. Despite his weariness and a heavy, grieving heart that felt the truth in the Ranger's words, there was no proof of the White Wizard's treachery. The Marshal sat silent.

And so the Ranger spoke again. "Truth shall come to those that seek it."

Or an early end, Éomer thought grimly, for surely shedding light on such a grave betrayal would not be without repercussions. But he did not fear death; his loyalty was first and foremost to his people; his King and country. If no one else saw the grasping shadows, fighting for dominion over the grasslands of Rohan, then the duty fell on him. At the break of dawn they would ride out, at first to return to Aldburg but soon, and with haste, Éomer would turn his gaze to the Westfold. To hopefully find answers – be they good or bad.

Restlessness overcame him, and Éomer stood.

He looked at the Ranger briefly, her gaze turned to meet his, but then he nodded briskly and stepped away from the fire. Éothain stirred from his place in the shadows; here he had listened, taking no part in the conversation, and quickly he found a place by his lord's side. "What is the matter?" His squire asked, yet Éomer did not respond. With long strides he put a good distance between himself and the woman, now climbing the gently-sloping hill. All things about them were black and grey; there was a great stillness. No shape of cloud could be seen, for it was but a formless cover high above.

To him it appeared as naught but a groping gloom crawling onwards, and only little light leaked through them. Somber and featureless, and the glow of morning seemed rather to be failing than growing in the far horizon. Further along the crest of the hill watch-fires burned yet, and finally he paused as the slope began its descent. "Dark is the night," he said, hand lingering on the hilt of his sword. "Yet darker still the morning appears to me."

Éothain looked back to the farmstead, looking for the grey-cloaked figure that was the Ranger, and a frown marred his features. "Should one heed the words of an Elf-friend? One that comes from the North, passing unscathed through the Golden Woods?" And while Éomer could understand his squire's distrust, for he, too, had thought much of the same, he had seen no lie in the woman's eyes. They had been clear with honest belief. "No friends of the Rohirrim are to be found there."

"What path, then, do you see for the Dunlendings? For I see no other." Éomer asked, tone grim with exasperation; but his ire was not turned to his friend, but upon himself. The unknown was dangerous, more so than perils seen clearly in the light – the hidden enemy worse than all. Still, unwavering, his gaze was turned to the dark western sky. "The trails all lead to the Fords of Isen."

"Yet you know who holds command at Helm's Deep. Trust you not your cousin, Prince Théodred, to guard the region admirably?"

"You know the answer," he replied, "Théodred has my loyalty, and his own is with no other than Rohan and its people. It is not he that concerns me. No, Éothain, it is another I fear has let enemies cross our borders; for not even my cousin's watchful gaze holds power against that of a wizard's. Could Saruman not so easily mask evil deeds with a cover of sorcery? Blind our eyes to the truth?" Tendrils of light wove across the bleak cover of clouds, reaching further as the sun began climbing the eastern sky. "If Saruman has turned against us, I fear for our people."

He could see further still into the valley with the breaking of dawn. Neighbours were made enemies; such a beautiful night made restless by unwanted thoughts. Éomer was once again silent for a while, but behind him his riders began to stir from their slumber. New life was brought to the fires, and soon the dale was lit with many orange eyes flickering in the gloom.

As day opened in the sky, he saw gentle slopes run down into dim hazes before him.

They had come to the weary end of the night.

While the wind turned, bringing with it an air now clearer and colder, Éomer placed a hand on Éothain's shoulder. He breathed deeply. "I suppose it is no good thinking horrid thoughts without proof. We shall return to Aldburg, but prepare the men for a swift departure – I shall ride for the Westfold and see what treachery is afoot for myself!"

How grim his mind was full of doubt.

Éomer turned his back on the plains and went downhill, returning to the campfire and to the Ranger where he found her busy at work. Long fingers weaved meticulously through dark tresses of hair; twisting and pulling, revealing a face previously hooded. Young, much younger than Éowyn. But the lines; the bruises and cuts, tiny white scars, spoke of a harsh and long life. While finding a seat by the flames, he watched from the corner of an eye. The braid was simple, practical rather than decorative, and not soon after she was finished and allowed it to fall down her shoulder.

"My lord?" Her voice broke the silence, and he stirred from thought; her gaze was expectant, and Éomer understood she had previously said more. With a softness to her features and a mirthful light in her eyes, she spoke once more. "If one came from the north, passing around Sarn Gebir but otherwise following the banks of the Anduin, what way would he then take to reach Anórien?"

"Why do you ask?" He said, brow furrowed at the inquiry. Éomer had heard very little of the Ranger's purpose so far away from the lands of her kin, but now it seemed the journey would take her further still. No good comes from the East, came the warning in his mind, there is naught but perils. Death awaited travelers that went to the east. "And does the one you seek travel by foot or on horseback?"

"I believe he took his horse with him."

Éomer nodded. "It would be foolish to pass any other way than crossing the Entwash. South of the great rapids of the Anduin you would find a land of marshes, for here the Entwash widens and joins the Anduin. It is advisable that travelers avoid the river delta, lest they wish to pull through pools of sludge and mud, and treacherous mires for many miles."

She looked at him. A gleam of sun through fleeting clouds fell on her hands, which lay now upturned on her lap, as if she cupped the light in her palms. At last she looked up and gazed straight at the climbing sun. The Ranger appeared as if she saw things far away that Éomer could not see. "So I must head further south?"

"That is the road I would take," Éomer said, "South, until you cross the Entwash into the Eastfold; then following the White Mountains you will reach the border between Rohan and Gondor. Many miles lie between, but it is much the fastest and safest way. The path is straight and even, and any rider would find it to be the clever one to take, much rather than the straight way through the marshes. And such is my advice. Take it if you will."

"I shall, my lord, and I thank you for your guidance." Then, with her final words, the Ranger looked far east to the rising sun and pulled the hood once more over her head. All about them, Éomer's riders made ready to depart; the horses were saddled, fires stomped out, and it would not be long before the Rohirrim would meet with the others back in the village.

Firefoot was brought forward, well-rested and eager, and Éomer was greeted as one would an old and welcome friend. The children were roused carefully, and each was assigned a man to ride with on their way to Aldburg; their faces were streaked with tears and sorrow lingered still, but with quiet looks they settled into a saddle each. It was but a little comfort, that they siblings still had each other.

The Ranger had brought her own mount from the stables.

Resting her forehead against the large animal, and with whispers in a strange but lilting language, she stroked the grey-dappled coat. In the glow of the sun it appeared almost silver, so beautiful it seemed unearthly. Éomer mounted, making Firefoot turn restlessly, for it much wished to run freely after the long night. The light about them was growing ever still, and the clouds parted to reveal the blue sky of morning; bird-song welled up from the tall grass, and a buzz was in the air. The silvery-grey mare was brought to his side. Much smaller and lighter than the steeds of Rohan, but with a fiery and wise look in its dark eyes spoke of cleverness, and its simple harness was cared for well.

"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord," she said, smiling beneath the hood. "The food I will cherish, and the arrows I will put to good use."

He gave a short nod, but much before he could respond Firefoot attempted to sidle up to the other horse. Trying to impress, blowing air through its nostrils. Quickly, Éomer reined him in hard, yet the Ranger merely laughed. The corners of his mouth tilted upwards, though he swiftly put on his helmet and looked around at his riders. "I must admit your horse is beautiful, and I believe she has captured the attention of Firefoot," he spoke with fondness.

"I am afraid Luin is not easily impressed." She laughed again. "Much too used to Elf-horses!"

With the light of day then coming into the sky, albeit grey still, Éomer was ready to depart. The company was all mounted between the ruins of the farmstead. The woman by his side brought a hand to her chest, inclining her head, before gloved hands pulled at the reins. Her smile widened.

"Farewell, and may you find what you seek," Éomer said, "And perhaps our paths will cross again, though I hope in better circumstances if so."

"Farewell, my lord," she replied, "And I shall pray for the best, for you and your men."

With that they parted ways.

Very swift were the horses of Elves, and soon she was but a small, grey dot on the green plains. Far away, heading towards a fate unknown to him – to the East, where dangers were many. For a while he watched quietly, until she left his sight and was entirely gone. "Éored!" His voice rang out, clear in the din, and his riders stilled to listen. His spear, glistening in the sun, was raised to the sky. "We ride!"

So they passed on, hooves trampling; thunder running like tremors through the ground.

Behind, they left the blackened ruins of the farmstead and the mounds of his riders. Dark spears were stark silhouettes against the sky, upon the ridge now rising up behind them, and cloven helmets would soon be covered by green grass; here they would lie in their final rest, and he would bring words of sorrow to their families. They had given their lives in the line of duty, against an enemy that should not have stepped foot into the Riddermark.

Éomer swore he would find the truth.

And betrayal will be met with death.

Chapter Text

For a while she could hear the host of riders, a faint rumble carried on the wind, but soon it stilled as the distance between them grew too vast. She was alone once more. Luin's coat was cool as she placed a hand against it, feeling the steady beat of a heart beneath, and to some extent she felt soothed. Rell had enjoyed the company, despite the reason for their encounter; but it had been brief, and the road called once more.

When Rell finally looked back, she was then standing on the brink of a tall cliff, bare and bleak, and beyond rose the broken highlands crowned with drifting clouds. Far to the northeast, over shapeless lands, she saw a sickly green turning sullen brown and the rock-lands were wrapped in mist. Further still, a dark line against the morning, there she saw the contoured ridges of Emyn Muil. A foul and rancid smell was in the air, though she felt it was likely just her imagination.

Thickets of trees grew dense around the range of hills, but on the path she was to take there was nothing but open grasslands; further than the eye could see, and her journey appeared simple. All too simple; hunting the elusive creature had never brought them far out into the open, yet here she stood. On the hill, overlooking a great and vast expanse with little way to hide – why should this being of darkness and evil stray from its path? The river Anduin plunged between towering cliffs, and the rapids violent so that no man could pass by foot or by boat. The lake of Nen Hithoel was long and deep. A clever waterman would without trouble give the hunting Ranger the slip.

Rell gnawed at her bottom lip, frustration clear in her stomach at her new predicament.

A wise rider would follow her path without a doubt. But not a hunter tracking a prey – for he went where his prey stepped.

"Wrong," she groaned and burrowed her face in Luin's mane. "All is just so very wrong."

Hopelessness crept into her darkening mind, whispering voices of disappointment and failure growing increasingly loud; perhaps she should not have left the Angle, but stayed as her uncle commanded. He had been right; her training was far from finished, and in what possible way could she ever imagine tracking the chieftain of the Rangers down? It had been a fool's errand from the start. But only now did she admit it, and much too late to return without consequence for her disobedient actions. How very late was the hour of clear thought.

Surely her uncle, with a horse or without, could find safe footing through the marshlands and rocky outcrops of Emyn Muil and Sarn Gebir to the north; he would never come this far out onto the open plains where she now was. Her path was quicker, easier, but pointless when compared to her purpose, and as such a new course had to be made. If Rell was to return north-bound, to the banks of the Anduin, she could possibly find tracks in the soft ground by the waters; but how far would her setback become by doing so?

Would she even find any trails?

Rell pulled at the reins, steadily guiding Luin down the slope. Again, as if taking shape to mock her sullen mood, the weather turned clear and bright. With the sun in her eyes, warm in the chilling breeze, she allowed her horse to steer with little control as her mind worked quickly through disarrayed thoughts.

Beyond all else, what troubled her the most was the fear of the ever-changing weather – as tracking through wetlands was difficult as is, but finding anything of use when rain and overflowing rivers intervened as well? Without much need for self-deprecation, she already knew her strongest point did not lie with her skills in hunting.

Far from it. Again, the task she had appointed herself seemed much too great. Leaning down in the saddle, burrowing her face in the soft mane, Rell gave a sigh. Without much guidance, the Ranger sent out a prayer, hoping one of the Valar would show pity and reveal the path for her to take.

Rell took a sip of water, now attempting to guess the distances around her and decide what way she ought to take. Until then there was not much else to do than listen to her gut – albeit with scepticism – following the top of a long hilltop and with the dark rocks of Emyn Muil clear in the distance before them.

Rell had gone some miles, and at last the long slope ran down into the plain.

She urged Luin into a quicker pace, now bolting across the grasslands with haste. The wind was in her face, cool, and her eyelids fluttered shut for only a moment. How tired she felt. Wounds and body aching, and her mind likewise. For a long moment she carried on like that, heedless of her surroundings as too many thoughts cluttered her mind.

A shadow flashed by, and the Ranger looked up to see a large black form circle above; drawing her horse to a halt, the bird – for it was a bird, although much greater in shape and size than any Rell had before seen – twisted twice more. Then it bent east-bound, vanishing against the light of the sun as a black mark that soon faded.

"May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks!" Rell exclaimed, feeling tears of relief spring forth in her eyes at the sight. With a sleeve, she quickly wiped away the wetness and smiled. The messenger of Manwë, the Great Eagle, rekindled the otherwise extinguished hope in her heart and she saw it as a sign from beings far beyond the heavens. A beacon to show her the way.

Who had sent it, or if it had merely passed by chance, she knew not; but it mattered little.

Perhaps she had not been so wrong to listen to the Marshal of the Riddermark. Aragorn was a greater and more clever hunter than she, and his trails would be hidden from her sight; but if by riding further than his path, she could then meet him on the road ahead? Rell could wait for him beyond Nindalf, where the river divided the lands of Anórien and Ithilien; in the long shadow of Ephel Dúath, which surely the unusual creature was heading towards. Evil sought out other evils.

For a short while she laughed, unable to resist, more than anything at her indecisive mind that caused so much trouble. Changing opinions as often as the wind, blowing first from the north and then from the south. Irresolute and uncertain, yet always strong in its course; to suddenly grow fickle and change in an instant. "Those that wait with patience shall be rewarded," she mumbled beneath her breath. "–and the impatient will stumble and fall. Come, Luin, to the East we will go! And do not allow me to change my mind any further than this, or you may throw me from the saddle!"

It was but a day's ride before Rell saw the shimmering waters of the Entwash in the distance before her. As if by luck, they came to a shallow part of the river, studded with broad, flat stones, and she approached the muddy bank. Beech and willow grew dense, great and long branches reaching down over the soft-churning surface; fingers greedily grasping for silver, and they proved a good place for shelter to the Ranger. Rell dismounted, looking around with wariness – she could hide, but so could her enemies if any were afoot.

The river flowed by sluggishly, chuckling, and there was a peace to the lands. On the opposite bank she saw tall reeds and boulders, but further still the grasslands continued. Then she led Luin to the waters and allowed the horse to drink. Rell found a large and even stone, half-way into the waters, where she sat down; drawing the bow from her back, slipping off her coarse tunic so she sat but in an undershirt, she studied the wound on her arm.

The bleeding had stopped, leaving dark-black patches soaked into the linen, and as she peeled it off she found the cut to be healing nicely. It was still red and swollen, but there appeared to be no infection or pus. Rell cleaned the wound, ignoring the sting, and quickly redressed it with fresh bandages from her satchel. Proceeding to then wash her face and arms, finding some strength renewed, and putting her clothes out to dry, the Ranger could not help but splash about in the waters. The Autumn sun was warm still, and the clear skies were much welcome as her mood turned from sullen to light.

Allowing Luin a well-deserved rest, Rell trudged along the riverbank. Her feet slushed through the mud, but often she jumped from stone to stone when able, and soon she came across thickets of wild berries. And while she sat in the shade, picking sour gooseberries, the world seemed – perhaps only briefly – less grim to her. Many times Rell had dreamt of heading out into the wild, to explore a world so foreign to her, and finally the Valar had given her reason to.

Her uncle would have her hide for her actions, that she knew, but surely it was well worth it.

A crow settled in the beech tree above her, letting out hoarse caws as it tripped from branch to branch; beady-eyed, head twisting from side to side as it observed her, it then startled into flight again. The Ranger, disturbed by the sight, filled her pockets with berries before walking back to her horse. Here, Rell filled her waterskin with fresh water, and found an empty leather-bag for the gooseberries; she did not dress fully, for the clothes were still wet and instead she slung them across the saddle. Rell took off her boots and hung them in a strap next to her shirt.

Then she pulled Luin with her into the river.

The water was cold, and it flowed more swiftly than Rell had first hoped. The currents tugged at her calves as her bare feet sank into the frigid river-mud. Yet the Entwash was shallow, at least, which was a little comfort against the melted snow-waters from Methedras. She took twenty steps before the river reached her knees, and the next paces became increasingly laborious while she scouted for safe footing between jagged and hidden rocks.

She took another step, and another. They were almost in the midstream now; the far bank was drawing closer, though she found it to be far away still in her exertion. Where water ended and land began. Luin followed faithfully by her side, providing some measure of support, but the waters were murky and dangerous if Rell did not lead the way. Sand gave way beneath her feet, and often she slipped and struggled. Other times she found smooth and solid stone, equally hard to step, but finally she felt shallow-water weeds between her toes; setting her jaw agains the cold, Rell drew herself through the river and onto the bank.

Here she collapsed.

Shivering, wet and bone-chillingly cold, Rell was with little strength left. Lying on the stones, between bulrushes and reeds, her eyes fluttered shut. Her breathing heavy, little more than gasps for air, as she clasped her arms around her body in an attempt to find heat. But the sun was out, and soon her clothes changed from soggy to damp, and the Ranger could redress. Draping the cloak close, warmth enveloped her; she drew into the saddle and began following the river's path as it ran east.

It was an easy ride, and it would continue for another twenty miles until the river spilled into the delta. The marshes would here force her a little further south, but then Rell would cross the border of Rohan. Leaving the land of horselords, instead entering the South Kingdom of the Númenóreans. Wondering if perhaps she would come close enough to the city of Minas Tirith; to see the white walls, clear in the haze of Ered Nimrais, beyond the fields of the Pelennor. It was but a city of stories to her, read in safety and comfort back in Rivendell.

The high seat of her ancestors.

But for now she kept the sluggish river to her left, and the green and open fields to her right. While riding, she came upon a beaten way, following the currents with every bent and twist; up and down in the green country. There were no clouds overhead, and it felt hot for the season of the year. But all about her were signs of changing, from Autumn to Winter, as green blended with yellow, red, and orange. Where Eriador was blessed with long summers and mild winters, however, the closer one drew towards the mountains and the sea the rougher the weather turned; if Rell did not find her uncle soon, rain and snow would meet her.

The river wound its way through the landscape, and many small waterfowls pipped between the reeds; often they would duck below the surface when Rell came too close. Coots, marble-white beaks and black feathers, slipped between the reeds for protection; a heron stood still, waiting, hunting for frogs in the muddy waters by the bank. For a while she observed a paddling of golden-eyed ducks; and they, too, kept a close watch on her but they were not yet startled. The Ranger gave them little reason to fear her.

They were out in the deeper part of the river, and even if she shot and killed one it would merely be swept away by the currents.

A life would be lost for no good reason. So, instead, Rell waited and watched. If the ducks came to shallow waters her supper for the next couple of days would be set.

It was now past midday, and the air heavy and warm. The sun was painting the hill-lands in the fire of Autumn; the muddy ground beneath her horse was slowly turning to rock, and, looking ahead, she saw craggy cliffs spreading on both sides of the river. The slope began a descent, making the waters roar to life. White foam rolled in waves, lapping against the riverbank and great boulders, but the path veered off.

Rather than venture through the jagged rock-lands, Rell followed the dust-trail. Now skirting the cliffs, casting long shadows over the ground, a rancid smell wove into the air. Rell pulled a face, nose crinkled into a frown, though took it as a sign she was swift approaching the river delta and the marshes of Nindalf. half an hour passed before the rocks thinned, revealing the river once more; albeit it had now split into many smaller, but equally rapid, currents over an open stretch of land. Wide fens and mires now lay, stretching away northward and eastward.

It was but the beginning of the delta, and tufts of grass and trees still grew there. But the ground was less stony and more earthy, and slowly its sides dwindled to mere banks. Peering to the far north, silver threads spread throughout the plains and further still than she could see. Resting for a moment, keeping Luin from descending the hill, Rell was glad. Crossing the many small streams would have cost her precious time, and by going around she would now likely had gone ahead of her uncle.

The stream gurgled. Dry reeds hissed and rattled though she could feel no wind.

But then she spurred her horse forward, setting a slowed pace. Rell never strayed far from the Mouths of Entwash; passing through thickets of dark-leaved trees, climbing steep banks crowned with old cedars. Gentle slopes ran down into the dim hazes below. Rocky walls were starred with primeroles and lily-flowers. Besides the river grew deep green grass, and falling streams halted in cool hollows. Flowers of many colours; blue, or red, or pale green.

Rell followed the stream, and it went downhill quickly before her.

And as such, the Ranger carried on through the day and further still. In a hook on her saddle hung two ducks, and Rell's quiver was some arrows shorter. Light waned and dusk was settling, so she looked about for a hiding-place where she could shelter from evil eyes. As soon as the land faded into a formless grey under coming night, Rell decided on a small dell; her view was clear out over the river, and rocks stood tall against her back.

With the cloak drawn close around her, no fire was lit that night, and she ate the last berries from her satchel.

Then she slept.

Far she rode, without meeting neither beast nor man in her path through the Eastfold, and the journey was solitary. While Rell often only came by narrow paths among the folded lands, rocks and crevices, she managed to set a swift pace most of the time. But despite the haste with which she traveled, it seemed to her that they were creeping forward like snails. Getting nowhere. Each day the land looked much the same as it had the day before. Yet, if she looked around with keener eyes, the green grass grew dull and dry beneath Luin's hoofs, and more often than not she passed wider lands with bleak hills.

Tumbling away to her left, there were valleys filled with murky waters and fens; few and winding paths led into the marshlands, but Rell drew her horse away and stayed upon the open plains whenever possible. When she climbed rocky hills she was often led only to the edge of some sheer fall, or down into treacherous swamps. Going back and forward, attempting to steer southeast and away from the Mouths of the Entwash, Rell came to a second river two days after crossing Onodló. It was but a stream, flat and sleepy waters running through the grass, and it appeared shallow.

She drank from its waters; finding it cold and clear, fresh from the mountains far to the south, but soon she was on her way again. And so, heart thumping in anticipation, Rell crossed the border into Gondor. Night came, swiftly followed by morning. Days passed. Rell ate cold and cheerless meals, for she could seldom risk the lighting of a fire even though she passed through friendly lands. On the fifth day after crossing the Mering Stream, the Ranger reached a low ridge crowned with ancient holly-trees, with grey-green trunks that seemed to have been built out of the very stone of the hills.

Their dark leaves shone and their berries glowed red in the light of the setting sun. But Rell turned her gaze further towards the horizon, for away to the south she could now see the dim shapes of lofty mountains. They were drawing nearer. Their tooth-like tips dipped with snow, but otherwise they were bare and bleak; largely cloaked in shadow, but where the last sunlight slanted upon the peaks, they glowed red. Long darkness stretched over the lands, smothering the last light and soon only the moon, dim between the clouds, looked down upon her.

Rell left Luin for a while in the hollow between the trees, now scouting the area before settling for the night. Bow and arrow ready in her grasp. There was no wind, and dead silence was around her. The only sounds came from her own Ranger's feet against the ground, muffled by leaves and fern, and around them there were but trees and flatlands. With a frown, she knew another night without a fire was ahead.

She returned to her horse.

In the hours of darkness the air became cold and clammy for a great mist crawled across the lands; brewed in the marshes to the north, and soon the world around her was cast in grey. A smell of rot filled her nose, and she burrowed her face between her knees; only dark eyes peered out, ears trained for any sound foreign to the Ranger. An owl hooted from the thicket of trees, long and solitary cries, but she also heard eerie noises in the darkness. The wind in the cracks of the rocky wall, or wild howls of laughter. But Luin stood by her side, with a quiet calm, and the tautness in her shoulders waned at the sight.

Rell gazed wearily ahead though saw nothing, but finally slept a little that night.

How she missed company on the road.

The full light of morning roused her from sleep, and a surprise met her. While her eyes had been transfixed on the mountains, now, with the lifting of the mists, the Great River became visible in the far distance. Dense trees, growing strong on the banks of the Anduin, followed the horizon as a line of dark green. It was an unexpected sight, for Rell believed the river still to be far away – two, perhaps three, days on the road – and now a choice was before her again. Something she had put off previously, hoping a plan would form on its own.

She looked to Luin, brushing a hand flat across the horse's muzzle, before asking. "What do you think? South?" With her free hand Rell pointed to the mountains; further, where they would find Minas Tirith and the crossings at Osgiliath. "Or North?" Through Northern Ithilien, skirting the Mountains of Shadow at a safe distance, until she could set up camp near the marshes. It all came down to a question of whether her uncle had gone one way or another at the Falls of Rauros. The right choice would lead Rell straight to him. At least, that was what she hoped.

However, Rell did not think much upon the wrong choice.

Picking up a small, flat pebble, turning it over in her hand – one side covered in moss, the other not – she paused. "What do you think, Luin? Moss for North?" Without waiting for a reply that would not come, she then tossed the stone high into the air and watched it. With a clack it hit the rocks, skipped up and down; once, twice, thrice; before rolling off the edge of the ridge. Her face fell. Luin let out a gentle, high-pitched neigh, throwing its head back as if in laughter, and Rell leveled a look at the horse. "You find this amusing?"

She could not help but smile.

Then, instead, Rell called upon all the knowledge she had been taught, reproachful at herself for never paying more attention; every little memory or story Aragorn had told her in the warm light of a fire whirled through her mind. With blankets drawn up to her ears, and small legs dangling back and forth over the edge of a stone bench. The wisdom he had tried to impart on her, where she rather wished to slay dragons or go into the wild unknown. "It is a roundabout way to go south," Rell muttered, eyes closed as if to recall maps spread out flat on a table in Rivendell. "There is no way into Mordor from there. Except, of course, for the Morannon, but that would only be reached by going north again. And the road is long and perilous."

A shiver ran down her spine at the dreadful thought, and she was not much too keen to stand in the shadow of the Black Gate. But perhaps the Ranger never needed to go that far north, and instead wait by the edges of the marshlands. If the elusive creature did enter the Lands of Shadow, surely it would then be lost to her either way. Her uncle would have to pass through the marshlands at some point; be it from the green lands of Ithilien or Emyn Muil. Rell let out a groan, swining into the saddle.

She much preferred when others made the choice for her!

Luin sprang down the slope, bolting over meads of withered grass amidst a land of fen and tussocks. There was no eagerness to be found in her mind; much too content with how things had been previously, where decisions were still many days ahead. She let her horse set the pace, and the way. Now everything felt so sudden. The crossroads before her made her heart heavy and torn, indecisive to her own path.

But now she had reached the hour upon which she had to choose.

No one would make the choice for her. In the end she decided upon the fastest road.

Upon her left the land was treeless, but also flat, and still in many places green. But on her other side, the dark edge of a forest appeared in the daylight. Growing at the foothills of the mountains, and still so far away it was but a dark line against the red-tinted mountains. The Drúadan Forest was believed, by both the people of Gondor and Rohan, to be haunted. While Rell felt no fear at the thought of ghosts, although it was likely something else that haunted the pinewood forest, she saw no reason to upset ancient beasts or creatures. So she veered North, making sure her path never brought her close to the outskirts of trees.

The cold dawn had soon passed, and warm winds brushed across the lands. A light kindled in the sky, a blaze of yellow fire that grew with the passing hours. Golden tendrils wove between puffy clouds, now drifting lazily over blue skies, and Rell almost forgot she had passed into the waning season of Autumn. Throughout the day she rode, when finally she saw the first signs of settlements. The dull and dry plains gave way to fair and fertile townlands, on long slopes and terraces and wide flats falling to the deep levels of the Anduin.

Mostly she came by lone farmsteads; fenced in by fields of golden corn, or with flocks of sheep running away, bleating as she rode by. People paused mid-work to watch, but their faces were grim and molded with concern, and no word was passed between farmer and Ranger. No one disturbed her despite all could see, even from a great distance, that it was a stranger passing through. Those, that worked in the fields, straightened their backs for a while and watched with curiosity, but then they soon carried on with their daily lives. When looking closer, she found that most men carried arms.

She spent a rainful night with a farmer and his wife, kind enough to provide shelter to a stranger that stood drenched and cold in the doorway. In return Rell shared the ducks with them – she feared there would be no chance to light any fires once she crossed into Ithilien. There were too many enemies in the hills and forests, and a flame in the dark was all but screaming for a raid in the night. She traded the second bird for a bit of bread and cheese, and a skin of milk.

In the morning light she set out again.

Every now and again she passed small hamlets, encircled by a stockade of wood or thorn. Well-tended fields of barley, or farmlands plowed and harrowed but left unsown for the season. Rell kept a pace that was neither fast nor slow, and many miles lay behind her. The clash with the Dunlendings and her meeting the horse masters of Rohan were now in the past; briefly she wondered if the Marshal had unveiled a betrayal by the hands of a wizard, or if something else was afoot. But soon her mind fell to other things.

While keeping as close to the river as possible, avoiding groves of trees and mudbanks that would slow her down, a day later Rell came upon a well-trod road. There was no danger of the path being made by enemies, for the realm of Gondor was still well protected on this side of the river, and so she followed it without worry. As expected, Rell soon after came to a village. Nestled on the hillside with windows looking east, the houses were made of burnt clay and wood. The roofs were thatched, but where the horselords of Rohan used grass they here used straws, yellow and dry; many people, men and women, were milling about, and Rell approached with little haste.

She removed her hood.

The unmistakable feeling of eyes upon her back followed her through the village. They stopped, watched, but soon went back to their own dealings. Meddling in the affairs of a stranger was often not worth the trouble; and at times asking questions could give unwanted results. Rell kept her head down, gaze transfixed on the road, as her fingers tightly gripped the reins. Such looks were familiar to her.

But when she came to the outskirts of the village, she drew Luin to a halt as her mouth twisted into a thin, white line. Looking around, finding those around her eager to avoid her gaze, Rell saw a young boy staring back unperturbed; head held high, and a proudness in his grey eyes, he sat astride on a fence. Arms crossed. "What do you want, and where do you come from?" He asked gruffly.

Rell cocked an eyebrow at his tone. "I am journeying east," she said, "Tell me, does this road lead to Cair Andros?"

"We don't often see strangers riding on this road," he went on, apparently much forgetting her question – or caring nothing for it. "You'll pardon my wondering what business takes you away to the East! What, might I ask, is your purpose?" With little patience, allowing a sigh to escape her lips, she did not like the tone of his voice that spoke much of his impertinence. The eyes were curious, without malice, but there was little reason for such obvious interest. Rell excused his behaviour as boyish acts of boredom.

"I shall ask again, and with an answer or not I will be on my way again! Is this the road to the river-island of Cair Andros?"

For a long moment he watched her. He gave a nod. "Aye, it is. You keep to the road until it splits, then you follow the north-way."

Despite the first impressions Rell gave thanks for the help, wished the boy a good day, and they said no more. She rode forward, passing a few detached houses until finally leaving the village behind, all the while feeling the boy's gaze following her until she was out of sight.

A few birds were piping and wailing in the fields, and along the way several other, small roads joined the one she was on. Likely leading to other villages and settlements. The next stage of her journey was much the same as the last, although Rell no longer found herself traveling alone; many a time the Ranger passed ox-drawn carts and wagons, pack-mules bringing provisions to and fro the island she knew to be ahead, or groups of armed riders. A courier galloped by in the opposite direction with great haste, leaving behind a cloud of dust that took long to settle.

The eastern sky was dimming, and the first signs of night could be seen on the horizon.

When the road met the river, Rell drew Luin to a halt; out on the shimmering surface, wide and grey, she saw a large island. Long. Narrow. The swift currents of the Anduin broke against sharp rocks, churning the water into white bubbling foam. Trees grew dense and covered most of the land, but at one point in the times of old there had been raised tall stone-fortifications. It was here that a bridge spanned the rapids, and dark stone-blocks and wooden boards led from one bank to the other. The ford was used mostly by Gondor and its armies.

There were only few safe crossings – and no other in this region. The closest fords were the Undeeps in Rohan far across the border, and the bridge of Osgiliath to the south. Now Rell just hoped they would allow her passage. Luin's hoofs sounded hollow against the planks, and a swift wind picked at her hair and clothes when they came into the open. Cold droplets of water sprayed against her cheek. A great gate was ahead, fencing in several buildings made of stone; what looked to be barracks and a three-winged keep, and much noise welled up to meet Rell upon her approach. Banners fluttered on the battlement; a white tree crowned with stars, stark against a dark background.

Rell noted how there was no crown above the tree.

Many men in bright mail sat in the shadow beneath the gate, playing cards and sipping ale from a great barrel, and one sprang at once to his feet. The way was barred to her, but no sword was yet drawn from its sheath though his eyes rested on her weapons. "Stay, stranger here unknown!" He cried, attempting to fix his crumbled tabard over his armor. There was wonder in his eyes but little friendliness; Rell held up a hand in greeting, the other still tugging at the reins to slow Luin to a halt. Her eyebrow raised in mild interest.

"Good day," she smiled. "I came from Rohan, and before that from the north. Now I am to go to Ithilien, for such is my journey, and I much hoped to cross here. Rather than my horse and I both risk drowing at one of the smaller crossings!" With that, she watched the guard expectantly and waited for a reply. At first he glanced at her with a look of disbelief, eyes flickering past her to see if she was truly alone, and then he turned to his companions as if to seek assistance. "I am merely passing through," Rell added in an attempt to be helpful, "And I am certainly no spy!"

"Are you travelling alone?" He asked with hesitation.

"Yes," she said.

Her answer, short but truthful, made the guard falter once more. Rell waited. "What is your purpose?"

"To pass into Ithilien."

Rell saw his jaw tighten, and she schooled her features to avoid laughing outright. "Yes, you have stated as much. Why do you have reason to pass the crossings?" For a moment she remained quiet, considering her next words with care for there was little reason to disclose the truth to her purpose. But neither would a vague answer be allowed; she could not imagine that they so easily let any – stranger or not – walk freely through their northern regions, bordering so very close to the Dark Land. Here, always, a shadow hung ever long over Gondor.

"It is the fastest way," she finally said, glancing past the man. "I am visiting distant kin in Esgaroth, and the straight way through Rhovanion is much the simplest and swiftest to take." With one look at the guard's face it was clear that he believed very little of her words; there was no fast path, at least not so far to the east, unless one planned to ride in the shadow of the mountains. Clear in the eyes of the watchful enemy. "My horse is swift, and I am well armed!"

Her gloved hand drew the sword into view, and again Luin tripped restlessly beneath her. Dancing over the boards with hollow clacks.

But the guard told her to wait, stepped back to his awaiting comrades, and here they started a longer discussion with heads bowed together. The Ranger could do nothing more but wait, wait and pray. There were but two outcomes. One would send her back, and the way north would be barred to her; forcing her fifty miles south to pass through the old capital of Gondor, not long ago reclaimed from the clutches of orcs. But perhaps her weak lie was accepted, and Rell could without trouble then continue her journey northward. Into the marshes without further delay.

The warm sun burned down upon her head, and a sheen coated her forehead and neck. The air was stifling in her throat, ashen gales brought down across the tall ridges encircling the dead plains of Mordor. At that moment the guard came again, watched her beneath his helmet, before finally speaking his judgement. "You may pass, although it is a fool's errand to attempt crossing Dagorlad alone. We may be in control of the lands of Ithilien and only with a large number of men, though neither does it give promise that no enemies of Men will be found ahead." He stepped aside. "I have done and said what I could, but we have deemed the choice in the end to be your own. Expect no more than death in your travels forward."

Slowly and with her head bowed in silent farewell, Rell spurred Luin into motion and so she passed the gate.

The ground below gave way to cobbled stone laid out in the square, and great clangs from a smithy's hammer reverberated between the walls. She saw bowmen on the battlements, watching the distance with keen eyes while leaning against the breastwork, but otherwise the fortification appeared quiet. Only few were idly at work. Horses, coats glistening with sweat, stood steaming as two men attended to them. Their green cloaks were tattered, dark patches of dirt and blood clearly visible, and they returned her gaze evenly.

Their faces looked grim.

When she came to the second gate, the guards did nothing to halt the lone Ranger; their inquisitive eyes were on her, but no words were exchanged. Rell crossed the bridge, and soon the roaring waters of the Anduin faded behind her until silence was about her. The isle of Cair Andros vanished soon from view. And in the hours before sunset, a fair country of climbing woods and swift-falling streams enclosed her on the path. The road wound between rock and tree, but soon it dwindled to a dust-path little used. Rell kept to it still, for as long as she was able, and it guided her by the fastest way through the ever-growing woodlands of beech and oak.

The path had been made in a long-lost time when the fate of the world appeared so different than the bleakness of the Third Age, but the untamed wilds encroached upon it now; the handiwork of Men of old could still be seen in its straight sure flight and level course. Now and again it cut its way through hillside slopes, or leaped over a chuckling stream. Rell found respite in the shade cast by the trees as Autumn had little claim over the lands of Ithilien, and flowers bloomed still fair and bright in the grass. Sages of many kinds put forth blue and red flowers, and herbs peered out between roots. Moss and weeds crawled over the ridges, following the road, and branches hung low enough for her to touch.

Many great trees grew in the thicket, and here and there, peering out between bushes, old stones lurked amid weeds and gnarled ivy. Broken pillars, signs of enduring masonry that faded only slowly with the passing of time. The lands were still fair, mirroring a long-forgotten era where Men built great things both far and wide. When they had power and strength to rival the evils of their neighbour.

Sweet smells rose up about her.

But despite the beauty around her, Rell was constantly aware of her surroundings, and that she was alone. With the growing distance to Cair Andros, the Ranger was passing further into the territory of the Enemy. The woods provided cover, growing densely while she was still close to the Anduin, though she would soon need to seek higher ground – and west, to the outskirts of the marshlands, where she would once more be out in the open. The day passed uneasily.

The sun became veiled, and as soon as the first touch of darkness fell over the lands Rell left the path. Creeping over the westward rim of the forest, dusk came at length. No more than two arrow-shots from the road, Rell found a mossy pit; large and open, and she decided to rest for the night. A deep silence fell upon the little grey hollow where she lay; so near the borders of the land of fear.

The moon was few days from the full, but it did not climb far over the treetops. There were but few stars out, swathed in clouds, and the warmth of day gave way to cool airs. In silence she ate half the bread, and a little of the cheese, before settling in for sleep. Her stomach growled, but there was nothing to be done about her hunger. She knew not the lands, and hence would not risk a fire.

When it started to rain she was not even surprised.

Chapter Text

Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, was a man that, above all, would not admit that he was worried. Perhaps even scared. The feeling was kept close to his heart, a secret never shared nor spoken of with any besides his own mind in the darkness. Not only because he led two hundred men by example, and if he faltered so would they, but also because it was against his understanding of himself. He was a prideful man, that he knew well, and he would not bend against any enemy.

But what he had seen throughout the last days – nay, weeks – left a bitter taste in his mouth. Cold air blew on his face, and evening was coming. Approaching with swiftness; a darkness that no light could pierce. The sky above was growing dim. In his mind Éomer pieced together the memories from a long and weary day; the Dunlendings, the burning village and his people; the injured and the dead. The words of a woman, speaking of trails leading him west.

Betrayal.

Their journey had been hard, and he had spared his riders no rest throughout the day. Through sunset, and slow dusk, and gathering night they rode. The captured Wild Men lay bound and gagged, thrown across a horse each, and were pulled along amongst a great sea of riders. Spears surrounded them. There had been no attempts to escape, and Éomer had seen terror clear in their faces whenever he had looked back. Whether they could tell him much, or anything, was yet to be seen; and neither did he know what to do with them after. They could not be released or returned, but it was a great effort to keep them alive in captivity. It would be cheerless work for any of his men set to the task, and while loyalty demanded his orders be carried out, it would be done with no love spared.

Easiest of all would be to kill them, for they were of little use.

The thought did not sit well with him.

His pondering was set aside when little watch-fires sprang up, golden-red in the darkness. Behind the light, ghostly pale, the foothills of the White Mountains towered into the darkness. The hill, ever-green in daylight, wide before the feet of the mountain came into clear view. The fortified hill-town, ancestral home of Eorl the Young and his descendants, was now also Éomer's dwellings for many years. Aldburg was encircled by a broad wall, and commanded the road with a clear view over the Folde. Upon their approach the dark gates were swung open, and the many riders entered into an open square. Horses milled about, hoofs thundering against stone, and Éomer gave out orders.

The prisoners were to be safely guarded until he was ready to question them, and his men would eat and rest for the night; but by morning all were to be ready for departure. Éomer dismounted. A stablehand was quick to take the reins of Firefoot. At first he checked to see that the orphaned children would be taken good care of, as they with tired eyes were carried off to a warm meal and a warm bed.

With Éothain by his side they followed a broad path, paved with hewn stones, as it winded upward. The iron-bound gate shut behind them and the men returned to their posts on the battlement. Guards dragged along the hillmen; neither fought back then, but they were moving very little of their own accord. Passing many houses standing close together, until at length they came to the crown of the hill.

Here stood a mighty hall built entirely from wood. Door wardens stood and bowed upon his approach, and the doors were opened before them into a large chamber; a fireplace smoldered throughout the night, turning the air heavy and warm, and was flanked by long tables on both sides. Lit torches hung between woven tapestries; old pictures painted in glory. From the battle of the Field of Celebrant; Eorl the Young and his son, Brego; the Golden Hall, to horses of many colours running over vast fields.

He and his sister had spent many nights beneath those pictures, under pelts and wools, listening to their mother telling stories from times of old and ages gone. But that was many years ago now. His mother had long since died, and his sister was many miles away. With heavy and long strides he walked past the fire, finding his place in the high seat upon the dais, and the Dunlendings were brought before him. With faces flat against the floor, groveling in fear of an unknown fate, one rambled away in their low, guttural language. To Éomer's ears it sounded more like the snarls of an animal, than words of a man.

The other remained silent.

Giving sign to Éothain, his squire stepped to the quiet hillman; digging into the tangled mess of hair, he pulled back the head to reveal a bushy face. The hair was matted, with blood and mud, but the dark eyes shone with both malice and fear. Soon mingling into anger, and suddenly the man started to fight. Kicking, twisting in the grip and against his bindings, Éothain took him by the back of his neck and pressed him to his knees. Though not before landing several hits across the captive's face. The guards had then drawn their swords.

The other Dunlending whimpered and curled further in on himself.

"Sheathe your weapons," Éomer dismissed, shifting in his seat as the struggling captive was once more forced to look up at the Marshal.

Gúthwinë came clear into view as he rested the sword across his knees. Then he leaned forward, head resting in his hand as he looked sharply at the pair. From one to the other with quiet, calm, deliberation. Although they had a language of their own, the Dunlendings understood – some with more difficulty than others – the language of the Rohirrim. They could not claim otherwise. One returned his gaze evenly, hatred burning in deep-set dark orbs, while the other had yet to look up from the floor.

"I am no merciless lord," he started, "–despite your best attempts to harm my people and my men. Answer my questions with truth and without deceit, and you will be spared. Say nothing, and your life is forfeit."

The Dunlendings did not respond.

Éomer caught Éothain's attention, and without a word his squire understood. Never releasing his grip, he yanked the restrained Dunlending away from the hall; accompanied by shouts that, even if the words were incomprehensible, they knew to be curses. Horrible snarls and screams echoed across the walls for many long moments after. The trembling man, flanked by a guard on each side and then the only hillman still in the hall, had peered up from the floor as his companion was dragged away. "Now, then," Éomer said, "What can you tell me?"

It was to great wails and many more incomprehensible mutterings, that they finally came to some resemblance of understanding. Their captive knew very little, and he could tell them even less, but the Ranger had been right in that they came from the west. Passing a great river, deep and cold from its mouth in the high peaks; many drowned in their passing, and through a deep valley in the deepest dark. A black tooth, horrible to behold, and a lot of hurrying. Open plains, trees and more trees. Old. Whispering. Another river. Riders, cornered, killed. They ate the horses.

A shadow had passed over Éomer's face; then it went deathly white the longer the Dunlending spoke. Misery and ruination was upon them. When he had finally heard enough, he waved off his guards to take away the hillman, and he was left in solitude with his thoughts. The fear, that fell upon him, weighed his mind. Heavy and chilling. Maybe he had felt it, not knowing it sooner; all his concerns, restless and sleepless nights, were heralding the coming storm. He had listened with only one ear, and now the storm bore down upon them.

He sat upon the high seat for a long while, silent, his head bowed.

But for this choice he could recall no counsel. Saruman was a wizard, reckoned to be great and powerful. A clever snake. Never before had he troubled his neighbours, but rather given council, polite and always eager to listen to the plight of others. There was but a small hope that the Dunlendings had passed, unseen, in the darkest of hours beneath the shadow of Orthanc. Slipped by, unnoticed even by a wizard in his own territory. But Éomer did not believe it.

This was not a matter he alone could handle.

And so, he decided to continue as he had first planned. On the morrow and with the light of dawn, Éomer would ride with his Éored to seek out his cousin; together they would know what to do. Standing alone against sorcery was nought but a bitter end. He fell to deep thoughts, brow furrowed and looking ahead into the dim nothing, and there he sat until the first light of morning came outside. He found no sleep, for he wished it not, even when the villagers of Aldburg woke. Éothain came shortly after, but stood quietly by his lord's side; wordlessly. Waiting for command.

At last Éomer rose from the seat. "It is long since there was peace in these lands," he said, stepping down from the dais and, with the other man at his side, walked towards the doors. His gloved hand rested upon the hilt of his sword. "And I fear many years will pass before we have peace again." The cold dawn greeted them, and the air was clear; the Marshal saw the great green plains, the rolling hills stretching league upon league ahead, before he looked at his village. His home.

The thatched roofs glowed golden, and the houses huddled close together. Children ran about with wooden swords in play. Men and women were about; carrying baskets of firewood or washings. The sun shone from a sky the deep blue of waning Autumn. All stopped to bow or curtsy as he passed, calling out greetings in clear voices with kindness to their lord.

Éomer had often made it a part of his duty to stop and exchange a few words, to treat his people with mutual respect, but his departure called for haste above all else. Already Firefoot stood waiting. He mounted, held up his hand in farewell to his watching people, then he rode out. The awaiting riders fell into place behind the Marshal, and they followed the road due west. Not long after Aldburg vanished between the cresting hills.

Many swift-running brooks crossed their path, water from the mountain-side on its way to swell the Entwash, splashing beneath their horses. His face was steeled, angered determination barely contained below the surface. Both anger and despair pushed him onward.

Through the Folde, and mile by mile the long road wound away.

With great oakwoods, climbing on the skirts of the hills under the shade of the mountains; through willow-thickets where Snowbourn flowed into the Entwash. Deep clefts carved in the rock by streams, or by narrow ravines where rough paths descended like steep stairs into the plain. In the light of midday, Éomer could see the Golden Hall of Meduseld, its light shining far over the land. Clear enough for them to see through the blue-green of Autumn's haze.

Briefly his heart ached for his sister; to see her fair and kind face, though often burdened with heavy thoughts in these darkened days, now plagued just as his own. Never would he tell her of his grim and joyless thoughts, for her mind was of no need for such in times of trouble. Éomer drew his gaze away from the great hall of Men. Éowyn would be safe still. He carried on, back straight and gaze steeled. And for as long as he drew breath, safe she would remain.

Mostly they passed, a blur through the green, with great haste.

Only once did they rest each day, and only when dusk fell into utter darkness and riding turned hazardous.

The nights grew ever colder. Éomer slept fitfully at best, and often he walked to and fro in camp or stood silently on the hilltop. Here he would watch the dawn grow slowly in the sky, bare and cloudless, until at last the sunrise came. He ate little, and spoke even less. Time and again he found the road ahead an unhappy path to follow, leading him to his an unknown fate, and he could see little but death ahead.

The concerned looks rested upon him throughout the days, but Éothain remained quiet, only ever allowing a sigh of exasperation to escape his pursed lips.

Their lord was lost to deep and dark ponderings.

It was three days after their departure from Aldburg, and less than ten miles from his cousin's base in Helm's Deep, when Éomer finally turned to his squire. The long, drawn-out sigh had been carried far on the wind, unmistakable, although Éothain had paid great attention to the detailed stitches on his gloves. Pretending nothing had happened. Much rather than returning the look from the Marshal that was leveled his way. "While I am your lord, you are also an old and dear friend to me," Éomer said. "Let me hear it, then, and be done with it!"

"We need you, my lord. The men – and our people, need you." Éothain began, though not without hesitation clear in his voice. The subject was not a happy one for either part. There was much noise about them; the great host of heavy horses thundered in his ears, and a gale wind howled across the flat lands of the Westemnet. His words could be heard by no other. There were but rocks and grass as far as the eye could see and further still. "We need you fit to lead us."

Éomer turned his face aside, watching the open skies with a brow furrowed in deep thought. It would not be long before the foothills would shimmer into view, dark stone against the white-blue haze of the mountain's sides, reaching to the tall horizon. The sun was clear and high. "And am I not?" The Marshal asked wryly, now returning his squire's look with half a smile. Éomer could well understand the concerns of the other man.

"Those were most certainly not my words," Éothain hastily said. "Though what troubles me is that you do not sleep, nor eat for that matter. An unwell body addles the mind as well as any poison could, and a warrior must be well in both, if he wishes to survive in battle. Do you not believe the same?" The words were true, and Éomer knew well how the last days had passed in a way he did neither wish nor ask for. But the worry that forced sleeplessness upon him was not so easily cast aside.

He drew a deep breath. "I shall rest," Éomer replied, "but only after I meet with my cousin. More people must know what we know, for this is not a matter that can be handled alone. With wise council I believe the weight upon my shoulders will lessen. Until I have shared this burden, then I fear sleep shall continue to evade me."

Éothain pursed his lips beneath the shadow of his helmet, though he gave a solemn nod of understanding. "Some food, then?"

"You sound like my mother!" Éomer laughed at the thought. "Will you scold me as well if I do not eat my greens?"

Both men found a sudden and great amusement in their conversation, one that had previously been so grim, and so it was with mirthful laughter that the deep valley gorge came into view ahead. The shadowed dale was encircled by a trench and rampart, and here banners twisted in the winds of the mountain. The white horse danced across green fields, as guards upon the battlement saw the riders approach in the distance. Éomer and his Éored turned upon the straight road to the gate; his spear glistened in the sun, raised to greet his kin, and joyous shouts came swift in return.

Éomer slowed his horse.

Hooves thundered over the boardwalk and through the earthen wall. Men ran to stand by the path to see the riders pass, bowing their heads in greeting to the Marshal. His eyes swiftly took in the fortification; many barrels filled with arrows stood upon the top of the wall, and spears and swords lined the steps leading upwards. Horses were well-rested in their stables, ready to depart with haste for the Hornburg if news of an attack came to the Dike. Here was the first defense of the Westfold.

They left behind Helm's Dike, and a quarter mile later the large rampart of solid stone blocked the valley; some twenty feet in height, the Deeping Wall fenced in the castle beyond. In the shadow of Thrihyrne, where no enemy had ever set foot inside; in a long file they carried on. Following the long causeway, winding its way up to the great gate of the fortress itself, and soldiers moved aside with haste to make room.

Éomer was then met by a familiar face, as a tall man stepped out to meet him.

He jumped from the saddle and walked to meet the only prince of Rohan. "Théodred," Éomer smiled, albeit with tired weariness in his steps. The cut in his leg ached once more. "I greet you! How good it is to see you."

With arms outstretched, they embraced with much joy – for they had been close both when Éomer had been but a child, and now as adults. "And I greet you! What brings you here, cousin?" Théodred asked, pulling away before placing his hand on Éomer's shoulder. Strong fingers squeezed down. His keen and wise eyes flickered over the Marshal, gaze missing nothing, but then quickly turned to the riders behind them. At the sight his brow furrowed. "Has my father sent you?"

"I bring tidings," Éomer replied as he removed the horse-tailed helmet, allowing Éothain to take it from him. "Though not from the king. And also, I think it best we take this conversation inside. In private. I have much to share with you, cousin."

Théodred gave a brisk nod. "Yes, of course."

The pair began to walk to the gate, leading them inside the Hornburg.

"I will have my aides see to your men – for how long do you plan to stay with us?"

"I do not know. But we have ridden far and without much respite. We parted from Aldburg some days ago, and we have not had time for proper rest since then. Our journey required haste." Éomer rubbed his brow. "My men are well-deserving of a meal and a place to sleep." The prince faltered at the news, eyebrows raised and newfound concern flashed across his features. It had been a long ride.

But with practiced ease the worry was then masked; commands were given out to see to the newly arrived Éored and their horses, and then the cousins stepped through the gate under the eyes of tall watchmen. Inside it seemed dark and warm compared to the Autumn chill outside, and many torches lined the walls of the great and deep chamber.

Éomer pulled the gloves from his hands and tucked them into his belt, feeling heat prickle his skin. Mighty pillars upheld the stone roof, carved from the very mountain many ages ago, and beams of sun fell in glimmering shafts from the eastern windows high upon the wall. Steps led away, winding up and further up to what he knew to be the great tall tower, where the horn of Helm Hammerhand could be found. Others led down to cellars packed to a full with provisions for any long siege. But the prince and the Marshal followed an open corridor leading straight ahead on an even path.

At first they came to a large and well-lit hall. Wood-fire burned upon the hearth in its centre, and green banners hung upon the far wall over the raised dais. Women and men of the keep milled about here, busy at work for the approach of evening, but they paused and bowed as the lords entered and passed. A quiet murmur welled up.

Though Théodred did not walk to the gilded chair upon the dais, the place for the lord of Helm's Deep, and instead Éomer was led through a narrow way off to the side. They went with swift and purposeful strides, and neither spoke despite finding themselves alone in the hallway. It had been clear that the Third Marshal of the Riddermark had not arrived with good news. Fewer fires burned here and the light dimmed about them. The stones were dark and cold.

Éomer's eyes grew accustomed.

Their steps resounded in the quiet.

They then came to a door, bolted and locked, and the prince unfastened a key from his belt.

On great hinges the door swung slowly inwards; stepping inside Théodred's private chambers the tautness in his shoulders waned, and Éomer breathed deeply. He took a seat opposite his cousin, draping his long and travel-worn cloak across his leg and unfastened Gúthwinë; the sword was placed by his side, tip against the dark stones gleaming dully in the firelight. Théodred mirrored his actions, but then leaned forward with eager determination and rested his chin in hand. His keen eyes regarded Éomer sharply.

"I fear that with me come evils worse than ever before," Éomer spoke gravely. "What I have seen in this last week has left my heart heavy with burdens. I have sought no other council but yours – not even the King's – for this matter is of great and grave importance. If it proves to be true. And so I have come to you in haste, hoping that together we shall cast some light on this matter."

Théodred ran his thumb across the stubble on his chin, dark eyes locked on Éomer's. "If swiftness is required, cousin, then I ask that you speak plainly. What has happened?"

And so it was, that Éomer told everything; all he could remember, down to even the smallest of details – even if they to others would have seemed insignificant, to the prince they were not. His missing scouts, and the unease that had hung heavy over him for many days. The village raid. The second and larger host. He told Théodred of the Ranger from the North, and what she thought of the tracks pointing westward. But most important were the garbled words of the captive Dunlending. A large, black tooth in the darkness of night.

Both had they stood in the shadow of Orthanc.

They knew well of what he spoke.

Théodred asked many questions, and as time passed from minutes to hours, his face darkened with concern. With all Éomer had told, he came to much the same conclusion as the Marshal. "This is truly the tale of a horrible betrayal, yet we hold only little proof to your claim." The prince held up a hand, halting Éomer from speaking. "I believe you, for I know the depths of your loyalty, and no such host of hillmen has passed by my watch. We have not slackened our duties."

He stood, and with hands clasped behind his back Théodred paced across the floor. In their long discussion, many maps had been spread across the table between them, all drawn in great detail; every hillock and creak and forest, the dust-trails only stepped by herdsmen and the great roads between cities. Éomer trailed a hand over the Misty Mountains, pausing at the Gap of Rohan, when he finally spoke. "Yet," he said carefully, quietly, with a scowl as he understood his cousin's concerns. "It is not enough."

"No," Théodred replied and returned to his seat. Though he remained standing, fingers grasping the back of the chair tightly; Éomer saw the knuckles become white. "How easy it would be to turn the Dunlending's words against our claim. To wave it off, discard our words as the Great Enemy's plan to turn allies against one another. Lies to taint the honourable reputation of Saruman!" A hand hammered against the wooden chair, and the noise resounded in the stillness and further into the floor.

Long moments of silence fell over the cousins.

Éomer's mind was but a tangled mess, and he struggled to grab hold of fleeting thoughts to piece together wisdom. Such little power they held against silver tongues and wizardry. "I will leave half my Éored here under your command," he finally said. Resolution seeped into his voice. There was not much else they could do, and so the only choice was to strengthen their first line of defense against a storm they knew would hit; hard, swift, and ruthless. Though, the bigger question was when.

"I cannot take your riders," Théodred said with dejection; he sat down, shoulders slumped in defeat and a sigh escaped him. "You have less men than I would prefer as is in the Folde. I refuse to cripple your forces further, even if they could be useful here. You need them as much as I do."

"With how things are now you need them." Their gazes met. Éomer understood well, for long it had been believed that the danger would come from the East. Gondor could not hold out forever; and then a swarm of evil and filth would be upon Rohan, black blood spilling from the putrid mouth of Mordor. His men would be the first to ride out and meet them, with riders and horns sounding the attack from the gates of Aldburg.

A small force, lessened in their numbers, would be easily crushed. Swallowed in a sea of horrors.

But perhaps now war would be upon them long before the line of Gondor broke, and from a side they had never expected. No, Éomer could spare some men if it meant the protection of the Westfold. Neither decision would be perfect either way they twisted and turned it, or even close to adequate, and it would leave their defenses spread thin over vast expanses. Truly, they were caught between the hammer and the anvil; and the first strike would fall hard.

"I will hold the Folde," Éomer said. Stubborn dertermination clear in his voice, and he raised his head. "If further proof is found of Saruman's deceit, you can request aid from the king. And you can have my men returned to my side – if you do not have use of them by that time." He feared they would be much needed. Théodred sat quietly. Deep in thought, leaving his younger cousin time to think; his remaining men would be pushed to the limit in ever-vigilant patrols.

There were yet no enemies from the North, for the inhospitable lands of Rhovanion stretched far beyond the Anduin, and still orcs never ventured far from the Great River. No beasts came from the Grey Mountains; the old forest of Elves, deep and dark and full of ancient magic, was an impossible wall to climb for any outsider. But still from the Dagorlad to the Undeeps, an army could pass with little resistance into Rohan – they could not turn a blind eye to the Wold. But neither could the eastern way be left unguarded. Éomer drew a hand across his face, gaze once more returning to the maps.

Their best chances would be to convince the king of Saruman's betrayal. They could then call upon the combined forces of the Riddermark; strike before the wizard came to full power. Bring down the tower of Saruman the White. But with no proof their words would fall on deaf ears. There was no denying it – the king was growing old and stubborn in his ways, leaving little room for advice from the outside. Not even from the Marshals tasked with the protection of the lands, and neither from the king's own son. Always advisors whispered words of peace and quiet. All was well. Éomer's brow furrowed.

When has the king last left Edoras?

Théodred rose. "Come," he said, "I shall have a room prepared for you. Perhaps with some sleep our minds will be clearer? I shall have my aides gathered tomorrow, and we will hear what they have to say on this matter. But you have ridden far and hard, and you must rest." Yet Éomer made no motion to stand, and rather looked up with a puzzled expression at the sudden turn of events. "Many would say it certainly is best to decide what to do at once, that efforts best idleness, though I much rather believe a quiet time to think is of value now."

The prince gave a smile, thin and weary yet not without mirth.

With a shake of his head, Éomer wondered if not Théored and Éothain had joined forces in their badgering, yet still he followed his cousin out of the chamber with little reluctance. His body ached, and the wound in his leg pulsed; tremors ran through his veins, making his walk slow and careful. It would have to be redressed. Rest would be welcome, he thought with a grim frown, and there was no part of him that did not feel stretched. Tired, exhausted by the all that had happened. Perhaps he would wake in the morning with a clear head?

It was of no surprise for Éomer that sleep claimed him swiftly after. Bidding his cousin a good night, despite the news of vile betrayal the Marshal had brought in with him, he found the bed a warm welcome. Heat surrounded him, muddling his already unclear thoughts, and then all became dark as he drifted off. Weariness and exhaustion made his sleep without dreams, and some clarity came to him with the first light of morning.

He watched from his room as the first orange rays peered over the edge of the rampart and the parting of clouds. Long shadows crawled with haste over dark stones, growing ever thinner with the sun's climb over the mountain spurs; escaping into narrow nooks and crevices. Birds; swallows and dunnocks, took to the clear skies as little swirling brown dots. Éomer sat for a while and watched, eyes looking both near and far. Over the open stretches before the Deepening Wall, and further still to the green plains of Rohan where all was yet quiet.

Only few trees stood scattered across the landscape, lonesome figures cast in the colours of Autumn; orange, yellow, and red beads strewn over greens, and their leaves shone brightly in the sun as if on fire. When finally he was ready, Éomer fastened his weapons and found the familiar weight calming, for once more dark thoughts seeped into his mind. Chilling whispers. There was little reason to wear his heavy armor, for Helm's Deep was safe, and so he left it behind while the door closed shut after him. The corridor was without windows, but many torches lined the walls and illuminated his path through the keep.

Éomer knew the way. Many times before had he visited Helm's Deep, and, even if he had not, then his warrior's mind could easily retrace his steps from the evening before. There was a small decline in the path, soon giving way to steps leading him down to the lower levels. Noise rose up ahead of him, cast against the stone walls; soon he could hear many speaking all at once. He took to following the sounds the rest of the way, until he came to the great hall they had passed through upon his arrival.

The air was warm from the great hearth burning, and many tables were occupied by both women and men; others moved about, serving food and drink for those gathered, or stoked the fire. And upon the dais, surrounded by armed and grey-haired men, sat Théodred in deep deliberation with a dozen counsellors. As he approached, the prince looked up and welcomed Éomer to a seat by his side. With a nod at the gathered, clasping hands with those closest to him, he sat down at the table that had been prepared. Éomer recognized most faces.

"I have said very little still," Théodred spoke quietly in his ear, with eyes trained on the men around them. "They now know of the Dunlendings' raid and the interrogation, and I would like for them to draw their own conclusions. Then, we shall hear if we think alike."

Éomer accepted the offered bowl of stew and a mug of clear, honeyed ale. He sat mostly and listened, speaking only when they asked for details of the attack or the words of his captives; the food warmed his stomach, and a hunger, one he had not noticed earlier, was gratified. His eyes trailed over the hall, watching young boys weave between the legs of their fathers in an attempt at a scuffle; throwing about their fists and scrawny legs flailing. A smile ran across his lips when they were pulled apart in exasperated ease.

The long discussion drew at length to an end around him, just as he came to empty another bowl of vegetables and lamb.

If not for the fact that both the prince and his aides stood to leave, Éomer could have most likely stayed for another serving. But instead Éomer followed by Théodred's side out of the hall. Again, he was led through dim corridors and winding stairs going further and further up, until they came to another large room; many windows lined the walls, and around him a view opened up to the surrounding lands. He could see far to all sides. It was but a small line of grey, yet the white-tipped peaks of the Misty Mountains were discernable in the haze of early morning to the northeast. Mostly a sea of green stretched unending on all sides part from the dark stones of the Dike.

Éomer remained by the window, hands clasped behind his back, as the others milled inside.

In the middle of the room stood a table, flanked by chairs on all sides; maps had been laid out at an earlier time, for often Théodred held his council here. Now the largest map was pulled out and placed where all could see. The men gathered around it, finding seats as they still mumbled briskly amongst each other with low voices. A thrum of anxious expectancy was heavy in the air; then the prince raised a hand and all immediately quietened about him. "Now is the hour upon which I seek your council," Théodred said, looking around with solemn eyes and with hands pressed down against the table.

His straight back seemed heavy with burden.

He leaned forward, keen eyes watchful as they lingered in turn on the gathered.

"You have heard all, as I have, from my cousin's report. Tell me your verdict."

Many voices shared their agreement and dissent all at once, mumbled to a mass of words and shouts; a heavy sense of disbelief clung to most of the prince's advisors, and only few were fast to believe the betrayal of Saruman. It was preposterous; allegations with no claim in attested proof, for surely the jumbled words of a savage – more beast than Man – rang false. Spoken to save its own hide from death in a land far from home. Éomer's face hardened at their words. A blindness smothered his people, even those tasked to see clearly in their darkest hour, yet still they remained in denial!

Brushing aside a threat both imminent and dreadful.

The words spoken about the Ranger were no less harsh than those meant for the Dunlending. Just as wild and unwelcome. A straggler with no rightful dealings in their lands; grim-faced and secretive thieves in the dark, more likely spies of the Enemy than protectors of the peace. While his first thoughts of the woman had been much the same, Éomer took a step forward at their dishonourable utterings. She had proven herself! She had come to the aid of the village, saved his people when the Rohirrim had come too late, but such deeds were blatantly overlooked. Théodred turned, sending a long and hard look at him, and Éomer bristled.

Yet still he paused. Blind old men, he thought, teeth ground together, mollified by falsehoods and with hope for a peace long-gone.

Was he truly destined to take a stand alone? Were they all complacent in their way of life? No. His gaze fell on the straigthened back of his cousin, proud and unbending, as the prince raised a hand for silence. Still there remained those wise enough to see the truth, and though they were few in numbers Éomer was not alone to meet the challenge. Some had voiced an agreement, albeit laced with gloom, that surely all pointed to the White Wizard.

"Enough." Once the quiet had settled, the prince turned to a scarred and familiar face by his side. "What say you, Grimbold? You have much remained silent."

The rider – valiant captain under the Second Marshal – paused as if to deliberate an answer. His hair had whitened since Éomer had last seen him, streaking the blond tresses, but his gaze remained steeled. Wise beneath deeply set brows. "There have been no sightings of Dunlendings around my encampment, nor has my scouts reported any tracks leading through the region for many months." He moved an open, gloved hand across the map before pausing at the Gap of Rohan. "We have seen none cross the Isen and Adorn," he said carefully, still weaving deftly around a proper response.

Théodred considered his words for a short while. "Neither have I – nor Erkenbrand," he then said, nodding to another, larger, man across the table. "And I do not believe any other at this table has willingly let enemies into our lands!"

A murmur followed, as the assembled roused and rallied at the prince's words. They could not believe the notion of treachery, for all were they proud men of Rohan. Warriors. "I know the skill and loyalty of my men," Grimbold carried on, shifting as he leaned back in his seat to look at the gathered. "They have not passed our defense. Perhaps we should look to our neighbours, for so long held in high regard and trusted, now rather with wariness. It is best we keep our horses rested and our watch vigilant, but remember; the hasty stroke goes oft astray."

The prince drew a hand across his brow. "So we come to it in the end," he said quietly, but then he declared no more.

Chapter Text

There had been made no end to the discussion; no plan to abide by, no certain orders to follow; nothing more than an agreement to watch. Wait and watch. For, as Théodred had then put it, a hidden enemy felt safe in the shadows, weaving deceit and lies with cunning moves, and the Wizard would not easily be drawn from hiding. They had yet no solid proof to force Saruman's hand into tangible action. But Grimbold's words were sound – the dealings of Isengard would no longer go unnoticed by the riders of Rohan, that, at least, they had agreed upon.

When Théodred felt nothing more was to be said on the matter, he then dismissed his advisors. As the heavy door had closed shut behind them, the prince finally found a seat; his dark eyes followed Éomer's pacings about the room, though neither of them spoke for a while. There was not much to be said, Éomer sensed. So the sun climbed further above the blackened walls of stone, and a warm glow slanted through the windows until the room was bathed in golden light. His boots sounded heavy against the floor as he paced back and forth in deep contemplation.

For a while they remained, until, at length, restlessness overpowered all other dismal thoughts. Staying idle did not sit well with Éomer, and the great and open grasslands called to him; for the cool air to brush against his face, to hear the gale winds howl, and the earth rumbling beneath the hooves of his horse. There was a dire need to be away, and with haste, so that all grim and horrid thoughts were swept from his mind. Swallowed by the wild freedom on the plains. He was a warrior, first and foremost, and what could not be handled by the tip of his sword was an unwelcome struggle.

And so it was that the Marshals rode from Helm's Deep, leading a small company of riders with swiftness forward, as they followed the road from the Gate to the Dike. In some other time and place Éomer might have been wholly pleased, but in the pit of his stomach ever-constant concern gnawed; a growth festering, malignant and hideous. While they had departed from the keep to take in the surrounding lands about Helm's Deep, they all looked with watchful eyes to the horizon. His ears and eyes startled by any sound. Their armour was heavy and their weapons sharp.

Side by side, Éomer and Théodred rode.

When they were but a mile beyond the fortified wall they slackened their pace a little. The mountain lay behind them, and ahead the plains stretched green in the sun of late midday. Dark thickets lay on the eastward flank, thin outcropses of trees growing in clusters where small streams chuckled down from the stony peaks. Melted waters that with Winter would still. The weather remained fair, and the chill wind held in the west; yet still the gloom in his heart could not be borne away despite the cold gales. He forced his downcast eyes away from the ground, instead looking out over the blue and white-dotted sky and the rolling hills.

The first foothills shimmered into view far ahead, painted hues of purple by the bright glow of the sun. For a while they followed the well-trodden road as it wound on through the landscape, but soon they made for a path that cut straight west. His thoughts turned once more to his sister, so far from his side, in Edoras; amongst noble ladies of court, bound by duty and without much freedom for herself, and he could not help but wonder if not Éowyn missed the clean air. To be with her brother and cousin, as they had when they were but children.

He knew she was too stubborn and proud to ever admit such thoughts; her duty was by the side of the king, even if her heart drew her elsewhere. To be wild and free once more.

Éomer looked to the prince by his side. Thirteen years lay between them, and many a time he had followed Théodred to the training rings, or watched the young man ride horses with swiftness and skill. Of course Éowyn had trailed along, proving a great nuisance in her attempts to not be left out, and more than once had she been found kicking and crying in her room.

Door locked and key gone.

Yet neither had he shied away from using her to nick candied apples and sweet bread from the kitchen, where only a smaller, more nimble body could fit through the window-hatch. Then she had been of great use. Together, in awe they had watched Théodred fight with sword and shield in sparring, and their cousin had welcomed them both to train with him. With mirth he had laughed whenever Éowyn came out victorious over her older brother – even if Éomer insistantly claimed it either a fluke or a purposeful loss on his side.

The corner of his mouth twitched at the thought.

He could not help but wish to return; to return to times long gone, where each day was untroubled by concerns for the future. They passed through upland grass and heaths, and the wide flats stretched continuously on ahead of them. It was less than a day's journey to the Fords of Isen, the only place to cross the river south of Isengard, but whether the company would carry on so far had not been discussed. The sky was darkening to the east, and light clouds were cast with grey. Éomer wished to see for himself what was afoot at Isengard, in the shadow of the Misty Mountains, but something warned him against pressing further.

As the thought came to him he gave a shout, and the riders about him came to a swift halt at the sudden command. They stood upon a high ridge, giving them a clear view to all sides. The prince drew his horse close to Firefoot, gaze sweeping across the plains, before he spoke. "What do you see?"

Éomer missed something. He had traveled through the Westfold in many seasons; no folk of Rohan dwelled here now, too close to the unclaimed realms about the mountain range, but many other creatures lived there at all times. Especially birds and small beasts. Yet now all things were quiet apart from the riders and their horses around him. An eerie silence lingered. He felt as if there was no sound for many miles about them. He did not understand it, except for a clear sense of unease and watchfulness that had drawn him to a halt.

The mere swish of Firefoot's tail and the hoof-stomps against the soft mud became loud noises in his ears.

Dead silence was around him, and over all hung a clear blue sky. "It is too quiet," Éomer said. He gazed intently at the sky, and before long he could see what was approaching. Away in the West a dark patch appeared, and grew, and drove east like flying smoke on the wind. Yet the wind blew against them from the northwest. The riders stood together, fencing in their prince as spears and bows were ready. Flocks of birds, flying at great speed, came wheeling and circling, and traversing all the land as if they were searching for something.

They were steadily drawing nearer, and as if they moved with one single mind the birds now came straight towards them. A dense shadow followed the flock, passing darkly over the ground below. The creatures passed overhead, harsh croaks tearing through the silence; dipping low, barely out of reach from the riders, and large wings beat upon the wind. The sound roared in his ears, as the swarm carried on for many long moments, circling them. Then, all at once, they veered off with renewed haste.

The riders watched them, shoulders tense and grips tight on their spears, and barely did they dare to breathe until the birds had dwindled into the distance. The sky was clear once again. The birds disappeared from sight. Flying the straight way to Nan Curunír. Whispered voices broke out around Éomer, speaking of wizardry and omens of ill, and the quiet voices made the ground seem to echo. Again a silence fell upon the lands around them. There was no life to be found, as if something – something malicious – had driven it away.

And now that evil had turned its gaze on them. The urge to turn and flee came to the riders, clutching at their hearts with an icy grip; smothering bravery, until even the horses tossed and neighed in rising terror. Éomer met Théodred's gaze. There was no need for words between them. The prince raised his spear and pointed its tip east, before he turned his great steed around. Away from the watchful eyes of Isengard. His riders fell into place around and behind him, drawing close as they thundered across the plains with haste. Hearts chilled.

It took many long moments before the fear left them, though they still felt uneasy and their minds were wary. Only when the high place, where they had halted, stood far behind them did Théodred lessen his pace. They passed along the edge of a long rock-wall, bathing them in shadow, and Éomer's mind turned to the strange and unnerving sight of the birds. They were not native to the lands of Rohan.

The large, black crows were found only in the deep and dark places of the Entwood, under the eastern flanks of the rocky range, and beyond the Misty Mountains to the west. In Dunland. Never before had he fled from the mere sight of birds, and deep in his heart he knew it was not the beasts that made them turn in fear. It was the hidden hand that controlled them, a whisper in the air, but a quiet voice laced with sorcery.

Dismal thoughts and cheerless silence followed the company of riders throughout the last leg of their journey. Spirits broken. The sun became veiled by dark clouds, now drifting in with the wind, and a promise of rain was heavy in the air. A formless grey under the coming of night, and a chill wind blew. Once, looking back across his shoulder, as if some prickle of the skin told him that he was being watched, Éomer caught a glimpse of a small shape upon the hilltop. Whether he truly saw it, or it was but a shimmer of disarrayed thoughts, he could not tell.

When he looked again, it was gone.

Éomer spoke not of it, for the riders were burdened enough. Though the feeling of being watched followed him all the way until the Dike came into view ahead, and further still it lingered over him. Relief was palpable on the men's faces when they passed beneath the gate. A collective breath released as it shut closed behind them. Upon the last stretch back to the Hornburg, heavy droplets began to fall. At first it was but a light drizzle, cold against his face, but soon it came down hard; beating down on them, soaked into their cloaks as the ground turned to slippery mud. Firefoot's coat glistened silver.

Drenched they came to the open courtyard. Éomer held Théodred's gaze for a moment in silence; the prince looked harrowed, grim-faced, but then his features grew gentler. With that they turned to the other riders, who were still awaiting orders with despondency. Their armour was dark with rain. "There can be no doubt," Théodred spoke quietly as his men drew closer. "Some wickedness is at large. It has crossed the Fords of Isen and entered our lands. Strange powers have our enemies, perhaps, but forget not this." His eyes gleamed and his voice became louder. "The courage of the Eorlingas will not break, nor ever yield, for as long as we can draw weapons! As long as there is breath in our lungs."

The prince dismounted, and a hushed quiet lay about them.

"We will not yield," the prince said, gloved hand rested against his horse only briefly, before disappearing inside the keep.

Knowing well the look of steeled determination on his cousin's face, Éomer took to sorting out the men. "Take rest," he ordered, "Speak not of what you have seen this day. It was naught but crows sent to frighten us; but our enemies forget the strength of the Rohirrim. Do not fear what you saw! Believe in the courage of your hearts." He looked from one to the next; some only briefly, and for others he held their gazes long enough for the terror to change to a clear resolve. Théodred's voice resounded in his head. Birds and tricks of a wizard had made them turn tail, like a whimpering dog beaten, and the shame was washed away by anger.

In the end, the men who were gathered round him broke up into smaller groups, and went off this way and that. Soon they vanished into the shadows of the Hornburg. Éomer slipped out of the saddle, took Firefoot by the reins, and pulled the horse off with him to the stables. The dark stones beneath his feet were glossy, slippery from the rain; a heavy downpour that seemed to grow steadily, until it became hard to see more than an arm's length ahead. The sound roared in his ears, and his boots splashed as he waded through the forming puddles.

For a while he stood, mind blank, in the damp and dimly lit stall; droplets trickled off his brow as he meticulously and unconsciously groomed the horse. He had waved off the stable-hand that had come to assist. His fingers trailed the mud-covered hooves, picking out small pebbles lodged in the iron shoes. Firefoot stood patiently waiting, motionless except for the soft movements of his large head as it picked through fresh oats, and appeared keen to enjoy the attention. Éomer's fingers combed through the soft mane, stalling when he came into contact with rough, unmanageable tangles; pulling, easing, allowing just the right amount of preasure, his thoughts began weaving fretful wanderings once more.

Éomer had gone through all the steps, and was midway through cleaning the horse-shoes once more, when a sound alerted him to another's presence. Easing Firefoot's hoof to the ground, he stood and turned to look at the young stableboy in the doorway. He appeared drenched and out of breath, shoulders heaving with great effort as if from running. "My lord," the boy said. Then he bowed quickly. "A rider at the gate to the Dike asked for entry. He is foreign to the wardens, and to these lands, and he urged to speak with one in command when the road was barred to him."

Brow furrowed, Éomer nodded shortly; brushed his palm across the flat forehead, from the ears to the muzzle, of Firefoot before stepping out of the stables. The rain came steadily down still, an unending veil of grey, but the pale blue of the sky had turned darker. His time spent with his horse had been longer than first expected, and now the sun had set beyond the western ridges of the mountain. The night was young and cold.

Following the boy across the square, bringing his cloak closer around his shoulders for warmth, Éomer looked to the archway and the open gate. There, sheltered and with hands held forward to the flames of the brazier, stood a figure hidden by the shadows. Surrounding him were two tall, mail-clad guards; spears gripped tightly as they flanked the traveler in the narrow space. Upon the Marshal's approach, the man – for it was a young man, with keen and clear grey eyes – looked up and met his gaze evenly. Raven hair clung to his forehead, dripping down his nose and cheeks, and his dark fabrics, green and grey, were flecked with mud and rain. His woolen cloak was grey as stone.

The face was young, still with traces of boyhood; with fluid movements he raised his arm, yet quickly stilled when the guards stiffened to attention, and instead allowed it to fall to his side once more. "My lord," he said with a voice both deep and buoyant, "I come not here to bring trouble, and I left my weapons with my companions at the Dike." He smiled, making it easy in the firelight for Éomer to see many white scars running across his face. The young man could be no more than twenty, yet clearly he had seen many a battle in his short life.

Éomer drew to a halt, regarding the stranger with quiet curiosity, and the rain lessened on his back.

"Tell me then, wanderer in the Riddermark, what brings you to our lands?" He spoke.

The boy, this time with greater care, raised a hand to the collar of his cloak. "My name is Brenion. My companions and I come from the far North," he said and then, much to Éomer's astonishment, drew forth a very familiar brooch clasped to the cloak into view; the silver star shone and flickered as if lit by a sudden flame. But just as quickly the light dimmed and the star faded, returning to the folds of his cloak. "We search for our missing kin and have traveled for many days. Have you seen one bearing a star of the North here in the Riddermark?"

At first Éomer did not speak. His thoughts turned to the Ranger, for surely they searched for her; a week had soon passed since he saw her disappear eastbound, over the plains of the Eastfold until the horse and rider were swallowed by the green hills. Alone she had traveled, and he had heard nothing of companions following after. Although it was clear that she was following, hunting, for something or someone. Uncertainty came to his mind; could he trust this cloaked stranger, bearing the mark of the Rangers?

There was no lie to see in the boy's face, but the servants of the Enemy often wore the mask of innocence. The woman proved to be an ally through her actions, but the one standing before him now had not. "What makes you believe your kin has passed the Fords into our land?"

This time it was the Ranger's turn to hesitate, and his mouth twisted into a thin, white line. Grey eyes flickered before settling on the ground. Everything around them seemed still. Waiting. "I cannot say more of our purpose, except that the one we follow requires our aid. We bring no malice to your people, my lord, and only wish to pass through without any trouble. And, if possible, unseen; though the leader of my company prefered to ask first for permission."

The answer rang in his head, echoes of words he had heard before, and the proud woman came clear to his mind's eye. Much the same was said when Éomer had questioned her. It reassured him, and he prayed to Béma that his decision was right. "There has been no sightings of Rangers east of the Isen for many years," Éomer answered. "She did not pass by Helm's Deep."

It took the boy – Brenion – several long moments, before the words of the Marshal settled and the meaning behind them became clear.

Then his head snapped up, and hope was in his face and voice. "She?" It was clear that the news was good and much welcome. "Then you have seen her, my lord? When? Where?"

"Indeed I have," Éomer replied, taken aback by the sudden eagerness in the Ranger's words. Almost bordering on hopeful desperation, and he wondered about the haste in which they sought out their female companion. He had found her to be young, truly, and perhaps she was not meant to travel alone in the wilderness? "But it was not in this region that our paths crossed. She had followed the banks of the Anduin, and when we parted ways it was less than a day's journey from the Mouths of the Entwash. That is now a week ago."

"So she managed the Pass of Imladris before the storm," Brenion mumbled, mostly to himself, then caught Éomer's gaze. "Did she tell you of her destination?"

"Nay. She was following another on horseback, heading for Anórien, but that is all I know."

The Ranger asked many questions; how the Marshal came to meet her, and if she was injured or well at health? Clearly he was greatly concerned for his kin, and it seemed they had ridden hard and far after her departure. "A great storm came upon us on the High Pass, forcing us to turn away until the skies became clear. It was then that we lost sight of her trail." He brushed wet hair from his face. "We left a group there, to climb the Misty Mountains and take the road along the Anduin, while my companions and I went south."

At this Éomer listened intently, for what was recounted proved useful to his own plight. The journey would have taken the Rangers through the wilderness following the mountain range. Unclaimed lands, except for the most northern parts where the vicious hillmen dwelt. What have they seen there? "You traversed the Isen? Did you come about anything amiss there beyond our borders?"

"I have never before seen the lands of Enedwaith – what is now called Dunland in your tongue – but my elders found the air to be strange, indeed. Both bird and beast had grown silent, and the very hills felt hostile to us. We were watched and followed throughout the journey, though we could not see our pursuers; we slept very little at a time. But late one evening a roar came on the wind, swift approaching, like the thundering beat of many wings. Crebain swept down over us, circling back and forth, and they only dispersed when we took branches to the fire."

Éomer nodded thoughtfully, but motioned for the Ranger to continue his tale.

"We saw them again just earlier today," he added. "But this time they were farther away from us and swooping down, much the same as they did to us, against something hidden by the hills. When we came closer there were many signs of horses in the mud, and we followed the path here. And that is my story recounted, my lord." The rain came down in grey sheets around them, hammering against the stones and battlements, unrelenting and ceaseless. Much had been said, leaving Éomer with many new thoughts.

"You have my gratitude, Ranger of the North," the Marshal replied. "Know that you and your companions are welcome to ride out the storm with us."

The grey cloak was drawn tight, and the white scars shone again as the Ranger grinned. He gave a swift bow. "Thank you, my lord, but I fear there is no time for rest! And soaked to the bone I already am, so the rain can do no more than what it already has. When you are wet, then you are wet! Haste is needed, and we must be away at once to find our kin. There is still a great distance between us if she left the Riddermark a week ago." Then he glanced to the skies. "Dawn is not far off."

So it was that the young Ranger slipped quietly into the night, a blurry figure of grey that soon disappeared in the haze. The air was heavy, still, and the first rumble of thunder echoed between the walls. Dawn may have been close, but the storm was with much strength left and would not soon wane. Day would be bleak and wet. Éomer stood for a while and watched, then finally he drew away from the flame and into the downpour. He stepped across the courtyard to the keep.

Much had to be done.

Chapter Text

Day came pale from the East.

As the light grew it filtered through the leaves of the trees around the low-hidden dell. Pale-blue sky peeped among the moving branches, but the morning was still young and cold when Rell began again. Her back ached, likely from the root that had dug deeply into her hip throughout the night, and her walk was stiff. The Ranger pulled Luin along between the great, gnarled boles and over the slippery mossy ground, returning to the dust-path that still went on through the woods of Ithilien.

It was but an animal trail, trampled by hoofs of some creature over many years of use, and it had been difficult to find. Just as difficult it was to tread. She had left the path the evening before to seek shelter, but it was much easier to follow than to make her own way through the thick undergrowth, and throughout the last couple of days she had cleared quite a distance from the Anduin. Cair Andros – and further behind, Gondor and Rohan – would soon be but a distant, fleeting memory; swallowed in the greens of the forest.

The ground below was smooth and soft, and the thin clear voices of birds in the sky followed her.

While the first day in Ithilien had been accompanied with a heavy rainfall, leaving the forest swathed in fumes and mist obscuring her vision, now warmth encompassed the fair but deserted lands. So fair, Rell had almost forgotten Autumn had passed to Winter around her. For a while she had followed the road from Cair Andros, until discovering it had veered continuously northeast and drawn her further away from the bordering marshlands.

It then took her a while to find a clear path over stony hills, swerving back into the right direction where she now walked.

Throughout the grey morning she continued her lonesome journey, until at length Rell came to a long slope cutting straight west, hard-edged against the sky. It was covered only in few trees of holly and oak. Bare it stood. Day was opening in the sky, and a wide view of the forest became increasingly clear before her as she scaled the tall hill. Rell drew Luin to a halt, perched on top of the mound as she turned in the saddle; looking first back to the south, seeing small, thick-growing woods of fir and cedar, with wide glades among them. But then her gaze turned away and was met with dry winds, warm and harsh against her face.

The fences of Mordor stood as shadowed teeth, black and horrid, in the far horizon beyond leagues of green; still much further off, lost in the distance, but the sight chilled her heart and quickly made her turn away. She was glad the road took her west, away from the land of many evils. The hill receded ahead, gentle slopes running down into dim hazes below, and the wind swerved off; now blowing in from the South. The Ranger was about to return to the cover of woods when it happened.

She paused. Strands of hair whipped about her face, but her nose twitched at a familiar smell carried on the wind. It was faint, masked by herbs and shrubs; the fresh dew of morning clung still to the air, mixing with asphodels and grass, but it was there nonetheless. Clear and deep. Ash.

More keenly this time, Rell looked across the treetops bathed in a pale sun. There was mostly green, interwoven with red and yellow as Autumn faded to Winter's chill, for as far as the eye could see. The early light was clear, sharp until almost blinding, and at first she saw nothing of alarm. Rell was about to guide Luin forward again, thinking it a flicker of her imagination, but then she caught sight of something. A thin spiral of blue-grey smoke, almost plain to see as it caught the sunlight, rising from a thicket below her.

At once her mind snapped into work, heart beating quickly in her chest.

She slipped from the saddle. Moving by instinct rather than thought. Light feet barely touched the mossy rocks before she slid down the slope, feet almost falling over one another, as she headed straight for the fire. Luin stood on the ridge, ears flat against its head, but remained motionless in response to its master's swift departure. The bow was pulled from her back, white-feathered arrow ready, and she went through tall fern and bushes. The bracken grew densely here, making her movement slow and difficult. Branches snatched at her clothes, small thorns prickling her skin until surely blood was drawn, but her attention was fixed on the shadows ahead.

She crept deeper into the fern.

The smell of smoke and ash grew stronger, and as the thicket thinned to reveal a small clearing ahead, Rell crouched to listen. Not long ago a cooking-fire had burned here, that was easy to see, but only scattered ashes and burnt turfs were left behind. The fire had been stamped out. Whoever had camped in the clearing during the night was nowhere to be seen. As her, they had continued with the arrival of morning. Yet they could not have been gone for long, not ventured far. Rell looked carefully to the trees.

Close by, just under the dappling shadow of the dark bay-trees, a shimmer in the grass caught her gaze as she scanned her surroundings. Rell drew back, slipping around while remaining hidden under the canopy of trees, and circled the clearing. Her ears were trained on any sound around her; birds scampered about in the branches, frightened, and there was a buzz of insects in the air. Nothing else caught her ear.

There were signs of boots in the clearing and around it, for the grass was trampled and bent flat, leading in and out between the boles. In a patch of mud Rell found clear indentations, and she crouched to take a closer look. The step had been light. Certainly no orc's foot, she thought, for they were much heavier in their step; her brow furrowed, but then she carried on until she came to the other side. She halted and listened. The tracks were still fresh. With ears strained for any sound, an alertness seeped into every muscle of her body; with undivided, rapt attention on her surroundings, Rell slowly and carefully considered her findings.

Her fingers on the bow tightened.

Whoever had set up camp here could not be far off.

Rell placed the arrow upon the bowstring, keeping her grip slack, before she stepped into the clearing with care. Her eyes ran from one line of trees to the other, and then her gaze settled on the small object that earlier had caught her sight. Nudging it with her foot to turn it over in the grass, she discovered the glimmer to be a broken arrow-head. Discarded. The Ranger leaned in closer and came to a crouch. Its edges were jagged, meant to lodge inside the target so to make it difficult to remove, painful, at least without tearing through tissue; many a time she had seen them before, for it was the favored kind chosen by the orcs of the Grey Mountains. To maim.

Such arrows had killed her father many years ago.

Her brow was deeply set in furrows, but she did not touch the arrowhead. The findings puzzled her.

The softest, faintest, rustle of leaves drew her attention away. Startled. In an instant her mind became aware that she was no longer alone – yet nothing more than a quick curse passed her thoughts. There was no time. Her entire body frozen, immobile, back and shoulders rigid as her breath hitched in her throat. How careless she had been!

A sword hovered mere inches from her neck, drawn by an unseen person behind her. Close enough to carve the thin skin beneath if she dared to move. I did not hear him ... The blade was long and sharp; the shine held her gaze transfixed. Rell let both arrow and bow drop from her grip onto the grass below; her heart thundered in her chest. Clenching her hands, gauging the chances of reaching her own weapons in time, Rell calmed her breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Long, deep, and slow were her breaths, just as her mind worked quickly. She knew well her first real sign of movement would urge the other to respond. If it came to a fight, her actions would start it. And so, she did not move. Dared not to. Another exhale.

The moment stretched unending. Time felt as if stilled, the world holding its breath in waiting. Straightening to her full height, slowly, carefully, her right hand flexed and hovered closer to the small knife at her belt. The sword was of no use in close combat; barely drawn from its sheath before a swift death befell her. Cut down where she stood. Her mind was in turmoil, an internal conflict raging between fight or flight. Could she run? Would she even make it if she tried?

Her eyes flickered across the glade. Were there others, hiding between the trees?

A wind blew, dry and hot, and a flutter of green passed her peripheral vision. The quiet ended. "I will separate your head from your shoulders long before you reach your weapon," a voice said behind her; it was low and dark, but to her ears obviously that of a man's. Not an orc, she thought. Rell knew she had been lured into a trap. But who had set it for her? Clearly the man spoke Westron, though beyond that she was certain of nothing more. "Stand still," he warned gruffly, and Rell felt a hand grasp, seizing, her left wrist tightly to pull behind her back. Her shoulders tensed further.

In that very moment a small window of opportunity opened for her. His attention was briefly turned from the weapon; the blade left the thin skin of her neck, pulled away only barely to secure her hands, but it was enough. The threat was lessened. It was an opportunity, and she seized it at once.

Her elbow shot out and connected with the man's face. He yelped in pain as his nose shattered, yet he was quick to regain his footings, and Rell felt, rather than saw, the blade graze her leg. Retaliation came with swiftness. She kicked out and swept him off his legs, and the heavy body fell with a thud to the ground. Rell was upon him immediately.

She pulled the smaller blade from her belt and spun to face her attacker – a man, her mind noted feebly, dressed in the greens of Ithilien – with fearful vehemence, and Rell dove for his head. Yet there was no real true intent behind her blow, for Rell wished not to kill the other. The blow was blocked and redirected, as there was little will to find in the attack.

His foot came out and met her thigh with great strength; his mark had been the fresh injury, and his aim was true. A white-blinding wave of pain carved through her body. Rell fell to her knees in the grass, dirt and stone digging into her skin, numbness spreading through the bone. Survival's fury boiled deep within, nostrils flaring, when she finally twisted the blade in her hand. He scrambled to his feet next to her, attempting to regain his balance and to grasp the sword, fallen previously from his hands. Rell pushed forward. Hurry!

She jumped to her feet.

Heavy footfalls pierced the silence, only broken by short panting gasps from their struggles where all else had fallen deadly still, and fear surged through her once more.

Not alone, her mind warned her, quicker!

A body collided with her own. The massive bulk pulled her out of balance and sent her flying to the ground. Air was knocked from her lungs when a fist connected with her stomach. Rell let out a garbled moan, curling in on herself, but still she clutched the blade in her hand. The fight was not yet lost. Barely able to breathe more than shallow rasps, her trembling hand drew back to attack; she rolled over on the grass to get away. A spike of pain cracked through her head. His hand had smashed into her face, and a taste of metal filled her mouth.

Blood trickled down from her split lip.

The second man placed a leg on either side of her body, straddling her down on the ground, and the weapon was pried from her struggling hands. She kicked and clawed. Her vision whirled in a blur, attempting to regain focus in between ragged breaths. Her head pounded. Then a shadow fell over her; Rell glanced sideways, disorientated, and saw another stoop over her. Arrow nocked to the longbow, pointed at her, and in the light it shimmered. The sun was on his back, masking his features in darkness and the cloak blew about him, but he then spoke with a voice calm – almost soothingly, like one would speak to a startled animal.

Yet the words were without kindness. "Stand down or have your life forfeit, woman."

Rell bared her teeth in an aggrieved snarl, but then she let her head fall back onto the ground in submission. Her eyes closed, heart beating against her chest before slowly she regained a quiet breathing. Her mind swam. It took her several long moments, accompanied by a spinning head and silence, before her trembling ceased. They made quick work of her weapons, meanwhile, taking her sword and bow; the knife, as well as the small blade tucked away in her boot they found with ease. She did not struggle against their exploring touches, but remained silent and calm.

She had lost the fight, and it was now a matter of survival above all else.

They stood her up, ungently tying her hands behind her back with rough ropes, and her gaze flickered over them. All wore they green and brown of varied hues, as if to better walk unseen in the woodlands of Ithilien. Certainly, she had not seen them follow. Their eyes were keen and bright, but their faces were otherwise hooded, masked, with green. They had swords at their sides and great bows on their backs. One let out a short, clear-calling whistle, soon answered from within the forest.

Then it went again from another place.

Clearly Rell had slowly been encircled, the fire and smoke only to lure her out quicker, and the trap had been sprung. Mindlessly she had walked straight into it, blind to her surroundings. But then what? Again she watched them, willing her head to clarity, looking from one to the other. One stood nursing his broken nose, blood pooling between his hands, spilling through his fingers; his face was drawn into a frown, and there was no love in his gaze when their eyes met. Rell turned away. Clad in green stood the Rangers of Ithilien about her.

From different directions came now eight men striding through the fern; wielding spears with bright heads, all armed with bows and large quivers of green-feathered arrows. What she then saw upset her, and made her fight once more against her bindings; twisting her body to pull out of the gripping, clutching, hands. Luin was pulled into the glade, tugging at the reins in hesitation of the unfamiliar one leading her. With ears flicking back and forth in alert – until it smelled and saw Rell. The struggle grew instantly fierce.

Blowing, shying away from the green-clad Ranger that led it forward, the large horse reared up with a long, drawn-out squeal. The hoofs stamped like thunder into the ground. Rell shook and kicked in an attempt to free herself. The ropes gnawed at her skin, cutting deep. Bucking, kicking, tossing its head in increasing terror, Luin attempted to pull free. The others sprang into action, approaching with swift but careful steps towards the enraged animal.

Their weapons seemed to shine in the pale sun. "Wait!" Rell cried out and tried to follow, eyes fixed on her faithful companion. The grip on her shoulders tightened and drew her forcefully back. The wound on her leg burned, and she nearly buckled. She shot a glare back to the one holding her. "Do not hurt her!"

Her pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"Sîdh, Luin! Sîdh!" Rell yelled, voice tearing in despair and desperate hope. The mare stomped and danced skittishly across the ground, tail jerking rapidly side to side, but the ears perked up and twitched at her voice. It tugged at the reins, this time with less force. "Good, Luin, sîdh." She repeated the words, lowering her tone gradually. A forceful snort was then followed by Luin standing still, clever eyes turned to the Ranger with expectancy – as if to say what now.

Thank you, Elbereth, her mind prayed when it seemed no harm would come to her companion.

"Do not hurt her," she repeated to her captors as the tension calmed, eyes flickering from one to the next. Their weapons were still too close. "She was only frightened."

One Ranger stepped forward and came to stand before her.

He appeared taller than the others, but likewise clad in green and brown and looked no different; grey eyes roamed her face, attentively lingering on her bleeding lip and injured leg, before their gazes locked. Gloved hands pulled the mask from his face. His stature and bearing were proud and sure, and Rell saw clear that he carried command of the other Rangers. Likewise was his manner of speech when he addressed her. "You speak the language of the Elves," he said. It was not a question. "Yet you are no Elf, and neither are you in the service of the White Tower. Tell me, what thoughts shall I make of you?"

Rell trailed her swelling lip, tasting iron and dirt, tentative to answer. Her eyes sought the ground. "I am a traveler. My business is not here, and neither is it with you – but rather far beyond the forests. What wrong have I committed to be so attacked, when all I did was pass through without trouble?"

"There are no travelers north of the Great River, unless they are servants of the Enemy," he stated with an eerie, deliberate calm. Then he started to step around her; Rell moved nothing but her eyes as he came alongside her and circled behind on her left. She passed a quick glance to the other Rangers. Quietly, they all stood watching. His walk was silent and graceful, light upon the grass, and she met his eyes with a hard expression as he came around. Her teeth clenched in challenge, yet all he did was to step closer.

The man circled in front of her once more until he disappeared from view. Rell thought about moving away but was painfully aware it was not an option. When he did not reappear on her right side, her back let out a twinge and stiffened at the fact that he was now standing behind her. Another Ranger still held the ropes around her wrists firmly, making movement difficult. Anxiously, her eyes flickered from side to side, and she shifted from one foot to the other; a silence followed and the steps faded to nothing. Rell breathed deeply through her nose.

"I was allowed passage at Cair Andros," she warily argued, tongue once more flickering over her dry lips. She swallowed, tasting blood.

"And we have been following you ever since."

Her face burned – angered and ashamed – for she had not seen them. Eyebrows drawn tight, Rell stared down onto the ground; the braid had come loose in the struggle, and long strands covered her features from her captors. She balled her hands into fists, breathed deeply, repeatedly, in an attempt to calm her frayed nerves. To lash out in wrath would do her no good, so she attempted to regain control of her voice before speaking. When words tumbled from her lips, they fell calmly. "What you saw gave you enough reason to trap me? Beat me and tie me up? Tell me, protectors of Ithilien, has the fear of darkness truly made you come to this? For the free peoples to turn against one another; are the walls of your cities so barred that you know not friend from foe!"

To her great chagrin, the Ranger did not immediately reply.

The short hairs on the nape of her neck stood up, for Rell could feel the quiet appraising gaze that was leveled on her.

"You claim to oppose the Enemy. But I cannot help but wonder," he paused. He came then into view again to stand before Rell; his hand rested upon the hilt of his sword, but there was no tension to his walk. Yet his eyes were hard, and they perceived much. "Who do you call enemy? Tell me, stranger in my land, who are you and what shall be your fate?"

Rell looked up and her shoulders straightened. Coming to her full height, albeit no taller than the Ranger of Ithilien before her, she raised her chin to watch him. Legs well apart, she planted herself squarely in front of the man, attempting to disregard the one holding her. "I came into this country on an errand, but do not believe I will so easily reveal my purpose to one unknown to me." Her tone was proud, but clearly it did not appease the Ranger in the slightest. "Declare yourself, and then – maybe – I shall do the same."

"I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor," he said. "Commander of the Rangers of Ithilien."

With a start at his words, Rell looked at him with renewed interest. Before her stood not an enemy, but rather a noble lord of Gondor; though deep in her core a stubbornness had awakened, and the treatment of her had been unjust. Perhaps Ithilien was their ward, that was true, though she had but passed through with no wish for trouble. And none had she caused! And who was she to disclose her – and, with it, her uncle's – errand?

While her clothes were dirtied with mud, her cloak frayed, and, as best as she could, had moved in secret; they could not believe her a spy of the Enemy, surely. She had asked no questions at the ford, sought no news of Gondor or its armies, and traveled in solitude far from the patrols of Mordor. She squared her shoulders and infused her voice with confidence. "From beyond many great leagues and long ways I have come. I am Rell, Ranger of the North. The blood of the Númenor courses through my veins as they do yours."

His astonishment was clear on his face at the widening of his eyes, yet he showed no other reaction.

Whether he believed her words or not, Rell was uncertain, and she spoke again. Hopeful she could persuade him without revealing her own purpose. "On my breast I carry the star of my people – look for yourself and see!"

"I know well the Dúnedain of Arnor, and seldom they have dealings here so far East. For many years our paths have not crossed, and long they have been believed to be but a dwindled and wandering people," he said thoughtfully; stepping forward the Ranger drew forth the six-pointed star clasped to her cloak. He turned it over between his gloved fingers, carefully and keenly, and it shimmered in the sun. "A broken people." Rell held her breath at their closeness, gaze flickering from his attentive face to the brooch, and she hoped her words rang true in his thoughts. Then he withdrew and allowed the star to fall from his grasp. "It would be little effort for the Enemy to contrive such a trinket."

Rell bristled, about to argue, when the captain gave orders of departure. "Wait a mo–!"

When they had drawn closer she knew not, but suddenly a gag was pulled tight across her mouth. She was unable to speak except garbled mumbles and mutterings of protest. Eyes flashing, she struggled against the grip, yet with unthrowable strength she was led forward despite her best efforts. Her heels dug into the ground, however she only buckled and fell to her knees with a yelp. Blood had soaked through her trousers, a red flower blooming from the previous injury, and her vision whitened to a blur. Then she was roughly pulled up again.

Harsh hands pushed her on until they came beneath the dappling shadow of dark trees.

Around her the Rangers fanned out through the bracken, green cloaks blending with the colours of Ithilien, but straight ahead of her their captain walked. Leading them with surety. Her eyes, still swimming in her head, slowly grew accustomed to the sudden dimness and she searched for Luin. To her relief the horse was led with gentleness, ears perked ahead with interest and tail flicking, yet the mare was otherwise no longer startled. At least it had not been harmed, and was now following along with some reluctant curiosity.

The undergrowth grew densely with bush, herb, and tree, giving the place an air of secrecy; hidden from the rest of the world, though it seemed the Rangers followed a hidden but well-known path. Like ghosts they crept through the forest. At times they passed open glades or crested hills, and here scouts led them with strange bird-like whistles. Sharp and clear-cutting through the woodlands, from one place and another; far away and then suddenly close, as if they were but another animal between the leaves. Mostly they kept to the shade of grove or thicket, hardly visible in their brown and green garments. They moved with haste. Brushing through bush and herb, sweet smells were around them, while brambles and roots crawled across the ground.

Rell sagged in her steps, the wound on her leg pulsing and bleeding. When jolts of pain journeyed through her body and she stopped for a respite, she was pulled up; pushed forward on stumbling feet. While her body was slowly, but surely, losing a battle against exhaustion, her mind was clear. Thoughts spun through her head. There had to be a way to escape – an opening at some point, when their guard grew lax or when nighttime fell over the lands. All she had to do was wait. Wait, and watch.

The day passed uneasily and there was little change in the slow hours.

Pale light shone between the leaves and branches. Day-heat grew and was accompanied by a myriad of insects buzzing all about them. The Rangers of Ithilien walked in silence, still and watchful of their surroundings, for they walked in the shadow of darkness. Some came and others went, but throughout the day their numbers had grown to the double.

Only when the sun began its descent and the skies were coloured red did they finally halt. In the deep heathers they found safety, dark-green shadows that worked quickly and efficiently. Scouts were sent in all directions while the rest settled for the reaching night. Rell was shoved to the ground and tied against an ancient bay-tree. There was little love in their hands.

The bark was rough against her bruised skin, but the rest that came with it was most welcome. She found it difficult to do more than doze; the pain urged her to sleep but watchful mistrust kept her awake. Stretching her legs it became clear to see the injury, a patch of red turning darker, and a frown marred her features. Rell wiggled her toes. It had to be cleaned and dressed, or it would fester, but whether her captors would go out of their way to do so she knew not. Worry filled her and again she looked up, hoping to get a better understanding of her present company. Doubt gnawed at her; torn between the truth and secrecy.

Some sat around in small groups, talking, while others looked out into the dimming forest. Their weapons lay close at hand.

No fire was lit, and instead they ate dried meats and bread. Their masks and hoods were removed, and their faces now became revealed to Rell. Pale-skinned and dark of hair, with grey eyes and proud faces; men of the line of Lords of Westernesse, in ages long passed and forgotten to those that lived. They spoke together in soft voices, hard for her ears to discern at first, and she became aware that it was the Elven-tongue. It was a little different from what she knew and had learned, a language of their own, and in a manner of older days when both Elves and Men walked the glades of Ithilien.

Much to her disdain, Rell found the captain by her horse; Luin watched with clever, alert, eyes, but allowed the man to stroke through its grey mane. The great nostrils blew air into his face. He was speaking calmly, yet his mind appeared to be elsewhere and far away. Her glare worsened when he went through her belongings; it was only provisions and weapons, flint and steel, her whetstone, and some spare clothes; but anger stirred nonetheless. Rell did not draw her gaze away until he finally stepped back and returned to his company.

A formless grey settled over the forest; night came under star and round moon.

Silver-white light fell on the treetops.

There was not much for her to do except sleep. The ropes were thick and strong, unbreakable without a weapon, and even if she succeeded there was no clear path away from the Rangers. This was their land, and with ease they could once more track her down. Hunger came to her. She drew her legs close, despite the painful protest of her injury, and her head came to rest on her knees. It was cold. Fretful slumber claimed her, and the night was passed between waking and sleep; startling awake whenever a scout returned or guards changed. The long calls of an owl echoed in the silence.

In the morning she was shook roughly awake.

She drew back with a wrench and a startled, muffled cry; groggy eyes saw a Ranger crouch before her, hood and mask in place, but grey eyes vigilant over its brim. Slowly, cautiously, he drew the gag from her mouth and Rell remained silent. Curious to his purpose. From his side he drew forth a waterskin and held it to her lips; at first Rell took only little water, but soon thirst won her over and she drank greedily. Droplets ran down her chin and fell into her clothes. Next he took a clean cloth and wetted it with water. The touch was cool and raw against the cut on her lip, but much welcomed, and the taste of blood and dirt disappeared.

His eyes were set on his task, not once meeting hers, while Rell watched him in return. Streaks of grey was in his dark hair; both signs of age and scars were many on his face. With his attention now settling on her leg, he shifted and came to sit on the ground; he did not ask, but took her ankle in his hand and stretched her leg. The gesture was not unkindly, rather careful and slow so that Rell had a chance to adjust, before he pried the fabric up her shin and thigh. His touch was detached. Rell winced for the blood had dried overnight.

The pain in her wound grew again. It was with practiced ease that the Ranger washed the gash for scabs and dirt, leaving a deep but clean cut. From a pouch in his belt he drew out long, yellow-striped leaves of an unknown plant; crumbling the leaves between his fingers, he then pressed them against her wound for many long moments. It stung horribly, and smelled just as bad, but Rell assumed he knew what he was doing. A bandage was drawn around the wound, tightly, and the leg of her trousers was pulled back in place. His hand reached for the loosened gag.

"Thank you," Rell said quickly, before her voice was taken from her once more.

The man stood abruptly and turned.

She watched him leave and approach their leader, where they then spoke quietly together with heads bowed. Rell noticed the captain's gaze lingering on her from under the brim of his hood. His grey eyes were dark and unreadable, but she looked back at him with squared resentment despite the healer's treatment. A small kindness could not undo a greater evil. He soon looked away once more.

Again they marched throughout the day, finding hidden paths and roads between ridges and stones; over chuckling streams that came winding through the forest, and always did the Rangers steer South. Further and further from her destination, and Rell often glanced to the sky with despondency. Her thoughts called her uncle to mind, and her stomach curled at the ever-pressing need that had driven her to leave the Angle.

She tried to keep track of their road, counting her steps and the hours passing, but they walked many hidden paths; back and forth, circling rocky formations and hills, and soon Rell had lost all track of time and place. At times she was blindfolded and led around roughly, when they stepped through secret ravines or winding streams, forbidden to her eyes.

She no longer knew where she was.

No words were spoken to her. If they wanted her to walk one way or another, to creep through thick-growing bushes or clamber unsteadily over rocks, she was pushed and shoved in the right direction; perhaps accompanied with a low grunt or a huff. Her leg still pulsed and ached, though it appeared as if the medicine helped. She no longer felt tendrils of pain shoot through her bones with every step. But Rell plodded along silently and with a heavy heart, unable to care greatly about her own captivity, for her concern drew her mind away. Her head was bowed and her eyes unseeing.

Often she stumbled over roots or stones, but just as quickly she was dragged back onto her feet. Pushed forward.

The next day spent in their company was much the same as the last, and the one before. They fed her a little, checked her wounds, but not a word was spoken to her. The wind was colder, and the clouds closer and greyer; there had been little sunshine on the company, but as the fourth day broke, bleak and windy, the sun broke through cracks and fissures in the cover. Long yellow beams lit the forest floor. The night before they y had made camp in an open dell, one side flanked by steep rock walls, and with trees encircling all around.

It was then that the captain approached her.

Rell watched him draw near; noted how his boots were silent on the grass and his strides long, purposeful. Noble and wise he seemed, reminding her of her uncle, and he appeared so much more than just a warrior. Again, she concidered honesty. He came to a halt before her, the rising sun on his back so that he was but a darkened shadow in her eyes. Large. Daunting, as if wishing to intimidate her. Her lips pursed. For a while longer he stood there, silent, as he regarded her, until she glanced away. The light was harsh in her eyes. "Very strange you are," he finally said. "Who are you, child?" To her ears it sounded like a thoughtful statement more than a question, yet her brow furrowed.

The Ranger crouched down by her side, hooded features coming into view as he shifted away from the sunlight. Rell turned her face to look at him. She could not read his eyes, masked except for a brief flicker of interest, and she felt curious suspense rather than fear in her own mind. His hand moved out towards her, and Rell sat still, stiff in anticipation; yet all he did was draw the cloth from her mouth. Her split lip was dry, chapped, as she tentatively ran her tongue over the cut. Rusty iron filled her mouth.

"I have told you who I am," she stated.

A flicker, half-humorous, came into his eyes. Then they seemed to grow smaller and almost sharp. "Indeed you did, Wanderer from the North, and be it truth or lie I cannot tell. Yet also I know, that none may pass through Ithilien without word from the Steward. Word, that you do not carry. But tell me then, what news can you share – for I do like news." Rell shuffled, vexing arms pulling at the ropes, before she quietly mulled over his request. All around them the other Rangers had disappeared into the forest, leaving the captain and his captive alone; their withdrawal unsettled her.

"Many things, great and small, are happening in the world," she said, "Certainly it would take a long time to tell you about them all."

Clearly her answer was less than welcome, and with swiftness he dismissed it with a long, drawn-out sigh. "Very well." The gag was drawn across her mouth once more and he stood to leave. "We shall talk again at a later time. Perhaps then you have come to realize what is important enough to tell."

Rell watched him stride away in silence and soon the hidden Rangers returned from the green shadows. To her it felt like she had won; perhaps a small and insignificant battle, but nonetheless it was a victory against her captor. Certainly she would not make it easy on them, even if they were fighting the same enemy, for they had yet to believe the truth in her previous words.

Stretching as much as she could against her bindings, she ignored the small voice in the back of her mind; the one that urged her to be honest, for surely the Rangers had reason enough to mistrust her. Instead, she waited for them to pack up camp in the following hour. The grey morning was about them, turning golden and warm, and birds milled about in the trees around them. Her brow was wet from the sudden heat, and her hair clung to her skin. With some amusement – and a grumbling stomach – Rell noted that they did not bring food nor drink to her.

When they came for her, it was with little care that they pulled her to her feet.

Rell stepped from one foot to the other, attempting to get the blood to flow once more, and she wriggled her toes. She worked her muscles as best she could; eyebrow raised at the man by her side. With a grunt he shoved her forward, further into the clearing towards the gathered Rangers. Departure was at hand.

But something was off. Wrong. Suddenly they were aware that everything was very quiet; the whole forest waiting in listening silence. The Rangers stood tense, looking about them as weapons were drawn, for they, too, could sense it. The trees quivered as if a gust of wind had struck them, then there was another pause. Rell tugged and pulled at her bindings while all stood poised for action; something was near and coming closer. A whistle was borne upon the wind, shrill and hasty, and quickly the men moved into a half-circle, faces outward to the trees and with the rocks at their backs, in unwavering unison.

With a great crash came a vast shape through the trees. A ferocious snarl ripped from the orc's mouth and on he came, straight towards the Rangers. But quick they were to swerve into work. Black blood coated the grass. Rell stepped further into the middle of the clearing, cursing the ropes with all her might as the one, who had previously led her, left her on her own. She could hear plainly the harsh screeches between the trees; first distant but growing ever closer and louder. For a moment she caught a glimpse of dark figures, moving within the shadows.

They found themselves in the middle of an orc raid!

It seemed now as sudden as the bursting of a flood that had long been held back by a dike, and with one great cry orcs spilled from every direction about them. They charged the Rangers with crazed bloodlust, but the very first wave was met with a wall of arrows that sang through the air. With hollow thuds they pierced armor and flesh, certain in their aim sprung from great bows. Though it was not enough, and new enemies jumped over the fallen with little regard. The ringing grate of steel on steel, the dull beat of a blade meeting a shield, erupted in the clearing and throughout the forest for many miles around them.

Drums rolled in the hills. A harsh horn-cry made the orcs screech. Hoarse laughter came from all around, weaving between the boles; heavy mail-clad feet thundered through the ground. The Rangers sprang forward, cutting and stabbing, with spears and swords blazing in the clear sun. There were so many orcs Rell lost count, and she stumbled away to avoid the battle. Weaving between the green-cloaked men away from the fray.

Huge creatures wearing black mail-shirts, armed with axes and spiked clubs, came from all sides. Someone slammed into her, sending her tumbling to the ground; with arms tied to her back, she hit the grass hard. Rell curled in on herself, dodging trambling feet, frantic eyes whirling across the battleground. Her gaze searched for Luin, until finally finding the horse tied to the rock-wall; stricken with terror and madly pulling at the ropes. A black-feathered arrow whizzed by her ear, lodging into the ground mere inches from her face.

Rell bolted across the grass and stopped by Luin's side, attempting to sound reassurances through the gag over her mouth. Steady, Luin, I am here! Nostrils flaring, eyes wide and fearful, the horse stilled by her side. She pressed her shoulder against the warm flank, felt the rapid heartbeat beneath, and hummed. They had to get away. Her attention came to the jagged rocks; there was nothing she could do without her hands free.

She pressed her back against the sharpest rocks, fumbling until the ropes latched onto an edge. As she worked, she looked up. Many orcs lay dead in the grass and dark blood soaked the earth, but still they came. Unrelenting, unending. A clear voice called in the din over the fighting. "Gondor! Gondor!" It sounded far away, drowned by the screeches and cries that came in a foul, loathsome language of Mordor. The rock cut into her palm, again and again, but however much she struggled the ties did not break. A cry of frustration was swallowed by the gag, and to her horror she felt frustrated tears rise to her eyes. Hope dwindled in her chest.

Rell pressed off the wall, desperately searching across the dead bodies for a weapon. Men and Orcs were all about, caught in battle, and so she slipped carefully between whirring blades and arrows; light and quick on her feet. She came first upon a large two-handed axe and, dropping to the ground in an attempt to position the blade against her hands, she worked in a frenzy. Quickly!

A large body crumbled to the ground beside her, mouth open to reveal rotten and blackened teeth; blood foamed, fingers grasping at the spear that had punctured the orc's ribcage. Then it lay deadly still. She stared at it, almost petrified, frozen mid-work. Then, suddenly she was grabbed from behind. Rough hands seized and yanked her to her feet. No! Rell screamed, but no real sound came out, and her arms were pulled back harshly. Panicking, she struggled wildly, despite the cuts hurting more with every twist her body made. No, no, no!

The cords slipped off her wrists.

Her hands came free and she was released. Rell stumbled forward, confused, and looked back over her shoulder. The captain stood there, another man at his back; a gash was on his forehead, dripping blood into his eye; his cloak was torn and painted red, and his knife was dripping. Then he tossed a sheathed blade to her. Rell caught it, yet before she could voice her wonder he jumped into the fray. An orc fell with a slash across the throat long before it could even raise its axe. The weight in her hands was familiar, welcomed beyond all else, and she turned it over between her fingers. Her sword.

She threw aside the gag with resentment. Glittering steel was raised and Rell ran to Luin with haste, quickly through the fray.

Cutting the bindings, the Ranger drew a bloodied hand across the horse's coat, and then sent it tearing through the trees. Away from the fight. No orc could catch a horse of the Elves, be it on open plains or in the forest, and she knew Luin would be safe. Rell turned to face the shrieking and the cries, grip tightened and eyes flashing.

The Rangers of Ithilien would not fight alone.

Chapter Text

Rell nursed her bruised cheek while the shadows of evening drew long.

The air was swarmed with flies and heavy with the scent of blood; the Rangers piled the corpses of the Orcs and buried their own in shallow graves. In swiftness they worked. Four men of Gondor had died in the ambush. Many a time before had they parted ways with companions, and they would come to do it again in the dark days ahead. They did not speak as they worked. Her sword then hung at her belt where it belonged, and her bow and arrows were tied to Luin's satchel. The horse had trotted back into the clearing on its own after the fighting had stopped; unscathed and quick to find Rell amongst the men.

The Captain of Gondor, Faramir, had asked her to stay for he wished to speak with her. This time not as enemies, he had assured her, but as those with a common enemy. As allies. With a glance from the corner of her eye, Rell watched him with a pensive frown. Her wrists were dappled blue and yellow, and many bloody lines ran across her skin from the bindings – and her fruitless attempts to loosen them on the rocks. She knew not yet if they would leave new scars.

When the swift burials were complete, the Rangers left the glade and entered the woods once more; they could not linger, fearing still more Orcs to be afoot nearby. They were both weary and exhausted after the fight. If their victory reached the Enemy a pursuit would come swiftly. And it seemed news travelled fast in the forests of Ithilien.

Rell took Luin by the reins and deftly guided the horse after the green-clad men.

The mood was sullen after the heavy loss they had suffered. Her eyes were on the mossy ground beneath her feet, watching the flittering light dance across green as a wind picked through the trees. With a hand on the hilt of her sword, Rell was mindful of her surroundings. The tension of the fight whirred continuously through her body. She felt on edge, and her body ached with both old and fresh injuries.

One came to walk by her side.

She glanced to him, then looked ahead. There was a limp to her step, and Rell could not hide her frown from the other as he openly regarded her. "You never intended to kill my men when we attacked, did you?" Faramir asked. The hood was drawn across his features, though the grey eyes shone with brightness in the waning light of day. Rell blinked, pondering the question for a while. Surely there was something else on his mind, or she could just as well turn and ride North without delay. What worth could he find in such questions?

So many days of travel had been lost at her capture.

"From the beginning I knew you were not Orcs," she answered, thinking back to the tracks she had found. Often she had hunted Orcs with her uncle, so she knew well the signs to look for. Heavy footsteps and a disregard for all things living were always plain to see; as if the very nature around them had to be wrecked and destroyed in senseless malice. The Rangers had barely touched the soft mud around the clearing. Instincts told them to leave no mark. "The green of your cloaks only solidified my belief. In my heart I knew you were not my enemy, though that certainly did not halt your blows. I fought to survive, but not to kill."

He cleared his throat, and a bird startled from the leaves above their heads. Both looked up, watching the grey shadow flutter from one branch to another; then he spoke again. "One would usually think twice with a sword at their neck, and often they then decide upon surrender. But perhaps it is not so for the Rangers of the North?" Rell was not certain, but she felt she could hear amusement in his voice. When she looked to him their eyes met; acclaim was in his gaze. "Though is it foolhardiness or bravery? I certainly cannot tell."

While the conversation touched only lightly upon what had happened, Rell kept tight-lipped. There was still doubt in her heart. Her bindings may well have been cut, but she much still felt like a prisoner at trial. The captain was not slow-witted; she had not disclosed her purpose in Ithilien, and she kept the matter concealed from him. It was his duty to protect the lands of Ithilien, and she was one trespassing with secrecy.

"It would not be a first to call my acts foolish or ill-considered. I should, though, think that anyone would fight when threatened? Would your actions not mirror my own, if our places had been turned?" The courtesy now shown to her had not yet quieted her suspicions, and so she replied with hesitation. Rell found herself in another battle – this time not of blades, but of words and wits. She stifled a groan and, instead, turned her face away to peer into the bracken. Her hand rubbed her neck and cheek, brushing over the discoloration that surely adorned her face.

"Indeed," he said, "Although, seldom is it that we find such resistance in a woman."

Her lips grew thin and white, and she was about to ask if they often jumped out to assault unsuspecting women to know such things. The corner of her mouth tilted up. While his questions were light-hearted, Rell knew well what he was asking. What purpose had brought her to the lands of Ithilien? The women of Gondor had many duties, even in times of war and strife, but fighting was not one of them. One armed like her, moving alone through lands besieged by the Great Enemy?

"You need not fear for your head, captain," she replied on second thoughts. "I wish neither to kill nor harm you. Neither do I harbor any ill will towards your men, despite what may have happened between us. And even if I could possibly succeed in such an endeavor. I expect you know this well, or you would not have freed me during the battle? All I shall ask for is passage through Ithilien – this time undisturbed on my path to wherever it may lead me."

"You were heading northwest."

Again she remained silent. Rell tasted salt and iron her lips as her tongue darted out.

"To the wetlands," Faramir continued, slowly and very softly. He bore a strange, almost knowing, smile. Rell raised an eyebrow and regarded him quietly. Uncertainty crept into her mind; could he still believe her a spy of the Enemy? The branches and leaves crunched beneath her feet when she put distance between them. "And so I wonder at your destination, and your task, for there is nothing of wonder or worth in the Dead Marshes. It is a desolate and abandoned place; you will find nothing but Orc patrols and endless pools." His eyes grew dull, looking ahead into nothing. "There, in the water, you shall find only the dead waiting."

"That is my path," Rell finally answered.

"It is as I thought. Then I would advise you to seek out another."

Looking down on the ground, stepping over hidden roots, Rell drew Luin to a halt; the Ranger paused by her side, and all around them his men mirrored their captain. Barely had she heard their steps before, light over the forest floor, but now true silence came upon them. "There is no other way," she said, eyes drawn to his and there she held her gaze steady. Truly his counsel was not unkind, and her road was that of evil; of menace and dread, yet it was her road. So far already she had travelled, encountered so much, and it was not yet time for her to return to home and hearth. Loyalty carried her forward, and this troth would not be broken by her – only in death would she no longer fight for her chieftain.

"I fear it is a hopeless errand," said Faramir. "Whatever your errand may be."

For a long while they stood in silence, dark gazes locked as neither spoke.

Then he sighed and nodded, mind made up, and his gloved hand grasped her shoulder. He stood much taller than her, yet there was a burden on his face; grim and troubled, almost saddened he appeared to her. "But at least remember my warning that I tell you now. Follow not the lights of the dead. Fair they may look in their fell magic, yet they are but faces rotting and twisted. Do not join them! Now you shall go with my blessing upon you, and that of the White Tower, for here our ways part."

To the west she could see light through the trees, and it was to there the captain pointed.

"Go straight on, and you will have the cover of woodland for many miles. When you reach the hillside of a great valley you must keep to its edge, skirting the forest, and only then should you steer north. Once you climb the hill you will reach the marshes, and from there it is open and inhospitable lands for many miles. You will find no protection there."

"It would seem that evil turned to great good upon meeting you, Captain of Gondor," Rell said. "Although bruises and cuts will be my companions for many days now, and precious time has been lost in my capture! Know that I do not hold your actions against you, nor your men, for you followed the duty of your people. For that I shall applaud you. I will keep to your words on my path." She lowered her head. "Farewell."

Faramir gave her one final advice, halting her in her steps. "Only in the woods should you walk in daylight, for here evil is still withdrawn. The trees and the forest is your ally. But be wary in the open!"

Then he turned and, without looking back, left her. With great speed the Rangers moved, vanishing almost in the twinkling of an eye into the green shadows; the forest seemed empty, and Rell stood alone once more with her thoughts and her horse. Checking and refastening her packs in the saddle, she spoke quietly to Luin to keep her mind from noting the silence that hung heavy about them. So it was that she passed on into the woods of Ithilien.

A great distance had to be covered, and with haste, for many days had been lost.

The sun rose and passed overhead, and began to sink, and the light through the trees to the west grew golden-red. Rell walked in cool shadows. Darkness came early to the silent woods, and before the fall of night she halted at a small fresh stream, running through thickets of spindle wood. Her wounds were sore and throbbed, begging for her attention. The water was cold when she washed her face and leg; turning muddy brown and swirled with red, but the ache lessened enough for her to stretch rigid limbs. No living creature, beast or bird, was to be seen.

She settled under an old gnarled holly, roots twisting down the crumbled bank to the waters, and here she slept away the night on hard stones.

Her sleep was uneasy, and she woke many times. It was altogether dark under the canopy of the tree, and she waited restlessly for the growing day; to see tendrils of yellow and red skirt the eastern treetops to herald the beginning of light. But no day came, only a dead brown sunrise, like a dull red glare under the lowering clouds to the East. A dark cover smothered the sun.

The sight was bleak and disheartening. If it was a storm approaching or some wickedness sprung from Mordor, Rell could not tell, but throughout the day it seemed like the light grew dim rather than bright. Darker and darker. Like a candle dying, flickering and fighting to no avail. The glow was soon so dull that even a keen-eyed beast could scarcely see her walking warily through the woods.

Rell carried on westward, but without the sun to follow it was difficult to know for certain what path she was on. With each step she felt further and further lost. Looking ahead she could see only tree-trunks of many sizes and shapes, and the same sight met her when she looked back; smooth or gnarled and branched, straight or bent, twisted; and all the stems were green with moss. Very old and very tall they seemed. The air was thick, and the trees seemed to close in before her. Rell felt her heart heavy with discouragement, but recalled the captain's words at their departure, the woods are not evil.

It was but her mind playing tricks on her.

For a while she searched for the tallest tree to climb, until at length an old oak caught her gaze. Its branches were many, gnarled and intertwined, and the dark-green leaves grew dense. Fingers digging, searching for cracks and holds, Rell clambered from branch to branch; light seeped through the dark canopy, dull and greying, before fresh air finally reached her. By then she was panting hard. The Ranger settled on a thick bough and brushed aside green leaves to have a view over the dense forest, looking far across the lands that were blanketed in a looming gloom.

When she peered back to where she had been before, there was but the roof of the forest, covered in a vast dense shadow that seemed to grow out of the East. The sight chilled her heart. The clouds were grey and heavy, ringed with a sickly yellow glare from a sun veiled. Further, beyond the woodlands, lay darkness, for here her eyes saw distant contours of towering walls. Far away the land of Mordor was, yet the blackened teeth seemed to reach high into the sky; gnawing and biting at the sun, and from its mouth a suffocating evil spilled forth.

Rell looked away.

Her gaze turned west, to the road ahead, attempting to see the straggling edges of the wood. It was an endless stretch before her; greens weaving between the colours of late Autumn, and the forest rose and fell over many small hills and valleys. Here and there were clear patches, open glades, where the canopy dipped; small dark shapes wove through the air, swift and agile, only to quickly disappear between the trees. The dull light of day left her sight weakened, and she saw only little before her. There was no end to the forest of Ithilien.

Yet when she strained her gaze, it seemed as if the green canopy climbed, like a sea rising, in the far distance. For a while longer she looked, straddling the bough as cooling winds brushed against her, but then Rell climbed back to the ground. Oppressive heat surrounded her at once, stifling and dark it all appeared; the light was dearly missed. She took Luin's reins and drew the horse forward with her. No sounds were around her, and she walked in listening silence.

She picked a way among the trees, and an hour later the ground began to rise steadily ahead.

As she went forward it seemed that the boles became taller, darker, and thicker. There was no whispering or movement in the leaves or branches, and the wind had died. For several hours Rell continued the climb, ears trained on the sound of water for the air was old and warm; her mouth was dry, but the waterskin empty, and her brow and neck were coated in dampness. The air was strangely warm for the season. Her steps fell heavy on the soft ground, clear they rung into the silence of the forest where no beast nor bird could be heard.

It was in those moments that things took a new turn.

The slope stopped climbing and became nearly level ahead of them. The dark trees drew aside, and a path went straight forward.

Some distance off before her there stood a green and treeless hill-top, beyond the encircling wood it climbed further up and she assumed it was what the Ranger had spoken of. The valley. The path seemed to make directly for it. She now hurried forward again, delighted with the thought of climbing out for a while above the roof of the forest; carefully she avoided writhing and interlocked roots, but soon there was no undergrowth below her booted feet. Instead, small rocks pocked out through the soil.

At the edge of the wood and at the foot of the tall hill Rell paused.

A fresh wind was on her face, banishing the oppression that had smothered her senses only moments before. Luin danced skittishly by her side, pulling at the reins with insistency. Beads trailed down her brow and neck, and she breathed deeply. The air was not clear nor fresh; there was no smell of flowers or grass, and instead Rell covered her mouth.

Putrid, stagnant it came to her and in her mind's eye came images of rotting flesh and death. Could she truly have reached the Marshes so soon? How far have I walked? She pressed on, following a winding path for the hill was steep, until at length she came to its crest. The sun remained veiled and the air was hazy; she could not see any great distance on any side. Though here and there the mist broke and swirled, and Rell caught glimpses of what lay beyond.

It was a deep fog that rose like wisps of white smoke from the valley below. Naught but shapeless brown, small islands of tussock between mires and pools was to be seen in the long stretches around her; settling on the grass, Rell set Luin free to graze for a while as she pondered her next step. It would be no easy task to navigate the marshes. Further, beyond Nindalf – for the swamps and pathless fens had not yet turned to the Dead Marshes – a dark line cut through the foggy browns, like distant mountains. The wind was chilly and heavy with an odour of cold decay.

Rell shivered.

The outer ridge of Emyn Muil bend gradually northward, fencing in the wetlands with jagged ridges and deep gullies. It came to an end in a steep, unscalable edge when it met marsh-waters; how her uncle planned to pass the towering cliffs, she could not imagine, or if he would make a path around as she had. A dreadful thought wove through her mind. What if he has already passed beyond? Has he turned aside and gone elsewhere? The sight before her tore apart her spirit, an undefeatable challenge. Now, suddenly and abruptly, the Ranger came face to face with reality. She could walk aimlessly through the mires, search for tracks that were not there, and never would she know for certain what fate awaited her.

Despondent was her mind, and she did not move further that day. The westering sun was caught into clouds, and night came swiftly. There were no stars nor moon to be seen, blanketing the world in deep darkness until only sounds reached her. They came faintly to her from below, small plops that echoed and disappeared; tossed around in the quiet of the late hour. Wind sighed over the edges of stones, hissing in the night. The sky was swallowed; searing light smote down the hills, a dry splitting crack of thunder rang right overhead.

Yet no rain came.

Far beyond, over the distant contours of Emyn Muil, the skirts of the storm lifted; it turned and blew across the Anduin, lowering in the mountains and rolled over Gondor and the skirts of Rohan. Where she sat, over the reeking marshes, the deep blue sky of night opened once more. The realms of Men would take the blunt of the storm, sparing the solitary Ranger upon the hill from the downpour and the gales. A single, pale star appeared. Glistening, Elemmírë watched the huddled and lonesome figure until light came in the still distant East. Night came and went; dawn crawled across the clouded sky. But none of this she saw.

Savage winds howled, chill and harsh against the Ranger on the hill.

Rell sat with her face buried in her knees, defeated by disappointment, and wept bitterly.

In her heart, she knew she had failed.

January, The Third Age, 3017

Arid moors of the Noman-lands had become a sight most accustomed to the Ranger; dreadful and loathsome, the crawling days were bleak and veiled, grey hazes of swirling mists. The nights were wet and restless. At best she found hard and cold spaces between the murky-watered pools, on mounds covered in wretched turf. Yellowed and dead, feeding off the rottenness in the ground, where nothing else could grow. Never did she sleep through the night, and never was she rested on the morrow.

At times the sun was up, glistening through the clouds and smoke, but Rell felt only coldness crawl across her skin. Exposed to any watchful eye that may linger on the marshes. But she could not follow the words of the Ranger of Ithilien. No moon nor star could light a path in the dark, and while she had ventured out between the pools during the first nights, making harrowingly slow progress, she soon found it impossible. Where she thought there was solid ground it came to reveal a close-growing layer of milfoil. She had spent many hours trembling from the cold plunge beneath the murky surface.

So it was that she carefully crept her way through the marshes in daylight, left bare in the open lands that spread on all sides.

The land was haggard, almost entirely lifeless and deserted. Here neither Spring nor Summer would ever come again, and the gasping pools were choked with ash and mud. Often she had to turn back, or stray around, when she came across large open waters. Yet even worse it was when the weather grew increasingly cold as one week passed to the next, and the narrow paths between fens and tussocks became almost untraversable for her and the horse.

A layer of ice covered the still waters, but often it was too thin to tread and Rell, slipping or stepping off the trail, fell through with a crack on more than one occasion. It became difficult to find firmer places where feet could step without sinking through gurgling sludge. There was no part of her not covered in green horrid-smelling mud, and no fire could force away the chill in her bones. Hanging in the still air was a constant stifling reek of rot. Always the wind was present, howling and biting, as it drew in from the North. Only the reeds, growing in clusters here and there, proved some shelter.

Rell steered one way, then another, and she went back and forth in an attempt to find a clear path through the marshes; the marshes were bewildering and treacherous, and not even a Ranger could find a trail through shifting quagmires. Always she kept the dark ridges of Emyn Muil ahead, a beacon of black in the pale green light to aim for. Carefully trying to keep on the proper course. She went forward with great attention and moved only very slowly. On and on, with only brief halts during the nights; seldom the moon was out, and so the land was covered in a deep darkness. Many strange sounds were about her, yet always she was alone. She tried to hum familiar songs, but the words died on her lips; choked and forgotten in the rottenness.

The air seemed black and heavy to breathe.

When she had set out again, soon a fortnight ago, Rell had hunted through the forests of Ithilien to resupply. Setting up snares and following tracks on the forest floor; she had lost a few days of travel to cover a larger area. But it proved the wise choice, for there were no beasts nor birds to be found in the marshlands of Nindalf. Many familiar roots had grown between the trees in the lands claimed by Gondor, and three full bags hung in a strap on the saddle by her side; mushrooms and wrinkled berries likewise. The animals had been swift and quick to flee, and often her arrows missed, but Rell had managed to shoot and kill two yellow-headed blackbirds; they were plump and well-fed for the long winter months.

Only one snare had proved to yield a catch. A rabbit; brown pelt, wiry muscles, and hammering heart; it met an early end by the tip of her knife. The meat was a most welcome guest as hunger soon came to her on the road. It took clever planning and many hungry hours for the food to last her long enough. And even then, it was only through a struggle.

Rell only ever lit a fire during daylight, fearful that the flames would be seen in the dark. Though the Ranger had yet to come across any living thing, be they creature or beast, she felt constantly watched. The marshes were not safe, she knew that well, and so often she would flinch at even the smallest of movement or sound. Mostly there was a deep silence, disturbed only by the rustling of reeds or the fumes sizzling through the mud, but at times a drum ran through the earth. A deep, resounding tremor.

It was a dreary and wearisome pursuit across the land, and the despondency that had claimed her heart upon the hilltop was yet to release its hold over her.

The days passed uneventful.

Presently, the sullen morning grew to day. No sun pierced the low clouded sky over the endless network of pools. Her current course took her further North than she liked, but there was no other path to tread; the fens grew wetter, opening into wide stagnant pools that Luin and she could only go around, and the swirling mists grew thicker. The haze was greyish and blue, weaving between the tussocks and reeds, obscuring her vision. While she had grown accustomed to the foul smells in the air, it now hit her with renewed force.

She took another step forward but soon recoiled. Dark water was before her, mirror-still; deep and black, and the rings formed by her boot rippled only once. Then they vanished. Luin drew back, blowing deeply in unease, as if sensing something the Ranger could not. Rell peered out over the pool, gaze transfixed by the deepness that seemed unending. The reeds trembled in the wind. A small voice, a warning that cried out in her mind, was deafened by an odd curiosity. If she looked into this deep and dark window, Rell knew what she would find beneath the surface. She had entered the Dead Marshes.

A shiver ran through her body.

Rell blinked and shook her head, quickly stepping away from the mere; her breathing was heavy, struggling for air, and her mind befuddled. Her feet caught in a dried patch of turf and she stumbled back. She hit the ground with a yelp, hands sinking into deep sludge, cold and sticky against her skin. Like fingers gripping onto her, a clammy touch holding tightly so that she could not escape. From the corner of an eye she spotted movement. Luin nickered.

The fog had drawn close around them, a heavy and unbreakable cover; something strange was discernable within. Misty flames that flickered and shone, pale lights twisting in, then out of her vision. They came and went, fading and reappearing as soon as she looked in their direction. Her breathing stilled, caught in her throat, and she sat completely still. She could not move, even if she wanted to.

Terrible thoughts came to her. Shapes coalesced in the mists where the lights were, and Rell saw faces pale and fair; but also rotting and grim. Dead. A hiss was in the air, threading through the thin-bladed reeds over the dry grass, all around her. Fear overcame her, sweeping away any other thought from her mind, yet she remained on the ground as her gaze was held by some strange bewitchment. How very cold she felt! Into the very marrow of her bones the chill dug.

There was a thunder running through the ground, tremors she knew to be Luin's increasing panic. The chill was no longer only in her hands, submerged into the deep mud; it was slowly creeping further up her arms, past her elbows until even her shoulders became heavy. The lights flickered through the haze, though it seemed as if they came closer. Drawing nearer as her mind became dull. Silver hair fell as water over golden armor, faces proud and fair to behold. They looked sad, mournful, and pity came to her dazed thoughts.

Rell became aware that it was getting very cold, and that a frosty wind began to blow. An icy wind that brought with it a change; the mist was flowing past her now in tattered shreds. Torn apart to reveal the mires and pools of the Dead Marshes. And with the forceful wind the fair warriors of old twisted and morphed before her very eyes. No longer were they beautiful and full of sorrow. With swiftness, fighting against the fresh western gales, the lights sprang towards her and she struggled back. Away with a wail bubbling past her lips. The hair was not silver, but sullen reeds of brown and green; and their fairness nothing more than a cracking mask that soon revealed fell rot beneath.

Rell squeezed her eyes shut at the sight.

For a long while all was quiet as she sat there. Her ears were strained, and upon the wind there were wails and cries, hissing displeasement. Slowly, carefully, she pried her eyes open and peered out over the marshlands. The haze was but thin strips torn apart still clinging to the pools, and the lights wavered, glimmering silvery flames, until they vanished entirely. Rell looked up and saw with surprise that faint rays of sunlight came down between hurrying cloud and fog.

It was with ease that she could now draw her hands from the mud.

The chill lingered still, and with trembling steps she took Luin's reins. "Let us get away from here," she whispered. "This is a foul and accursed place, certainly not one for the living." Rell sought a path round the mere, moving from one tussock to another, and always was she wary of the ghostly lights reappearing. How close she had been!

Mesmerized by the candles of the dead. Many Elves had been buried here after the great battle at the Dagorlad, but over the years the marshes had grown and swallowed the graves; their peaceful resting place had been disturbed, and now they willed wanderers into the watery depths to join them. If not for the winds, would she have become one of them? Joined them without a struggle?

The Ranger cast aside the horrible thought and followed a long lane of reeds, where murky and miserable waters on both sides made her step difficult.

It was late in the afternoon when she reached firmer ground. The sun grew increasingly bright in the sky, as if a whisp of luck shone upon her, until the mists parted and a clear view of the marshes opened before her. For a while she stood there, tired, looking about. The dark cliffs of Emyn Muil were closer than ever, so close that her keen eyes could see thin shapes of twisted trees upon its ridges. There was still a day's journey to the range of hills, if not more, through an open stretch of waters and mounds. To both the North, the South, and the East, the marshes continued further still.

It was long since she had lost sight of the greens of Ithilien and only sullen brown met her gaze.

A dark shape crawled across the horizon to the east, a thin line of rock smothered in fumes of ash; the sky was without light there, and Rell looked with little hope to the Mountains of Shadow. Her sense of direction had been skewed ever since she stepped foot into the wetlands, and it was with apprehension that the Ranger came to an understanding – she had ventured too far East. The dusty plain of Dagorlad was dauntingly close.

There was nothing she could do about it except steer clearly westward, and so it was that Rell slowly treaded a way across the dead land. In the falling dusk, until the edge of night, she scrambled along. Head bowed, eyes searching for sure footings while there was still some light to ease her path; but soon darkness came to the Marshes and Rell could go no further that day. She lit no fire and endured the crusted mud covering her arms and legs, daring not to approach the waters more than necessary. Least of all for a sense of cleanliness.

Fear lingered in her body still.

Though she did take her time to rub Luin's legs and hooves with her hands, brushing off large cakes of sludge clinging to the coat. Another dreadful day had passed in the marshes, and her nerves felt stretched and frayed. The ominous contours of Mordor stood stark against the horizon; she gazed to the range of mountains with despair. Just beyond the cliffs there were thousands upon thousands of Orcs, servants of the Enemy, and ever did their numbers grow. While the watch around the fences of Mordor slept, evil had returned.

How long did they have before the foul filth would flow from the mouth of the Morannon?

She pried her gaze away and settled into a moon-shaped bowl; the withered grass was scratchy against her skin and the ground was damp, yet there was no better place to rest for the night. Curling in on herself, shifting back and forth, Rell tried to take no notice of the sounds around her. A faint rumble travelled through the ground, steady and continuous, like many feet marching endlessly. The sound came from far off, yet echoed in the hollow land so that Rell knew not whether it came from one direction or another. Or perhaps it was but tricks of her own tired mind.

Attempting to fade into the darkness of night, Rell cowered further into her hideout and waited.

Hoped to escape the attention of the Great Evil that was now her ever-present neighbour.

Her sleep was plagued with creeping terrors, flickering in and out of consciousness, until at length she remained fully awake. No rest would find her again. The ground was hard with frost, and her breathing chilled despite the cloak drawn close to her body. Every so often faint plops echoed somewhere in the dark; the wind danced across the shallow water and stirred the leaves, and the hollow she had found for the night gave little shelter. The only small comfort came from the overcast sky, for while ashen-grey clouds passed unending, there were distant stars to be seen.

Glistening high above, peering out, she watched the light and clung to the frail hope they brought to her.

Day came, and the sun blinked over the lifeless ridges of Ephel Dúath. Her face was grim and set, but resolute. She was filthy, haggard and pinched with weariness, but she cowered no longer, and her eyes were clear. Doubt was still present in her mind, but a newfound purpose – rekindled – was overwhelmingly stronger. Almost as if a hopeful thought had twisted, wormed, its way into her head without her knowing. It was best to carry on with haste, to put a distance between her and the Dark Lands.

Rell ate only a little; roots and berries that did nothing to still her hunger, but there was nothing else to be done. She climbed out of the hollow and looked over the marshes. Black pools shimmered in the muted sunlight, defiled as all else was in the brown fumes that choked the lands; the sky was pale and smoke-streaked, and the wind was cold. In the distance grey and darkened clouds promised rain, but she could not read the wind enough to tell for certain if it would affect her journey. Her hope was the downpour would blow east over the Sea of Rhûn, rather than it would hit her in her trek through the Dead Marshes.

There was a gloom in the air.

When she was finally ready to depart, shoulders hunched and mind heavy, Rell pulled Luin after her; stepping from one small mound of grass to the next, she kept Emyn Muil straight ahead. The ghosts of times long gone would not lure her astray; their whispers would fall on deaf ears, and Rell would leave the marshes. Thoroughly fatigued, the lone Ranger dearly wished to be rid of the stench and the ever-present wetness that left her perpetually soggy. A great obstinacy willed her forward. The Dead Marshes would not break her.

And so she wormed her way forward, bit by bit, until she in the late afternoon came to the edge of a large lake. The mud was deep and yielding, making it difficult for her to step safely, but hope bloomed in her chest. The outer ridges and rocky crags of Emyn Muil were incredibly close, so that she could make out small details in the stones; gnarled and stunted trees grew on the ridges, roots digging with desperation into the rocks. Rell hoped to perhaps reach the foothills before nightfall. She turned and walked slowly along the bank of the lake, skirting around tall clusters of reeds. Her journey through the marshes was at long last over.

A wind blew across the lake, and for the first time in many days it did not carry with it a smell of stagnant decay. It came fresh and cool against her face, and Rell breathed deeply to welcome the change. Beyond the waters stood a tall cliff, bare and bleak, casting a long dark shadow over the fen. Broken highlands rose further off, and while the sight would any other day be a menacing threat it was now well received. The sickly green and sullen brown came to an end, fading as the soft muddy ground turned to stone.

But still there was a way to go, for the lake was long and its waters deep and cold. The day wore on, and when afternoon faded towards evening she was still scrambling along its shores. The gurgling waves lapped against the banks while everything else was quiet. Yet sometimes in the silence of the barren country, Rell thought she heard faint sounds from high above. Often she shrugged it off as the wind sighing over the edges of stone – other times she stilled to listen, hearing stones falling, or the soft pitter-patter of feet. She had never learned of any beast living in the rocky hills, and so she watched with wary eyes for many long moments.

Never did she spot anything amongst the rocks.

At last she was brought to a halt.

The lake narrowed to a small stream, twisting southwest, and it was shallow enough for her to cross without issue. Many stones poked out of the water, and she managed to reach the further bank without wetting her feet. By her side Luin had carved through the surface with glee, splashing droplets everywhere, and was clearly happy to rid itself of dried flaking mud. A grin spread across her face as Rell regarded the horse. "At last we can turn our backs to this foul place! How I hope to never return."

With one final look over the marshes; on the pools and mires, the foggy and treacherous ground; all her misery that had clung to her spirit like mud to her boots now vanished. She turned to the hills ahead. The rock wall reared up, grey cliffs looming above and before her. She could go no further forward from there, and she saw no clear path entering Emyn Muil. There was nothing else to do but turn either north or south. But north would lead her only into more dangerous parts of the wild; and further from the great river Anduin. Away from her uncle, for still Rell clung to her certainty that he had reached the falls of Rauros at one point in his journey.

South would lead her closer to Gondor, back towards where she had come, but of the two it was the preferred road. The only road. She sighed, looking one way and then the other; the westering sun was caught into clouds, and a shadow fell upon the cliffs. "There is nothing for it but to try," the Ranger finally decided. "The road will take me where I am meant to go."

Her only comfort came from the fact she could once more ride rather than walk. The ground was stony, firm enough for Luin to tread without her guidance, and no longer soft with mud. Rell swung into the saddle, drew the reins close as her feet found the stirrups, and slowly they then followed the stream and the dark cliff on her right.

Her spirits were high, elevated by the changes around her, and they were not dampened even as rain began to fall. The drops came steady and soft, turning the stones glossy and the ground inky black; Rell held out her hands, face turned up to meet the grey clouds, and she allowed the mud and grime to be washed away. Cold and fresh, leaving a bite on her cheeks and brow, while droplets trickled into her hair. The rain stopped her mind from worrying, calmed her, but at the same time felt like an exciting buzz throughout her body. Waiting for it to wash away all her suffering and misery that had been a constant companion for many days.

Something new was on the distant horizon.

Good or bad she could not tell.

At the edge of the clouds there was a brilliant white patch, catching the sun, while the rest of the sky was consumed in numerous shades of grey and black. With a clean slip from her cloak, Rell wiped her face; rubbing vigorously until there were no more spots of mud remaining, before pulling the hood over her head. The light seemed to be fading quickly, although the sun had not yet set, and Rell's search for an opening in the rocks grew urgently. She would not spend another night in the marshes.

She carried on for half an hour longer, and so did the rain; it came down in sheets, muffling the sounds of the world around her, painted her vision grey, and it was hard to see much further ahead. Water dripped down into her eyes, soaked her muddied clothes, but still there seemed no end to the downpour. The wall towered up next to her, close enough for her hand to brush the chilled stone, yet no opening was to be found. She glanced up at the great cliff rising up. There was a distant murmur of thunder upon the breeze.

It was then that Rell noticed they were slowly but steadily going uphill; the cliff-top was sinking towards the level of the lowlands. The ridge took a sharp bent, and as she came around the corner a great crack met her. The gully cut straight through, narrow and sharp-edged with many protruding rocks, but it was an opening nonetheless in the unscalable wall. Rell peered into the glum darkness with hesitation, knowing well many things could seek refuge inside; thunder rumbled once more in the distance, and the rain was still falling heavily. It would be risky to enter in the dimness of falling night.

Rell jumped from the saddle.

Drawing her sword, she took a tentative step inside, then another and another, and left Luin by the entrance. Small, loose stones littered the ground; muddy brown rock stood guard on both sides, jagged and uneven, and at first there was little room for her to move more than an arm's length either way. Rills of water ran down its edges, splashed and spouted over the cliff as the clouds emptied. The ground was slippery. It was like walking through a tunnel – and almost just as black.

A flash of lightning lit her path.

But ahead she saw the pathway open onto a larger, tumbled flat of weathered rock. It was a stony hollow, a nook among great jagged pinnacles and ridges, and further ahead the road seemed to continue. It appeared to be a pass into Emyn Muil; though whether it would lead to a dead-end or prove to be one of many ways in the labyrinth, she could not tell in the setting darkness. All she knew was that it provided cover. Many trees had grown there, now dead and gaunt, bitten to the core by the winds; leaving old broken stumps and trunks straggled and twisted.

Deciding, Rell hastily returned for her horse. Although Luin proved dissatisfied with the deep ravine, the mare followed inside.

Rolling rocks threw echoes between the walls, loud and clear above the deafening rain, while Rell made her way to the hollow. For a while she fumbled through the waning light in an attempt to find shelter, at least enough to light a fire, until she came across an overhanging rock; barely high enough above the ground for her to sit below. It would have to make do. The trees were glistening and wet from the rain, but as Rell broke away branches she found the wood rough beneath her fingers. Dry.

Around her everything was lost in a deep blackness, but she turned her back to the rain and sat close to the rising flames. She had found a dry stone, flat and somewhat comfortable; but she knew she would be sore come morning. It did not take long before the fire roared to life, greedily licking at and devouring the logs; orange and red tendrils that made the wood crack and pop. The smell of ash hung heavy in the air, for there was little wind in the gully.

Rell rummaged through her packs, finding at the bottom a clay bowl that had long gone unused. The edges were nicked from use, and the brown bare clay was darkened with soot.

Rell placed it in the rain, allowing water to gather, while she found supplies from the small satchels tied to Luin's saddle. Thunder growled and rumbled in the distance. When the bowl began to overflow, she quickly added mushrooms and roots before placing it over the fire. It could hardly be called a soup, but the warmth was welcome – desperately needed – and she was famished. For a while she sat there, waiting, huddled in on herself. The flames lit up the faces of the rocks and made shadows dance, but beyond there was a wide looming blackness that no light could penetrate.

She drew her cloak closer.

When her supper was ready, Rell munched her way through the chewy broth in silence. Her mind wandered to the feast in Rivendell, so many months ago, yet she also thought the soup tasted far better, somehow, than anything she had eaten for a good while. The lack of rot in the air; the stench that had accompanied her every waking hour, was no more, and it made taste return to her. The bowl was soon empty, scrubbed clean, and returned to the satchel. Rell shifted, back against the wall of the cliff, and with legs pulled close to her chest.

She was no longer drenched but rather damp, and a warm air brushed against her face until her eyes felt heavy.

Sleep came not long after.

Chapter Text

Where the path through the marshes had been long and dreary, a miserable struggle through sludge and endless mires, Emyn Muil now proved a different – much harsher – challenge. This new stage of her journey brought her now through gullies and crevices; narrow and steep, forcing her to turn back and seek another way, and others wide and climbing, twisting up the rock walls. Often she found herself on the precipice of a great cliff, with nothing but a sheer and dark drop before her into blackness. The maze of stone seemed endless, stretching out around her like a shadowed mesh of grey.

The wind was ever present, never relenting, and it came as howling gales that swept in from the far North. Chill and fresh. A feeling of insecurity grew. It was difficult to find paths wide enough for Luin, and Rell was forced to find other ways around; winding her way forward and back, straying first southward then straight East, yet never did she put much distance between them and the rot of the Marshes. It lingered still in the air. Every waking hour was spend in a climb through the rough landscape, accompanied with dejection and increasing concern. She had seen no sight of neither bird nor beast in the difficult terrain.

Her supplies grew scarce for each passing day.

Would she starve before she found a way through?

Her mind felt muddled, unclear, ever since first stepping foot into the Dead Marshes now many moons ago. A veil drawn across her eyes, so that she could no longer see nor think clearly, and into Emyn Muil it had followed her. The purpose for her journey seemed too far away, unobtainable and soon, with every step over treacherous rocks, Rell came to further doubt her own heart. Her purpose seemed uncertain.

The blackened bruises had long since faded, and the cuts were but reddened scabs on her wrists and leg; almost entirely healed. It was soon three months since her departure from Rivendell, and yet there had been no sign of her uncle, or his path since he crossed the Misty Mountains. The winds hissed like snakes in the deep-shadowed gully, an ever-present companion that often troubled her sleep, and made the days long and cold. She walked with downcast eyes, and her steps were shaky and weak. Fatigue clung to her head, shadowed her gaze with whispers of surrender.

There was bitterness in her mouth; not from food, for she had eaten nothing since the morning before. Defeat. The solitary journey had broken her; her spirits, previously thought to be undaunted, were now crushed. Rell knew not when she had allowed cracks of hesitation to fill her heart, but they had festered and grown until little could be done to mend the damage. Perhaps she had abandoned her task long before, as she had sat in desolation on the brink of the marshlands, now mindlessly walking without an end to the journey.

Rell finally came to understand.

She then rocked to a stop, frozen in her steps as fresh, warm tears fell uninvited. They burst from her eyes, like water falling from a dam. The sobs were stifled at first, attempting to hide her grief through sheer will, but soon they became distorted cries. The cries, raw in her throat as they came bubbling out, echoed between the rocks. The stubborn walls in her mind – the walls that held her up and made her strong – collapsed one by one.

Rell would never find her chieftain.

The wind blew chill through the gully to meet her, and before her a wide grey shadow loomed in a deep slope downwards. The sky was overcast, leaden, but even as the first heavy drops of rain fell the Ranger did not move. It was more than crying, it was the desolate sobbing from a person drained of all aspiration. The pain that flowed from her was as palpable as the winter wind; her tears mingled with the rain as she sank to her knees. Seemingly, everything in her mind fell into place, and the thread-like hope snapped. Puddles of water soon formed at her feet. She had thought herself to be in the right, to be wiser than her chieftain, and disregarded his commands.

All he had done was to keep her safe, yet the doom now brought upon her was by her own hand.

Foolish, thoughtless actions of a child. Her sobs stilled, small hiccups that soon passed to silence. A single thought repeated in her mind, slowly, but surely, growing in strength until all else was drowned by it. Will I die here ...?

The icy grey sky restlessly grumbled, and the rain came pouring down. The sound of emptiness was disrupted by the loud boom of thunder; the darkness in the sky shifted, lit up by another sudden flash sweeping across the rocklands. Another rumble. Luin danced and stomped skittishly by her side, and the tremors drew her mind back. While the heaviness, both in mind and body, beckoned her to remain until only numbness was left, she could not.

The burden of choice lay before her. Was she truly to forsake her uncle? The foreboding fear that had first driven her to leave the Angle had not faded, but remained raw and clear in her head; even more so in her heart. Yet the reality of starvation and failure was unmistakably clearer. Would she never again see her kin under the Sun?

What help could she give her chieftain, save to walk blindly into her own ruination now? Never would he know the end that came for her. For a long while, minutes or hours she knew not, Rell sat with her head bowed. Her legs cold from the hard rocks. Drops tapped against her hair, trickled down her brow and cheeks, until she was soaked. The endless rain fell like sheets cast over the bleak world, masking all sounds with a thunderous roar that came unbroken. The two powers strove in her. For a moment, perfectly balanced between their piercing points, she was wrecked by all-consuming terror.

Then, suddenly, Rell became aware of herself again.

She came to her feet, cold and wet and afraid, yet even though a great weariness was upon her, her will was firm. Her heart was lighter. Her hands sought Luin's warmth, burying her face in the soft coat as her arms draped around the horse's neck. "I will do now what I must," she whispered; voice cracked and hoarse, for it was long since she had last spoken. "What more can I do? I must go now, or I shall never go. I shall forsake my troth."

Her hands trembled, fingers digging into the grey mane to still her wavering heart.

"I will go home."

It felt like betrayal. Harsh and cruel were her thoughts, but her venture had been desperate, foolish at best, and only now had she come to realize it. Was she faithless to leave? No. She took Luin by the reins. The ground was covered in dark pools of water, mirroring the grey and black clouds above, and she traced her way back through the clefts and fissures. Slowly she walked, delayed by her doubts and the weather. Feet heavy and dragging. It felt as if at any time she could turn around, continue a fruitless endevour fueled only by stubbornness. The deluge continued; thunder rumbled in the far distance, and lightning flickered and danced across the sky.

The dull grey hours passed without event. Long formless slopes stretched up and away towards the sky on either side, grey and wretched pillars of rock. It was an unfriendly desolation, where no tree or blade of grass broke the emptiness. The wind changed, and now the rain came down almost sideways, beating into her back with newfound fury; to her it felt as if even the land willed her away.

Truly, her journey had come to an end.

For another hour she walked, finding the rocks both familiar and unfamiliar; new and old, so that she knew not if she had walked there before.

Around her the rain came to lessen, until it was but a soft and cold drizzle falling from patchy clouds, and the silence around her grew. The tip-tap of droplets stilled. Her feet became loud noises as they sloshed through pools or kicked up pebbled stones and rubbles, reverberating throughout the rocklands. Thunder still rolled ever so often in the distance, and every flash made her startle. The sun had set; already it had sunk behind the rim of the world without her notice. Beyond the shadow of the hills the sky was still red. A burning light was under the floating clouds, but where Rell stepped darkness came.

The road dipped and fell, carving its way through steep ridges; she could not mount and ride, for the ground was rough and treacherous. Rell carried on until the path became too dark and her feet too heavy, and there she halted. Amongst tumbled rocks she found a place to rest. The moon had passed into the West, and its light was hidden by the hills and the clouds.

In the black hours of night she rested, but Rell found no sleep; instead she waited for the grey and pale dawn.

Yet long before the rising of the sun, a light came upon the ravine when finally the clouds parted.

The distant moon was almost full, and its glow bathed the hills and cliffs of Emyn Muil in silver. The sky was filled with a pale cold sheen. The rocks gleamed black and hard, with pinnacles sharp as the points of spears, keen-edged as knifes. Rell looked up and caught brief glimpses of the stars, but they were faint and cloaked in haze. Again, all was quiet and still. Twisted and leaning pillars reared their splintered fangs above the ground, still and dark they loomed over her, fencing her in. Her stomach twisted and growled in her hunger, and she shuffled over to Luin; she searched through the satchels, finding only little food and taking even less. The dried berries tasted musty, spoiled, and the roots were hard and stringy.

The food sat uneasy in her stomach, but it did her good.

She drank the last of her water.

With the growing light and the slow approach of morning, Rell prepared to head out once more, when sudden dread came over her. Her hands were cold, and an unease spread across her arms and up her neck. She listened. But she heard no sound – not even the imagined echo of a footfall that had first made her startle. Feeling wary now, she drew Luin after her down the narrow gorge, finding the path before her sloping continuously down and further down. The ground was wet and slippery beneath her feet, and often she stumbled for sure footings. Her eyes were strained to see in the dimness.

She felt watched.

Throughout the day she went one way and another, only to circle back when she came to a dead end; there was no change around her. The rocks were dull company, and it felt as if the walls around her closed in; she knew they were not moving or alive, but at times it felt as if they would crush her where she stood. Her breathing came out ragged, and her brow was cold and clammy. The tricks of her mind left her fearful, afraid. Trapped in the darkness.

Rell did not remember this path.

The feeling only grew worse as day came, for while the sun climbed higher over the horizon it was accompanied by ominous clouds and darkening gloom. Rell was given only a brief glimpse of blue sky and a dazzling light of warmth, and then came the rain. Renewed and heavier than the downpour the day before. It was not long before her clothes were soaked, clinging to her skin as they weighed down her every step. The ground was glossy and hard to tread, and she made very little progress throughout the day. The very weather appeared against her in those long moments; tired to the brink of exhaustion, Rell willed her feet to move, one wobbly step at a time until she could go no further.

Rell all but collapsed when she found a corner, partially sheltered from the storm, and sleep was soon upon her.

It was still night when she awoke, finding the ground wet and the rain but a softened pitter-patter against the cliffs. The darkness was still heavy, hollow and immense, and for a brief instant there was a blaze as lightning flashed across the sky; for a second she saw stones stretching on both sides, walls black and smooth as glass, glittering. The murmur of the rain continued unbroken, but another sound crawled beneath the endlessness of the storm.

It was this sound that had roused her. By her side Luin was alert, ears twitching back and forth.

A single pebble rolled down the cliff above her, clacking loud in the quiet, until it landed with a plop not far from her. Rell stared at the small rock, stock-still, before quickly glancing upwards to where it had fallen from. Where the cliffs previously had been a constant gloom, they now seemed hostile; as if they harboured secret eyes and lurking dangers. Again, she seemed to feel eyes on her.

There was nothing to be seen. But the unease did not fade; her heart was beating loudly in her chest, and she could feel her mind waking painfully with anticipation. She was not alone.

It had been the softest, barely discernible, crunch of a footstep that had awoken her. Again she listened. She felt naked, out in the open in the midst of shelterless lands – an easy target. Rain fell upon her upturned face, and a cold wind howled through the ravine. Rell came to her feet, quietly moving until she stood close to the rock-wall; she pressed an ear against the cold stone and listened carefully. She closed her eyes to better her hearing. Her breath was baited.

Then there came another crunch, this time lighter and slower, as if to be quieter. But Rell had heard it. The sounds; the footsteps, were slowly but surely moving away from her. Had they noticed her presence? Her skin crawled, and the unknown above frightened her. She ran her hands across the rock wall, slowly, carefully, deciding if her newly-formed plan was possible. The rain fell unrelenting, and as her fingers dug into the rocks, they were icy cold against her skin. The precipice was sheer and almost smooth, and in the darkened night it was difficult to find holds; but there could be no more than five, maybe six or seven, ells to the top. It is possible, she decided.

Rell steeled her resolve.

She scrambled for small crevices, fingers and feet shuffling blindly as she slowly climbed the cliff; her body was pressed hard against the stones, cutting into her skin. Rell breathed sharply through her teeth, attempting to move as soundlessly as possible as her own weight pulled her downward. Mostly her fingers found solid holds, narrow and small, but at times the rocks crumbled and she had to scrabble with her feet for a foothold. Whether she had done this in bravery or foolishness, she could not tell, but bold curiosity drew her forward.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the rain was still falling softly. Water fell into her eyes, obscuring her vision, and it was hard to see far ahead in the dark. Again her foot slipped, and a sharp pain shot through her arm when she clutched a razor-edged rock. Warmth trickled down to her elbow. She glanced to the bottom of the gully, now a drop below her. Not wishing to fall, Rell moved only slowly and carefully. The new injury in her hand ached, and every time she grabbed hold with it she winced in pain.

She came to a place where the surface was smooth; there was no hold and the ledges were far apart. Her hands fumbled blindly through the darkness, seeking anything to grasp, all the while her body trembled from exhaustion. It was with desperation that her fingers gripped the faintly protruding ledge a bit ahead, and she could pull herself further up. She panted laboriously as she fought for mastery over herself; squinting up through the darkness, Rell could see the edge of the cliff not far away now. The last arduous leg of her climb.

Rell hauled her body up. Her fingers curled around the top stones, and her head came up above just as a brilliant shock of white flashed across the sky. The lightning ripped through the inky night and blinded her. Her vision swam, and barely had her eyes adjusted to the deep gloom once more, when two pale points of light appeared before her.

Large luminous eyes.

It was a wretched creature; a harsh, rotten breath came from behind sharp and pointed teeth as it spoke. "Hssss, my precious, what hasss we found? Ssso hungry, yes, precious – sss – gollum!"

With a startled yelp, Rell recoiled in sudden terror as twitching fingers reached for her, clawing almost against her cheek, only to find her feet slipping.

She searched for a hold on the rocks, but the trickling rain made her fingers grasp onto nothing; flailing, fighting, she felt herself falling, and in those few moments the world was but a blurred rush. She knew pain was coming. Everything went by fast, yet slow, almost suspended. Inevitable. The thought to protect herself barely passed her mind. A scream was on her lips, but no sound came. The last thing she saw was the two pale glowing eyes high above, and a rattling hiss was on the wind.

Then impact.

Something pooled around her head, warm and wet it spread; through her hair and down her neck. The rain fell as heavy droplets onto her face, splattered against her cheeks like needles. But its icy chill did not hurt – it could not hurt, not compared to the searing pain that shot through her. It increased in waves, small lulls giving false hope of an end. Her breathing was but gurgles, a struggle to breathe, spitting blood. It hurts ... The night was cold, and the wind blew chill through the pass. There was a snuffling, a harsh hiss of breath thrown around the walls of the gully, loud and all-consuming.

It was getting closer.

She was too weak to stay awake. Something was broken.

Somewhere.

Her eyes flickered into the darkness, but she could see nothing. Could not move.

Eventually the pain settled into a sort of sharp throbbing that dug deep, deep within her and went through anything and everything. The pain became too much for her mind to bear, and she could feel, rather than see, the blackness seeping into her vision. Shadows advancing to smother her. Panic seized her. The eyes! The horrible, pale eyes, flashed in and out of her deadly thoughts, and she struggled to stay awake. It will eat me, it will eat me!

But she lay already half in the nightmare, imagining that wretched dark fingers gnawed at her flesh, digging deep and even deeper. Until crimson swirled into one with the dark pools, tearing, pulling, dragging her apart. Her fingers trembled, shaking, but her arms would not move. It was not because of the tears welling up, that her failing eyesight blurred, but rather her mind slipping from consciousness. Everything became fuzzy; then she saw nothing. She wanted to be saved. Throughout the inky space her heartbeats pounded loudly, swift in her terror, echoing in her ears. Feeling her body draining away until, finally, all was black.

The hissing was not from the wind. Getting lower, sharper and clearer, and so much more horrible when all other senses failed her.

It was but a suggestion of movement from beyond her failing vision; it was formless and indistinct, like a piece of shadow shifting. But it was there.

"Ssstill breathing, yes, yesss." It was a voice like no other. So terrible. The dread crept over her, an icy chill that numbed. In her frozen state it offered only one thought. It is today. Closer, approaching. Soon there. I will die here. She let out a soft moan, fingers scratching across the stones; with a plop she knew the creature had scaled the wall and landed beside her. "Not for long ..." The beating of her heart was ear-splintering loud. So loud it was that even the ground beneath her trembled. Again and again and again.

It rolled over her like thunder, booming through her ears until her mind flashed white.

A high-pitched scream carved through the falling rain, and a long, drawn-out hiss came not far from her. A pitter-patter of feet over the wet stones sounded, shying around her just out of reach, attempting to approach. Closer, then further. For it was Luin, and not her heart, that thundered through the ravine like thunder; the horse stomped and kicked, making the ground tremble. Stones danced. The creature hissed sputtering curses, snarling, yet was continuously turned away by the enraged defense of the fallen Ranger.

"Nassty it is!"

Good ... Luin ...

It was to the stomping of hoofs and vicious snarls that darkness claimed her, when the pain became too much, and she sank into the deep depths of unconsciousness. Blood gushed from somewhere; an exposed wound, sticky and warm. Black numbness enclosed around her, until only the beating of her heart could be heard; vigorous, until it slowed. Weakened. Boom ... Boom ... Then all was quiet. Boom. No nightmare, no dream, came to her then.

Only blackness.

The light was pale and clear in a rain-washed sky; the morning dawned bright and fair, encouragingly beautiful. A sight almost rare in the lonely wasteland that had long been a steadfast companion to her. But Rell could not marvel at nor cherish the pale strips of blue; the softness of the wind, and the warm caresses of the pale sun on her skin. She could feel air blown into her hair, and a heartbeat not her own; sensing the large, loyal animal pressed close to her side like a solitary rock shielding the land from the ocean's wrath.

There was a growing ache soon turning to pain and a deadly chill in her body.

It was difficult to move, and the pain felt as if it came from everywhere. So much pain, in her arms and legs; but worst of all she feared the damage to her back. The blood around her head. She lay motionless and listened fearfully to the sounds of her surroundings; howling winds in the rocky gaps, water dripping, the rattling clacks of a loosened stone. There was a constant feeling that the creature, strange and cruel to behold, would return. To choke the life from her with its long and gangly hands. There was an echo as of following feet; first it came from high above, then suddenly from behind her and to the side, moving one way then another.

Rell shut her eyes and willed her mind away, to focus her everything on the faithful companion by her side. On the warmth. She forced back bile, rising in her throat, and a searing flash of white crossed her vision. There was no escape from here. Only waiting, long and painful, and only the Valar would truly know her fate. Was she to wait for a slow and painful death to claim her? Wither away from either her injuries or starvation? With a last effort, she prayed in her mind to the hidden lights in the sky, to Elbereth and Eärendil, let me not die here.

Again her senses failed her.

She could only hope Luin would protect her.

Everything else around her had dissolved like it was never there at all, and in the darkness of her mind nothing seemed important – life, death, pain. If only it could end with swiftness it would be a mercy. The despair was worse than the hurt of her body, the agonizing and slow wait for the unknown a vice-like grip of agony on her heart. Of endless waiting.

In the long hours that followed Rell lay between waking and sleep, wavering between her exhaustion and the will to move. The will to live. Uneasy dreams wove through the flickering moments of clarity and great torment, in which she walked in the meadows and hills of Eriador. She sat by the fire with her uncle, or dipped her feet in the cold spring waters in Rivendell. She fought and sparred with her friends in the Angle, or hunted deer in the forests.

Yet, the light in her dreams seemed dim and faint, and the lanky shadow that crept after her appeared all the more clear. The hissing came with the wind, close, its rotting stench filling the air as if the creature breathed down her neck. But when she turned around to look, there was nothing. She would startle awake, shivering and frightened; a fevered delirium that blurred the world around her. Turned the long shadows into flickering ghosts, and the wind hissing and biting as if to reach her very bones.

When she truly woke again the light was failing, and day was slowly turning to another night. Dusk was falling rapidly. Rell struggled to move; carefully determining the damage, first in her fingers and toes. Wriggled them, slowly, with great attention. Then, whimpering as pain cut sharply through her body, she tried to move her head sideways. Luin shifted and a breath of warmth blew into her hair. Try again ... It was with a searing, burning rush throughout her body and tears running unceasingly, that Rell could now see the silvery-grey coat of Luin, curled around her.

The tears stemmed not only from great pain and effort, but also a deep relief that then flooded her senses.

In her heart of hearts she had feared so much worse.

This, the very small movement of her head, at least, was a start.

Rell swallowed, mouth rough, dry; there was a taste of iron and mud, and a cough drew past her lips. Painful and raw. She was so, so very thirsty. With unsteady, twitching fingers, she fought to raise her hands. Her left arm lay limp by her side, and as she twisted her head – teeth clenched in agony – it was easy to see why. Her eyes shut tightly at the sight, and nausea pressed against the back of her throat. Mangled flesh, dark crimson and a pale white intermingled; the bone was bent out of shape.

When she opened her eyes again to look at the injury, tendrils of pain shot through her and she felt sick. Breathe. Rell tried to fight off the shock, slowly but surely blanketing her senses, until all she could do was watch. She could feel blood draining from her face, and a shakiness was in her searching, seeking fingers. The other arm ... check the other arm! Her voice pleaded, forcing her at last to turn away her gaze. She swallowed once more, bracing herself for what was to come, and then she swiftly turned her face.

In the little light that flowed down between darkening clouds, she could see great purple welts; grotesque against her pale and clammy skin, spreading purple with yellow blotches. It hurt to breathe. To her relief she could see no broken bones. Her left side had taken the worst of the fall and spared her right; she directed all her strength into the limb less injured. It was hard to find the courage to keep up, and so she focused on one small part at a time; to clench her fingers, and to stretch them again. Then her wrist, slowly and carefully, to see if it could move without pain.

It took many long minutes, and often she had to pause in her exhaustion. Breathing heavy and ragged.

Then she carried on. It was only one small step at a time, painfully long and agonizing, when finally Rell could tenderly run her fingers over the broken bones of her left arm. She dared not touch; only hover slightly over, leaving ghostly trails that barely brushed the limb. Even that hurt. Bone-white shimmered into view, when she carefully drew the sleeve aside; it was an open fracture, and the splinter of bone had torn through tissue. A whimper of protest pressed against her clenched teeth.

Whether the Valar had held a hand of protection over her, or it was mere chance, it seemed like no major veins had been severed. Yet the loss of blood was nevertheless grave, if the crimson pool was anything to go by. There was very little she could do then, and instead Rell turned her focus to her back and head.

Her fingers moved slowly, searchingly, over her elbow; to her shoulder, where the skin had turned blackish-blue and yellow. With hesitation she pressed down on tender flesh, biting back cries, but found nothing bent out of shape.

When she then came to her head, she first found her hair sticky and matted with thick, drying blood.

The rocks beneath her were smooth and flat, but their edges were jagged. Her fingers found what they were looking for; on the back of her head there was a long, though narrow, gash. The skin was torn and swollen, where blood was continuously seeping out. Yet, to her great relief, it was but a shallow cut. Fluid had accumulated around the wound, and a bump the size of her palm was pulsing as she cupped it in her hand. Momentarily, Rell closed her eyes and calmed her breathing. Stars danced across her darkened eyelids, and a dizziness clouded her mind.

Thinking was difficult, strained and hard to force.

Around her nighttime approached with swiftness; shadows crawled across the ravine, seeping down its sides until it became hard to see. The sun had set, and dusk had gathered. The moon came high in the dark-blue sky, a thin silvery sphere that gave her very little light. Only a handful stars peered between veiling clouds. Rell breathed deeply, squaring her wavering heart for what was next to come.

The hand fell to her side again. It was shaking from her exhaustion, bruised and in pain, yet Rell knew she could not stay; she had to move, and could not just so easily turn a blind eye to her wounds – even if she dearly wished to. They needed urgent care, especially her arm, if she was to hope to ever use it again, let alone not die from it. The dark and blackened bruises would fade; the cut on her head likely heal on its own in time. But the broken bone had to be set. The very thought turned her skin clammy. Rell swallowed.

"Luin," she called with an effort.

She tapped the ground by her right side, calling the horse to her. The large animal stood, and already she missed the warmth against her body. The beating of hooves against the rocks echoed into the silence, sprung between the towering walls of stone that watched her in silence. Soon the horse lay down on the spot Rell had indicated to; deep clever eyes watched her, nostrils blowing air against her outstretched hand.

She ran her palm across the soft coat, leaning into the touch, while her fingers grasped for the leather halter tied to the mare's head. It was with much difficulty that the Ranger drew herself up; if not for the great horse by her side, she could not remain sitting. Her head swam, and the air felt cold and sharp in her lungs. Rell gasped for breath, and she nearly doubled over. Nausea clawed at her throat, and she tried to force down the bile, but it was too late.

She threw up.

Her stomach kept on contracting violently and forced everything up and out. A pungent stench invaded her nostrils, and she heaved, coughing and choking, even though there was nothing left to go. She had eaten so little over the last many days. Tears stung the corner of her eyes as futile whimpers for help spilled from her lips. Rell clung to the halter, her fingers clenching and unclenching in shivering twitches, until the contractions eased. Cold sweat trailed down her brow, drippled into her eyes, and a bitterness coated the insides of her mouth.

At some point she must have passed out, but for how long Rell could not tell.

Cool twilight surrounded her; it was still dark, and the black abyss stretched far around her.

She was drenched with sweat. Her eyes roamed down the length of her body, for the first time seeing the entirety of her injury; she could remember only very little of the fall, but she must have somewhat lessened the blunt of the impact. A breath of almost palpable relief escaped her lips. Her legs were unharmed. They pulsed and hurt, but could move without issue. Rell drew closer to Luin and linked her arm through the reins; it took several long moments of hesitation, expectant of the pain that would come, before she gave a feeble command.

"Up, Luin." The large horse steadily came to stand, while Rell stood with trembling legs and clung to its muscular neck. A blinding flash of agony stabbed through her left arm, hanging slack against her side. She drew it to her chest with her uninjured hand, supporting the fractured bone as best as she could, while she talked Luin over to the cliff wall. She needed shelter – and a place to lean against to fix the mangled mesh that was her arm, for on her own she could not even stay upright.

After long moments that left her breathless, Rell slumped, rather than sat, against the solid stones of the bluff. Her back was against the wall. She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them once more it was with a quavering heart. With tender appraisal, Rell cradled the arm as her fingers meticulously prodded the ruined flesh. Blood oozed out, soaked into the fabrics and the tangy smell of iron wafted into the air. It was hard to see anything in the deep dark of the Winter night, and she relied heavily on her sense of touch.

She had seen broken bones before. Both how healers handled such an injury, but also how her fellow Rangers went about it in the wilderness; when there was little else to do than snap the fragments into place, and then pray for the best. The image that then came to her mind made her dizzy, senses clouded in anticipation of the pain. Usually someone held down the injured person, while others worked on the bone.

Rell doubted the courage of her heart. How could she do it alone?

Slowly, she came to sit up straight; her head was pounding, like the steady beat of a drum, and she focused on the repeating thuds as she settled the arm between her legs. She searched, pressing down the length of the bone, until her hand settled on the fracture. Every part of her body screamed for her to cease, yet her fingers continued; Rell had to be sure before she could do anything. She wriggled her legs until her lower arm was partly gripped between her thighs; held in place for what was to come. There was no room for hesitation. She took a deep breath, banished the wavering of her heart and mind, and clenched her teeth.

Thud-thud, thud-thud.

Then she snapped the bone into place.

Chapter Text

Strangely enough, when Rell woke again she felt refreshed. She had been dreaming, of what she could not remember; yet the dream had been pleasant, and there was still the ghost of a smile on her lips when she opened her eyes. At first she felt disoriented, mind muddied by confusion. The dark shadow of night had passed, and a fair vision lay upon the tall ridges of Emyn Muil. The sun was cold, but bright, skirting the jagged teeth of rock with a light both clear and biting in her eyes. Morning had already passed.

Her head was blurred still by exhaustion, from the sharp pain and the fatigue that had drained much of her spirit. A twang carved through her mind, making her finch and pull a face, yet sleep had not been without its healing features. Then she slowly sat up, leaned against her uninjured hand and settled against the wall. Her trousers were stained red with blood, a large patch that had seeped through the fabric, but the blooming flower had already turned darker; it had not bled much recently. Rell brushed her hand over the fracture with gentle attention.

It stung, and her muscles seized up. Purple welts lined the open tear, though the bone was no longer bent at an odd, sickening angle. The pain in her arm had lessened, dulled with the setting of the bone, yet still it lay limply in her lap. Her brow was furrowed as she willed her fingers to move, and she let out a small breathy laugh as they twitched and curled. The tension in her shoulders crumbled, for a fear – one she had tried to hide in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind – had lingered long over her.

If she had lost the use of her arm, Rell could not imagine what she would have done.

She continued to examine her injury for a while longer. It was only when her hunger became too great, and she could no longer disregard the aching discomfort that she turned her attention elsewhere. There was still no strength in her legs, so she called Luin to her once more; the horse came to lie by her side, muzzle brushing against her shoulder in greeting, and nostrils flaring as it picked up the scent of blood. Rell fumbled through the satchels for something to eat and fresh bandages.

Her mind was set to the task, but her ears remained alert to her surroundings. She had not forgotten the fearsome creature. It had haunted her every fevered nightmare, a lurking shadow drawing ever closer; pale eyes that found her no matter where she hid. At the mere thought, a shiver ran through her and a stab of pain shot through her arm.

Rell loosened the last leather bag of dried roots from the saddle.

She slumped in dejection, tired and discouraged as she peered inside, for there was so little left.

Torn between eating the last moldy remains now, or saving them for the long journey ahead, Rell drew her lower lip between her teeth. They were chapped, dry, and a taste of tangy iron lingered. She had no water, neither to drink nor to clean her injuries. The risk of infection hung heavy over her mind. In the end she ate a few stringy roots, just barely enough to quench the worst bite of need, and instead rummaged about for clean linens.

It took a long while to wrap her broken arm, fumbling and redoing it several times over, but at last she could rest. Her fingers were coated in crimson; sticky and warm, yet the skin was paler than ever before. Feebly, Rell tried to rub them clean against her tunic, until at length she gave up on the endeavour. She was much too tired. Eyelids so incredibly heavy, and soon it became a struggle to even remain awake. Rell turned her head, careful as the gash brushed against cold stone, and looked to Luin with half a smile.

The horse returned her gaze with steadfast devotion. Rell tried to speak, but the words felt coarse in her throat; she wetted her lips. "It is fine," she said. Again she touched the silvery coat with fondness, soft like silk against her shaking hands. How pale they looked even in the light of sun! Luin pressed its head against her hand and snorted. She swallowed a lump. "You need not stay with me. I am tired – drained – and I do not think I can carry on anymore. Leave me here to sleep and go on home." Her chin dropped to her chest.

The struggling ceased, and her eyes closed.

"I know you can find your way."

But her companion would not let her rest. A loud whinny tore through the gully, and she felt a gust of hot air against her face as Luin nudged her; rough and insistent, adamant until Rell looked up. Her eyebrows were scrunched up, but a tired laugh played on her lips. With satisfaction, the horse lay its head on the ground and appeared to have no intention of leaving any time soon. Rell smiled, leaning down to rest against the large and warm body; moving with every breath drawn, and she could hear the constant beat of a heart.

"You should not die here with me," she mumbled, but her heart was glad.

It was to her a frightful thought; to be left alone in the desolate hills, to wither away until no strength was left. The creature had fled from the wrath of Luin, escaped the trampling hooves, but how far? Rell could not know if it would return, sneaking back with the crawling shadows of night. Waiting. Biding its time. With her eyes closed, she could see the gangly creature in her mind. So strange – pale and thin – it was, yet also horrifying to behold.

Never before had she seen anything quite like it. Truly it could be nothing else but a creature spawned of evil, though she still wondered of what use it was to the Grey Wizard. What importance was it, to be hunted so throughout the lands? The long, chilled hours of day passed as Rell pondered many things; weary exhaustion made her thoughts slow and dull, and often sleep claimed her. Restless were her dreams, clouded and joyless, laced with pressing desperation that made her snap awake. Drenched in cold sweat and heart hammering.

Many a time she tested her limbs, but great uncontrollable trembles racked her body so that standing became impossible. The effort left her breathless.

The light around her had become grey, for the sun had then climbed from East to West and was now only peeking out over the black ridges. A gloom fell on her; the air was damp, as if mists crawled slowly across the ground. Rell drew her legs close and curled the cloak around herself, seeking warmth to protect her from the approach of night. She dearly wished for a fire but no trees grew in the gully, and she was too weak to find any twigs or branches of use. There was frost in the air, turning her breath to crystals before her.

An idea came to her.

She loosened the straps around the saddle and pulled the empty satchels down to her. Making sure they were empty, she then piled them near her on a slab of stone; there was little use of them if she was frozen to death. It was difficult to rouse a fire, but soon small orange flames licked against the leathers much to her delight. Black swirls of smoke welled up, twisting and curling between the towering stones, as wind picked through the gully.

She shifted closer, feeling a prickling warmth skim across her skin as the cold abated. Then, flanked by the fire on one side and Luin on the other, Rell allowed sleep to claim her, and she drifted off into the darkness. No hissing creature came to her dreams that night. All before her was a formless grey of nothingness, where not even the dull aches of her wounds mattered much to her. Deeper and deeper she fell, swallowed by her own harrowed mind.

Suddenly she was torn from the dream.

Falling, her eyes snapped open and her arm shot out to brace against the ground. Disoriented and with thoughts whirring through her mind in bewilderment, Rell saw her horse rise and leave her side. "Luin?" She asked. The sky was without cloud, and many stars were strewn across a deep blue; the moon hung high and large above, making the frost-covered stones shimmer like precious gems. The fire was but embers.

Hooves clip-clopped in the silence. Rell could do nothing more than watch as her companion stepped into the darkness, disappearing behind the tall ridge.

"Luin!"

Her voice died between the stones. Rell scampered to her feet, fingers digging into the stone to draw herself up, as confusion raged within. She did not understand. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow, until they were but short gasps; panic took hold of her. Do not leave me. In her haste she forgot her injuries, and only when her knees buckled and sent her hammering into the rocks, did she realize she could not follow. Let alone stand. Pain sprung through her muscles as Rell crouched on the ground. Please, come back ...

It did not take long before the clacks became soft, dulled, and finally falling into silence once more. She was alone.

Only shadows were left, her lone companions that haunted and suffocated her. Rell pressed the palm of her hand against her eyes, hard, until lights danced across her eyelids; something wet trickled down her cheeks. She had asked the horse to leave – so how could she blame it? But the harsh rawness of abandonment still cut deep, and it was a painful reminder. The Ranger would likely die amongst the rocky cliffs of Emyn Muil. The terror of death lay long above her.

A patch of cloud sailed across the sky, obscuring the moon's view, and coated the lands in true darkness.

For many moments she sat there, and long minutes passed; only the wind was to be heard, howling through the cracks it blew cold from the North. Gnawing it was against her back, cool it bit into her skin. She clutched her injured arm, sending prayers to the Valar that, somehow, she was not without hope. She was not abandoned. That this would not be the end. Yet time dragged unending, and there was no change around her. "Come back, come back!" She called with a voice weakened.

It felt hard to breathe.

Again, the clouds broke and light filtered into the gully. Pale and silver. The wisps of white mists that had crawled across the ground were drawn away, borne upon the stiffening breeze. With a final crackle, the fire hissed and died out.

And it was in those moments that a sound came to her; faint, merely a tremor that shook the ground at first, and she raised her head to peer into the darkness. Rell held her breath in waiting, hoping beyond all else that her ears had not failed her – that it truly was what she believed. The sound of hooves could be heard, and moonlight soon glinted upon the silver coat that came into view. Her heart skipped in joy as she cried out. "Luin! You came back!"

At the same moment she then saw a dark shape approaching slowly on the path behind the horse, slipping through the shadows almost unseen. He was tall, a dark standing shadow, and her flickering eyes sought for her weapons. She gripped the hilt of her sword tightly, slowly, carefully, slipping onto her heels to lunge forward. She knew well there was little she could do if it came to a fight. Barely her trembling hands could hold the weight.

Then his clear voice rang out. "I did not believe my own eyes, but truly it is so. You are here before me. Yet how it has come to be, I do not know."

Rell dropped the sword.

There, before her in the gloom of Emyn Muil, stood her uncle.

Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she gave a shout of astonishment. Rell gazed at him in wonder. She had been blessed by the mercy of the Valar! His grey hood was drawn across his features; his clothes ragged, dirtied with mud and dust from a long road, and he looked as haggard as she felt. But the eyes under his deep brows were bright; between wonder and fear he stood for a long moment. Silent.

Rell could find no words to say.

At last he stirred. With swift steps her chieftain came forward; purposeful the Ranger crouched before her, stooping close, and large hands cupped her face. A gloved thumb trailed across her cheek, gently tilting her head one way and then another as he regarded the swelling bruises. Rell flinched at the touch, though it was not ungentle. He swiped away a solitary tear, cold and wet upon her skin, and he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. He did not lessen his appraisal. Then he lowered his eyes, gaze flickering across her many injuries until settling on her broken arm. A frown came to his brow.

She leaned forward to rest her head against his shoulder, seeking the comfort and warmth of closeness. The last remnants of strength were swiftly leaving her tired body, seeping away; her eyes closed, and her breath came laborious when she finally managed to speak. "I fell."

Again, he said nothing.

Instead her arm was carefully turned over and examined, a tender touch that made her wince in pain. He let out a soft thoughtful hum, pressing here and there, before returning to a previous part of the limb. Up, then back down. The movement of her fingers and elbow was tested. Her mind was but a blur, unfocused and weak, and her vision swam when she tried to look up once more. For a long moment she savoured the familiar smells that wafted up from her uncle; the pipe-weed, the faintest touch of rain and dampness, and his mere presence calmed her frayed spirits. He was truly there – with her. He had found her, rescued her when all else seemed utterly dark and hopeless.

All at once, her long journey came rushing back to her like vivid pictures burned into her memory. Rell clutched the coarse fabric of his tunic, distraught eyes seeking his as words spilled from her mouth. "The creature! I saw it, just here in Emyn Muil! I followed the sounds and I climbed." Cold sweat coated her skin. "It was so terrible to behold, uncle, and it reached for me ... I lost my grip, and I fell," she said, motioning with her uninjured hand to her wounds. She swallowed. The pain came back to her and her grip tightened, turning her knuckles white.

Rell remembered the drop all too vividly.

"It should not have gone far yet, there is still time to catch it if only–"

"No," Aragorn quietened her with swiftness. "I know well it is here, for I have followed its tracks for many days now. Whether it followed your path, or it came with an unknown purpose, I cannot tell. But neither is it important in this moment." He brushed hair from her face, concern clear in his grey eyes; silver they appeared in the moonlight, wise and deep, and a tautness held his posture rigid. "We must tend to your injuries – and you have much to tell me while we do so. When I saw your horse coming out to meet me in the ravine, I was at first angered by the sight. I still am," he added and gave her a long hard look.

Rell diverted her gaze to the ground.

"Yet I am anxious, first and foremost. Your safety, your life, is irreplaceable." He drew from his bag a leather satchel and placed it on the ground before him. Then he searched through its contents. "You are not meant to be here," he stated. His voice was neither cruel nor reproachful, but still it dug deep, and shame washed over her; a tide that swallowed all else. All she had done, her long journey and all her mistakes, came back to her now; raw, harsh, they dug into her. She was well aware of the reality. The consequences of her actions. The Ranger carefully began to undo the bloodied rags, tied with difficulty and inconsistency, around her broken arm. "Yet here you are."

"I felt like you needed me," Rell sniffled, the excuse naught but a feeble attempt to explain her foolishness. The shame burned more than her wounds. "And so it was that I tried to follow you ..." It did very little to soothe the ache in her heart, to confess her misbehaviour and the disregard of his orders. New and warm tears rolled down her cheeks as she watched his work; his fingers were slow and careful, making sure to not bring unnecessary pain to her. Clotted blood clung to the fabrics. "I am sorry, uncle. Truly, I am."

When Aragorn had finally cleaned the exposed wound, he turned the limb one way and another with caution as his fingers trailed searching touches from her wrist to her elbow. "You did well on your own," he said. "But this is not enough." He slowly stood, allowing her arm to return to her lap, before he looked back into the gloom from whence he had come; for a brief moment his gaze returned to hers, grey eyes sparkling silver. Regarding her thoughtfully.

Then he walked away, soon disappearing between the shadowed cliffs and further, out of her sight.

Rell peered after him, into the gloom of night, as fearful thoughts wove into her mind. Would he return? Her fingers tightened, digging deep into the skin of her leg. Her eyes sought the comfort of distant and cold stars far above, tiny dots in a dark sky. No, she thought, he would never abandon me – not here, not in a place like this. The distraught but faithful thought was her only comfort, and she clung to it with desperation; waiting, hoping, that the cloaked figure would emerge from the shadows once more. And quickly.

She cupped her sleeve and wiped her tear-stained face, sniffling, and watched the still rocks that surrounded her. Tall and grim they appeared, their tops lost in a deeper blackness, yet they no longer seemed menacing to her frayed heart. Her uncle would protect her now; the gangly, horrid creature could harm her no more, even if she could still hear its hiss upon the wind. Even if it felt ever-present around her.

It would haunt her for many days to come, if not months.

The late hour of night stretched unending, and Rell knew not how long she waited; her trust in her uncle chased away any fretful and fleeting fears of abandonment before they could take root. He would come back. There was a dull ache throughout her body, a constant pain that oozed into her mind and she felt drowsiness come over her. She was hungry and tired; beaten and bruised. She shifted against the hard, cold stones beneath her, careful not to startle her injuries. In silence she sat, ever glancing from side to side and listened to the sounds of the rock-lands.

Beneath the shadow of the rock she felt small.

With quiet footsteps, Rell could finally hear her uncle's approach from beyond the sharp bend of the ravine; she allowed a heavy breath to escape her, and her shoulders sagged in relief. In his arms he held a bundle of twigs and wood. He watched her briefly before searching the gorge for something; the veiled moon shed some light upon the rocks, but it took him a while to find what he was looking for in the dimness of night. He crouched down near broken stones, where the ground hollowed out and the cliff wall slanted slightly inwards.

Here he placed down the collected wood, and not long after a fire came to light up the night; plumes of grey weaved into the air, and a glow came on the rocks. Warmth bathed the face of her uncle, orange and red and yellow, and the flames leapt, devouring feverishly, the dry sticks. Even from where she sat, Rell could feel the heat – or at least so it felt, for long had a chill held claim to her body.

Aragorn then returned to her and, wordlessly, drew an arm around her back and shoulders. Rell was eased to her legs, trembling like a new-born foal; unstable and wary, but her uncle supported her when her own strength failed. He helped her forward, towards the fire, and it was not long after that Rell could slump down against the wall of the steep cliff. Here, there was shelter from the coldness of the wind.

Already she was breathing heavily. But the warmth brushed against her skin, soft caresses that slowly, but surely, lulled her asleep; though she could not rest.

Not yet.

Rell forced her eyes open.

There was no hesitation as Aragorn worked swiftly. He looked through the bags fastened to Luin's saddle, whispering soft words to the horse as he did, quickly finding the clay bowl he had searched for; then he filled it with water from his waterskin and placed it by the fire. While the water simmered, he came again and knelt beside her. He held a hand to her brow. Rell watched him through heavy eyelids, stifling a yawn, and saw his face grey with weariness. Such dread and unneeded worry she had caused him! Forgiveness would be hard to ask for.

Then he drew the satchel from his back and found, draped in thin cloths, leaves familiar to her.

He laid three leaves in his hands and crushed them; a freshness, clear and comforting, filled the air, and Rell could feel the exhaustion leave her uneasy mind. Her heart felt lighter. It was as if the very air sparkled. The Ranger then cast the leaves of athelas into the bowl of steaming water, and the smells bloomed. Pinewoods and clear waters; crystal rain in Spring, and the softness of grass touched only by the morning's dew. She could feel the worst of the pressure that had been building behind her eyes fade away. The fatigue was still there, as was the hurt – she would not be running through the Emyn Muil any time soon – but she did not feel as raw as she had moments before.

"Have you other injures?" Aragorn asked and drew her attention back to the present.

"Yes," Rell said, running her hand slowly across the back of her head. "A cut, though it is not very deep and only needs cleaning; and bruises on my shoulder and legs. My arm took the blunt of my fall."

Her chieftain nodded, considering her words, as he soaked a white cloth into the water; first he laved her brow with it, and it seemed then that the first pale light of a fair morning rose out of the shadows to the far East. Next, he cleaned the cold and motionless arm, washing away the dirt and stones embedded in the raw, torn flesh, until it glowed red against her whitened skin. Rell bit into her lower lip, keeping her features blank despite the sting, and watched quietly.

Another cloth was wetted, and she was then instructed to clear her remaining wounds where needed. Meanwhile Aragorn withdrew new and fresh linens from her bags, and then began the meticulous work of rebinding the broken limb; the white strips were pulled tight across her arm, wound around with much greater precision than her own earlier attempts. Soon she could feel the continuously dull throbbing fade, and a numbness came instead.

There was room in her mind for other things now; first and foremost, she could feel gnawing tugs of hunger, and her stomach let out a low rumble that, at once, caught her uncle's attention. He paused in his work, resting his hands against her arm, before he looked up. "When did you last eat?" He questioned, brow furrowed as if only now noticing the sullen gauntness upon her face. Her lips felt dry and chapped, hands and legs as heavy as ten stones where once that had been vigour. Indeed, how long ago had it now been?

"I do not remember clearly," she said with hesitation. "Perhaps two, possibly three, days ago I had some berries and roots. They quenched the worst bite of hunger – and I had some water. Before then I cannot recall. There is not much to find in these lands, and the days are much the same ..."

Aragorn frowned. "Then it is a good thing I have brought food with me," he said, once more returning his attention to the bag by his side. The smell came quickly, wafting into the air and made water fill her mouth, and he found inside dried meat and bread; enveloped in large, yellowing leaves and flax-strings that brought a memory to her mind.

"You passed through Lothlórien?"

He shook his head, removing the wrappings to hand her a loaf of bread. Gladly she accepted. "No," he then said, "I came only to the outskirts of the forest and walked within sight of the border-wardens; they came to me on my journey, by fortune, and food I received to aid me onward." While the Ranger told his story, he once more tended to her wounded arm; he rifled through a small pile of wood, not used to feed the flames, and found two pieced useful to him. "For a night and a day I stayed with them. News we shared, but I was swift on my way once more through the woodlands at the banks of the Anduin. With haste I had to follow the words brought by the Elves of Mirkwood."

The lengths of the splints were compared to her arm, turned one way and then another to properly fit, until Aragorn finally seemed satisfied. He chipped away a small protruding part with his knife.

Rell listened with rapt attention, for she then heard a tale previously untold; speculations had been her company throughout a long and arduous journey, a way over fen and field where every step had been plagued by doubt. Which way had her uncle taken, and had she been right in her choices? She winced as he pressed the splints tight on both sides of her bone, securing them with thin cords of rope. What had been his purpose? "I tried to find your tracks along the Great River, but I found nothing."

He briefly assessed his work, tugging on the strings, and deemed it acceptable. At last he made a sling of linen.

Then he looked at her.

"That would have been a difficult task, indeed, even for a seasoned hunter." The waterskin was offered to her, urging her to drink until there was no more, before he spoke again. Rell drank greedily, feeling his gaze upon her. When she returned it to him, empty, he gave her a piece of meat and carried on. "I left my horse with them – whether it will find a new home beneath the golden trees, or returned to Rivendell, I cannot say. I travelled the river by boat, only stepping onto the banks in the late hours of night, until I came to the most southern part of the Brown Lands. Then, by foot, I came around the Emyn Muil."

Thoughtfully, Rell chewed on her food, picturing the long pathless ways through a desolate desert; formless withered slopes, without tree or grass to hide the small, grey figure of a lone Ranger. Never had she expected him to leave his horse, nor take the North-way around the rocky hills. Orcs and other evil creatures often moved in great numbers there. How mistaken she had been! "I went South," she said, gulping down the salted meat despite a dryness in her mouth. Still, there was a grave hunger present, yet the many days without food also made it hard for her to stomach much. Rell felt nauseous.

"Through Rohan?"

"Yes, and then I followed the river into Gondor." Rell told only very little of her own journey, far too concerned and interested in her uncle's path through the Wilderland. "I was given leave to pass the ford of Cair Andros. My intention had been to meet you somewhere in the marshlands, since I believed you were to come through Emyn Muil. For what reason I still do not know," she added, hoping the anticipation in her heart did not seep into her voice. So many questions filled her mind, whirled into one tangled mess that she, alone, could find no answers to.

Yet her uncle knew her well, and his grey eyes regarded her long and with sternness.

She squirmed under his gaze; wetting her lips before swallowing. For a long while he said nothing, but at length he let out a sigh and nodded. "Very well. Here, then, more shall be made clear to you, and perhaps your inquisitive mind will find some peace." He settled on the ground and drew his cloak tight. "Our home is in the North; us, Rangers of the wild, hunters of the Enemy," he began. Rell did not understand why he started as he did, but she remained quiet and shifted closer to the flames. Her head came to meet his shoulder. "Mostly we find our foes in Eriador and Arnor, and many leagues lie between here and our home. So, what made me cross mountains and plains, into far countries where others are tasked with protecting the peace?

"To fully understand my reasons, one must first look to another time and another story; though this story is keyed together by speculation and guess-work, where I only know parts. Not even Gandalf, for it was he that set me to the task, knows the full tale. But you will now hear all that I know, and I know that my trust in you will not be misplaced. What you hear now will never part from your lips again."

Aragorn fell silent, gazing eastward to the far horizon where a pale blue-grey tinted the clouds.

Dawn crept over the lands of Mordor.

Rell pulled her legs close, knees under her chin; no longer did she feel tired. "I promise," she said.

And so it was that the Ranger told her about a company of thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, on a quest to reclaim a long-lost kingdom from a dragon of old. Of a strange creature, lurking in the deep darkness beneath the Misty Mountains; a game of riddles, and a magical ring hiding its wearer from the Seen world. A gift, it had been called. But the creature was not a known evil of the world, so strange that for a long time it remained in the mind of one person of wisdom, who once had heard the tale. The Grey Wizard had grown increasingly concerned, until at last he sought counsel with the Dúnedain chieftain. The hunt began.

Rell listened with amazement, but though she wished to question and consider every step, she kept quiet. Mostly her thoughts fell upon the ring; a cold chill crawled across her skin, slowly, dreadful. It had been the wizard's guess that this creature – this Gollum – would search for the ring, and in so he had been right. It left its dark sanctuary beneath the Misty Mountains, lured out by some vile purpose. Yet the wretched Gollum escaped the watch and disappeared into the wild, without a trace or tracks to follow.

"The Elves of Mirkwood had seen a ghostly-pale creature sniffing about their borders, so told their emissaries, and they had once been asked to watch for it. But long before they could capture him, he had slipped away south," Aragorn continued. "That is now many moons ago, for there are leagues upon leagues between the Elvenking's Halls and Rivendell, and long I feared the trail had gone cold. While the Elves would not go far beyond their own borders, it would seem Gollum was headed closer to Mordor from what they could tell ... Though what dark and evil purpose he had in mind I cannot imagine."

"I believed you had left to hunt for the creature, the one we had looked so long for, when I read your letter to Halbarad–" She avoided his eye."–and I, too, came here so very close to the Dark Land with this in mind. It would seem that we walked two different paths, yet our journeys ended in much the same way. But why would Gollum come here? Is he a creature wrought by the evil of Sauron, called back to its master's side?"

"No," Aragorn said. "I do not believe he is, at least not entirely and wholly."

The memory of pale eyes and grasping hands came to her, and Rell shivered. There had been a strange green gleam in the fathomless orbs. "Certainly there is evil in him!"

"Perhaps." The last twigs were cast upon the flames as the first light of morning came; thin and pale strips coating the dark sky in orange, as a wind swept in from beyond the eastern hills. "I have searched far for tracks over the Dagorlad and walked in sight of the Black Gate, though there I found nothing to follow. At last I felt despair, defeated by the craftiness of Gollum, and put my last hope and effort into searching here within Emyn Muil before turning back. Finally, it would seem, that some luck was upon me – indeed I found a clear trail to follow. Though what I found was not what I had expected."

Heat came to her chilled cheeks.

"Why did you not tell me this sooner?" She ventured to ask. "How I wished to have known before."

"If you had known, would your decision have been different? Would you not then have disregarded my orders? Rather stayed at home, finished your training as I had instructed? No, I think not. I did not tell you all this before, for it is not a burden of worry you should carry. Your desire to join me would not have lessened, nor been easier to resist, if I had spoken sooner," Aragorn said. "It was best to tell you nothing."

She ducked her head, knowing well there was nothing but truth in his words.

"You will continue the hunt," Rell mumbled as understanding dawned on her, drawing her knees closer as her gaze was diverted. It was not a question, for she knew well her uncle would not return to the Angle with her. Not now. Not when he had finally sighted this malicious thing; so close he was, yet it would be no small feat to capture Gollum within the Emyn Muil. Least of all with her and her injuries. "And all I have become to you is a burden."

Aragorn shifted and came to sit by her side. His larger hand grasped her shoulder, a weight of reassurance and comfort, and he shook her lightly. "Never that," he said. "Never will you be a burden to me." A smile stole over his lips as he retracted his arm, brushing hair away from her face before it came to rest by his side once more. "Though, admittedly, you can often be a great worry for me."

Rell gave him a brief, half-humoured look, but then the pair of Rangers fell silent; gazing eastward from their spot to the high peaks of the Emyn Muil, where now the first glowing touches fell upon the rocks. Day approached. There had been no rest for them throughout the night, and she could feel a drowsiness linger in the back of her mind. Her eyes were heavy, but her wounds had been tended to and there was little more reason to remain where they were currently resting. If they were to have a chance to search for Gollum once more, they were, already, at a clear disadvantage.

It had been several days since Rell's fall from the cliff. Her first encounter with the pale creature, that had been less than advantageous, felt like a blurred memory. A nightmare clouded by pain and despair. Her uncle had found tracks, still fresh on the rain-washed stones, the morning before – but going in an entirely different direction than she had last seen it. First one way and then another, back and forth as if it went in circles. Was it clever enough to cast a ruse; to trick them to take a wrong turn in the stony hills? They would have but one chance, or else have lost their only possibility of capture.

Struggling and breathing heavily Rell was assisted into the saddle by her uncle, where after he stomped out the last dull embers of fire. Grey smoke trailed into the brightening sky, and as she looked to the East, to Mordor beyond the horizon, the sun pierced the cover of clouds with reddened streaks. The morning appeared fair, much to their luck; a much welcome aid in their continued hunt.

Rell stroked Luin behind its piqued ears, leaning forward to whisper her heartfelt gratitude to the horse.

Her death would have been one of great pain and torment, if Gollum had had unhindered access to her broken body. She could not have fought off the searching, digging, hands. "When we come back home I will give you all the oats, carrots, and apples you want," Rell said. "And I shall groom you twice a day!" She kissed its forehead. Then she twisted the reins around her uninjured wrist, pulling tight until she felt properly secured, and glanced to her uncle.

Remote grey shapes moved on the wind, drifting and rolling clouds, as morning lay before them. The wind was in her face; cold, but no longer biting. Around them the black stones glimmered in the rising sun, and Aragorn stepped forward and back through the ravine. Waning shadows drew narrow and long. Luin fell into place behind him, unguided by Rell as if the horse well knew to follow their chieftain. The clacking and clicking of hooves echoed into the silence, so loud that the Ranger's feet went unheard.

Rell shifted and settled, trying to not apply unnecessary pressure to the broken arm rested in her lap. Restless and aching. Her sword had been unbuckled and hung now from a strap in the saddle; she felt naked without it, though not entirely unsafe with the straight and unwavering back of her uncle before her. She smiled. To have company once more truly was a blessing, after so long alone in the wilderness. The solitude had driven her to fear and despair, clouded her judgement until mistake after mistake had been made.

While she rode, silent in thought, it gave her plenty of time to think about her long journey. Of course, if one was to ask and Rell had to honestly admit when it had all gone wrong, it would have been upon leaving the Angle – she understood that now. Too much value had been put into her own skills, believed she understood the world enough to venture out alone, and certainly she had been proven wrong. There was no need for Aragorn to chastise her foolish actions, for she had by then felt punishment in both body and mind aplenty.

She sighed and turned her gaze to the narrow path through the ravine.

It was a little farther off when Rell was taken with astonishment. Where she had gone one way and then another, only describable as rash indecision until she was truly lost, the much older Ranger stepped with surety. As if the path was as familiar as the old dust-trails of Eriador. At times he would crouch to the ground and pause for many moments, long fingers brushing against the hard, gleaming rocks or soft mud; at once knowing which way to then go. Other times, when the ground rose and fell or the path forked into many turns, he looked at the stones around him. It seemed as though they whispered to him, a language only he could understand; showing him the way.

Then he would nod to himself and quickly, face without the shadow of uncertainty, choose a way to follow. The Rangers passed through gullies, skirted deep ridges until the ground began to slope down; for several miles they went without rest, and above the sun climbed from morning to noon, yet still they went slowly but steadily downhill. There was no memory of this place in her mind, but the trust in her heart was unwavering. Whether he would find the creature, or a way out, Rell cared only little. As long as she was no longer lost.

Rell had at one point dozed off, slumped into the saddle, until she woke with a start as the ground came to an incline and she almost tumbled off. They had passed through a deep hollow, and the road behind was covered in shadows as she peered back; now the slope reached towards the chill, blue-grey heavens, and the Rangers followed.

Through bleary eyes she found her uncle to have fallen back, now walking by Luin's side. Then she looked about her. The gulch widened ahead, stretched into a wide tumbled flat of rock; boulders lay scattered, and amongst them grew many stunted trees. It was the first green – if they could be called as much – Rell had seen for many days. Wind-bitten and broken, gnarled they stood; bent and wretched until nothing but grey boles remained. Broken stumps and roots that had not completely surrendered their grip on the stones.

The ravine had been deep, deeper than she had first thought, for despite the long climb they were still surrounded by towering ridges and they continued ahead further still. When they came to the end of the trees, Aragorn took Luin's reins and came to a halt by the odd-twisted trunk of an old beech. With a gloved hand he motioned to the grey-brown bark, beckoning for her attention. Rell leaned forward, grip tightening on the saddle.

"Emyn Muil is a treacherous maze, which you know well," he said. "There are ways through – though few and hidden. You should always know how to return, if the path chosen proves wrong. This is one way to do so."

Small, easily overlooked unless one knew it would be there, a rune had been scratched into the tree's trunk. So this is how, she thought and reached a hand forward; gently she swept a finger across the carving. It was yet another proof of her rash thoughtlessness, for in her gladness to have finally reached Emyn Muil she had entered without rhyme or reason. Certainly, lost she had been! Rell shook her head. You fool!

Though they did not linger. Aragorn went by the slow path, bringing Luin after him, and only once in the afternoon did they halt briefly to eat and rest. Her uncle had walked far, but haste was clear upon his face. He did not plan to break for long. The creature weighed in his mind, heavy and ever-present. Rell ate a little more, bread and fruit, but declined the meat. A silvery-grey fog crept slowly over the high ridges, across the dark stones like long searching fingers. It grew colder around them.

The Rangers spoke very little, only passing comments, and both were left to their own thoughts.

Then they continued; until the chill day turned darker, and shadows crawled out of the East. The sun of Winter passed beyond the ridge, while the wind turned cold and biting against her face. It would soon be night. Exhaustion was upon Rell, and she could travel no further that day without succumbing to the strain in her mind and body. With the slow climb of the moon, a tremble rose through her; faint it was at first, in her fingers and hands, yet surely, steadily, it spread. It did not take long before her uncle noticed.

Her brow burned with a fever, as she was eased off the horse. A warm feeling rose through her chest, scalding until her throat clenched. Ashen faced, she clung to her uncle until she could feel the hard stones beneath her feet. She felt like throwing up, yet all that came were dry-heaving coughs and struggled gasps for air. No clear thoughts took shape in her mind.

Twilight was about them, and her vision turned dark.

Trembling, she stood there; cold sweat glistened and fell like silver drops from her face. Aragorn helped her lie down, despite the gnawing and cutting rocks, and the coolness numbed the burning sensation of her skin. A hand was pressed against her brow, rested there for a while, until her eyelids became too heavy to keep open. She could hear Aragorn's voice, but understood it not. There was a rustle about her and her face was carefully lifted; she felt a soft bundle of fabrics placed below her head, but then she lost the fight against her fatigue and the fever.

The night passed silently, though her fevered dreams were visited by swift-passing glimpses of the world, of memories, and the softest murmurs that wove between her thoughts. Fleeting and quick they were, as if she could reach out only to have them slip between her fingers, and Rell could not understand them. Though they seemed familiar. Around her all was black, an endless darkness with no way out, and the voice the only flicker of light that came and went. If only she could hear the words!

For a long time she chased the calling words, in what felt like an endless night.

The morning came, pale and clammy, when Rell was shook awake by her uncle's gently insisting hands. He sat, stooped over her, on the ground and watched her. His gaze showed concern; he laid his hand on her forehead, spoke with a soft voice she could barely hear, in a language she knew but did not understand. Rell allowed her eyes to close again, wishing to return to sleep, yet he would not allow it. Again, she was roused. "You must stay awake," Aragorn urged. "Cast aside the malady that claims you."

Cold water met her parched lips, and she drank with difficulty. Droplets trickled down her neck and into her hair. Still she was lying on the hard rocks, but over her white-puffed clouds drifted lazily ahead; borne upon a faint wind, painted in gold by a sun peering only just through a foggy haze. Day had come. Already it had climbed the eastern ridges of Emyn Muil. Her gaze flickered about, disoriented, and her breathing came as shallow rasps. "For how long–," she paused and swallowed, attempting to sit. "How long have I been asleep?"

Her body ached and burned.

A wet cloth was pressed against her brow, its soothing touch and the smell of athelas chased off the worst, demanding caresses of fever. He would not let her rise. "You have been plagued throughout the night," he answered slowly, "I believe the worst is now over, but your long fatigue and injuries had become too much for your body." Her uncle then washed her face, coated in a sheen of sweat, and spoke again. "You need to eat something, and then rest once more."

The day was now growing, and the fog had lifted. Everything came back to her slowly, through a haze of drowsy dehydration and weakness, and she struggled to keep her eyes open. For a brief moment she did not remember much, least of all where she was or why, but it all then came back to her.

Rell shook her head, attempting to swat away his hand. "No," she said. With great exertion, she leaned against her uninjured arm and came to sit. "How can I delay you further! There is a long way to go yet, if we wish to catch Gollum before he disappears in the hills. I can ride." His gaze was stern, yet a flicker of concern crossed his face as he was about to speak against her. If she could, she would then have sprung to her feet. The younger Ranger cut off his words, stubbornness evident in her tone. "I can, uncle, believe my words. In this I will not fail you."

Aragorn opened his mouth as if to speak, but he said nothing. He looked at her face, seemingly to hesitate. Fingers curling tightly into a fist, Rell made no sign; silent, patient for a decision not yet made. Over her heart crept a darkness, a fear of defeat, as if they only had this one chance to catch Gollum. To make up for the time lost tending to her injuries. What thoughts her uncle strove with, she could not tell, but instead she watched the pale sun fall upon his face.

A light kindled in his eyes at last. He sighed. "Very well," he said and stood. With a hand outstretched to her, Rell was pulled to her feet; her head spun, dizzying patches of light and dark flickered across her vision, but swiftly she steadied herself. "Though know this! If the choice comes to it – between your safety and the capture of Gollum – I will not hesitate to let him go. Even if I will have travelled the long road for naught."

Rell ducked her head, yielding to his words, and muttered a reply of understanding.

With his help she climbed the horse and left the task of packing up camp to her uncle. Instead she rummaged through the satchels for food, quickly dividing the last bread in two equal halves; she finished it with a great hunger, long before the other Ranger accepted the other half, and still she could feel her stomach rumble. She wetted her lips. They could not forage for provisions for many miles ahead, so she welcomed what little she could get. No bird nor beast made Emyn Muil or the Dead Marshes their home, and certainly the two could not live off withered snakes and worms, or the vile things in the pools.

She could not imagine fish to live there!

And certainly not any she could eat.

As the day wore on there was little change about them, at least at first. The sky was mostly clouded, leaving their path to many shadows, but when the hour passed midday the cover grew increasingly dense. The Rangers went on as icy pellets, a mixture of rain and snow, fell from the sky. They moved slowly, following attentively the winding paths and sloping hills, and it grew more and more difficult to find solid footings. If not for her uncle's marks, never would they find a way through.

Rell had her hood drawn down across her head, almost to her mouth, and she could feel the sleet trickle like rills of water down her cloak. She felt cold and tired and miserable. One hour stretched into the next, until at last the downpour was over. A windless and sullen quiet fell upon the Emyn Muil; though much welcome it was, for slowly the clouds parted, drifting apart by a breeze that did not reach them, and a dim light came. The pools glistened black, and she could finally turn her gaze up from the ground.

They followed a hollow, delved in the side of a low hill, as it came to a sudden turn. A spark of recognition came to her then. "I have walked here before!" She exclaimed. "This is the way out!" Joy stirred in her heart; her uncle had led them to the end of the rock-maze. Through the narrow ravine, where she many days before had guided a reluctant Luin, she could discern an opening before them. They came to a sharp brink, and the path cut between walls of rock into the wide uplands. Vast fens lay ahead; already the reek, foul and heavy, came to her. She craned her head, glancing back one last time to the shadowed walls of stone.

The sound of running water echoed, accompanied by the soft clip-clop of hooves, through the ravine.

Finally they came out in the open; the ridges ended abruptly, and an openness spread for many miles beyond the horizon. The small river trickled and gurgled by, feeding the stagnant pools, and Rell looked with clear dislike across the marshlands. Only few bushes grew, and there were patches of grass and reeds upon the river's sides. Aragorn led her horse forward, soon reaching the muddy bank where he then allowed Luin to drink. With some difficulty, limbs and joints screaming in agonized complaint, Rell scrambled out of the saddle and came straight to the river. The stony stream was here shallow, and it was with great delight she found a stone large enough to sit upon.

The water was icy-cold in her hand, but, as she scrubbed her bruised face, clarity came to her mind. Her wounds looked raw and red. The cold did not help against the pain she felt there; it stung, sharp needles biting to the marrow of her bones, though her treatment was without mercy. Clean she certainly would be! The silence around her was only broken by the burbling of the marshes, and the soft splashes and squelches of Luin's hooves in the mud.

Meanwhile, Aragorn surveyed their surroundings. Often he stooped, finding rumours in the earth and searched for traces of strange feet. Then he walked further, strides purposeful, and with eyes locked upon the ground. Satisfied that she would be no cleaner than this, Rell halted her ministrations and watched him quietly. Back and forth between the river and the tall ridge of Emyn Muil he stepped. The Ranger missed nothing, moving with care and diligence; no blade of grass bent, or marks in the soft mud, would go unnoticed. This, of course, went on for a while until Rell grew restless.

She wiped the water from her hands and stood, looking first with disheartened eyes to the lofty cliffs of Emyn Muil; rising like an impenetrable wall, and it barred the way West for many leagues. It had been suggested that Gollum, driven by a hunger through the Dead Marshes, had followed her through the rocky hills. The very thought made her blood run cold, and swiftly she turned her gaze away; it did not sit well with her – to be hunted so – yet also it would be their greatest fortune. The creature would not then continue his current path, to be lost within Emyn Muil where the Rangers could not follow. If luck was with them, he had turned instead to the open, easier crossings of the wetlands.

Stepping slowly from rock to rock, wet and slippery beneath her feet, Rell crossed the lazy river and reached the other bank. She cast a glance to her uncle, but then began searching the muddy ground for tracks. The reeds grew in greater numbers, swaying and singing in the cold wind; a smell of rot and foulness was in the air, uninvited, and once more Rell remembered ghostly figures in the mists.

Her hand moved to her belt, searching for the hilt of her sword, only to find it not there. Luin was moving from one tuft of withered grass to the next, grazing what little there could be found, and there, strapped to the saddle, hung a long sheathed blade. She frowned. For a while longer she searched the ground, finding nothing, yet never did the distance to the river grow; without her weapons the Ranger dared not go far.

In the end Rell crossed the river once more. "There is nothing to be found," she said. "No living thing has passed here."

Rell clicked her tongue, calling the horse over to her. Perhaps Gollum had taken another way, slipped away by paths only his wicked hands and feet could tread. Lost now to them. With her thoughts wandering, she loosened the sword and welcomed the familiarity in her hand. Heavy but balanced. Sharp, and so long unused. Twice she turned it over in her palm, tracing her thumb across the blade's edge. While she fastened it to her belt, she looked to Aragorn.

He had paused at her words, watched her with long contemplation; his eyes did not betray his thoughts, and Rell knew not if her words struck true. Behind him a light grew, a dimness suddenly turned to blazing gold, as the clouds parted. The water shimmered, as if gems were hidden beneath the surface, and the sullen brown of the land became green. The glooms of Mordor were broken. At last he spoke. "In light and darkness of our age many things shall pass away, yet not this frailty of hope that remains. Would you be released from my service – from the Dúnedain and the star upon your chest – and so return to home and hearth, though you were not asked to be here?"

"No," she said with haste, "I do not want to be parted from you. By my life and my sword, never would I turn my back on my duty. Such shame I did not ask for!"

"Then do not be so quick to despair."

Aragorn started off again. With earnest perseverance he searched; following the slow stream and the boulders strewn across the land. Abashed, Rell quickly followed after, accompanied only by the sound of hoof and foot in the quiet of the marshlands. The towering ridges of Emyn Muil stood stark against the open sky, twisting and tall teeth tearing through blue, and the wind howled through its jagged edges. Rell's feet were heavy, yet it felt good to walk once more; strength had come back to her with food and water.

While her uncle sought tracks in the ground, she kept her gaze on their surroundings. She watched ahead and back, the open plains that stretched far; the meres and fens, and the sky for all things living. Her sword was ready. Ahead the bank descended gently to a shallow shelf of stone where the river widened. Mirror-still, its depths deceptive, they had come to a great lake; it widened further, until its waters lapped against the cliff-wall of Emyn Muil. No ripple tore across the surface, no movement or sound came, yet the air was pungent with some hidden decay.

The cold chill of Winter lay upon the lake; thin sheets of ice and frost crept slowly across the still waters, and if not for the stream's constant flow, it would have frozen over completely. The ground crunched beneath her feet.

To the west the sun had begun its descent, climbing over the rim of Middle-earth; it seemed like the hills smoldered, a fading glare before a fire goes out. They could go no further in the shadow of the hills, for the water blocked their path, though neither would they venture into the marshes with the light waning. There was nothing to do but camp and wait for the approach of night.

Slowly they clambered down to the riverbank, where here the reeds grew densely and proved some shelter, down until they could go no further.

Side by side they sat, their backs against a large solitary boulder and faces turned to the open land southward. The ground was soft and damp, slowly seeping through her clothes, and a feeling of misery fell upon the Rangers. Only very little did they eat; some dried fruit, and a small slip of salted meat; keeping provisions for the evil days ahead until they could reach friendlier lands. There was a bitter and dry tang in the air, and the wind had died.

"You sleep first," Aragorn told her. "Your strength is yet to recover in full."

Rell did not argue much, for exhaustion was soon over her, though she asked to take the watch of early morning. Drawing the cloak tight around her, she lay down. It was a struggle to sleep; twisting and turning to rest her broken arm without having to wake with a sore neck or stiff limbs. The camping place was cold, damp, and uncomfortable. For a while she looked out over the still lake and further, to the barren lands; as night crawled steadily up from beyond the Mountains to the East, soon all was lost to a formless gloom of grey. Aragorn sat by her side, his blade rested over his out-stretched legs; dark-grey eyes stared ahead into the night as he hummed softly.

Her last thoughts, brooding, were those of loathing. Such a hateful land.

The young Ranger's sleep was heavy and without dreams. Long, undisturbed until the breaking of dawn where she was slowly shaken awake. A hooded face appeared before her, masked by shadows, and for only a moment she startled. Her uncle rose, holding out an arm to pull her up; Rell took it and felt the confusion of sleep clear as wind, dancing across the lake, washed against her. She drew the cloak tight, feeling a shiver run through her body; misty-white puffs of breath disappeared into thin air before her. "It is cold!" She said.

He hummed a reply of agreement. Then she looked about them. Only a thin trail of light could be seen in the distant horizon, turning the dark blue to a gentle glow; the marshlands were still deep shadows, endless and shapeless, and small stars glistened above. The waxing moon was but a sickle, barely discernible above the western hills. Its silver light danced over the water surface, rippling as the wind blew. Rell stamped her feet.

"Can we not risk a fire?"

Aragorn tapped his ear, gesture clear, and Rell stilled to listen.

She heard naught but the enfolding silence; broken only by the soft lulls of waves lapping against the banks and the chuckling river, but Rell closed her eyes and sharpened her hearing. At first, she felt it – the tremor of a drum-beat, doom-doom-doom, running through the frosty ground – but soon she heard it. Many footsteps. Heavy they fell, clacking of iron; the faintest screech borne upon the wind, and at once she knew what made such sounds. "Orcs." She looked to her uncle, a scowl of distaste turning her eyes hard.

He nodded. "Marching for the Black Gate for hours now. They are many miles away, hastening up the road from the Grey Mountains, but certainly a sound enough reason not to start a fire."

There was no arguing against such reasoning, so Rell instead took to walking as her uncle settled. He would get only little sleep. By the breaking of dawn they would have to start again. She followed the riverbank, treading slowly and carefully for the ground was wet, and her gaze stalked the dim plains for movement. While no army of Orcs would venture into the marshlands, she still felt on edge; suddenly made aware of their closeness to Mordor. They were in a land without allies, far from the borders of friendlier places. Two against many. The thought of war was dreadful, yet also horribly anticipated.

Her fingers tapped soundlessly against the hilt of her sword, brow drawn tight in worry and thought. Her injuries an aching throb when she moved. The pale sunrise, fair but dull, seemed but a mockery; a great foreboding unease hung over them, and it was difficult to cast off the hopelessness that clung to her heart. Rell picked up a stone and rolled it around in her hand. Then she threw it far out into the center of the lake, watching it disappear with a plop below the surface. Thin, shimmering rings spread, then vanished.

Rell walked a bit further along the shore, getting warmth back into her stiffened limbs, but then returned to her uncle. Luin stirred from sleep and turned deep, brown eyes to the approaching Ranger; running her uninjured hand repeatedly through the mane, she stood for many long moments and watched the ground. Her boots were caked with mud; edges frayed, and a hole was starting to appear by her left toes. Again, she listened to the quiet lands and found that the drum-beat of many marching feet had disappeared.

The host had reached the plain of Dagorlad. Now only silence was about them, while Rell settled on a protruding boulder. More vicious beasts to join Mordor's ranks, she thought, drawing her knees to her chin with some difficulty. An ever-present red glare could be seen in the far horizon, East beyond the mountains there; such was the evil of Sauron, and for many years – long-forgotten by those who should have watched – he planned and built. Perhaps some, wise men and elders, had foreseen the return of darkness, but it was over-late. The Enemy would soon be ready – but would they be as well?

Sleepless, the Great Eye watched far and wide, always searching; yet the two grey-clad Rangers went unnoticed in the dull night. Rell was left with her thoughts, spinning webs of concern and pressing fear. The day of arising was drawing near. A fell wind blew, drawing with it ash and smoke; rot and everything foul. There she sat, and watched, and waited for the slow-creeping dawn in the distance; so it was that far away and almost straight ahead, a pale reddened glow grew under the black sky. The sun was fenced in by the great, dark mountains and the edge of night, almost entire swallowed by black.

Rell stood and sniffed the air. A light came in her eyes.

Hoarfrost glittered. It was impossible to look far, veiled and misty where the sun could be seen rising pale. The wetlands ran away in the flats, until they faded into a featureless and shadowy distance. Grey and brown blending with the hem of the sky. Rell quickly stepped to her uncle; he became instantly awake with her approach, and briefly she wondered if he had slept at all, yet there was no alarm in his actions when clear eyes sought hers. "It is morning," she said.

While Aragorn shook of the last remnants of sleep, Rell brought their waterskins to the lake; breaking the thin sheet of ice, she filled them with cold and fresh water as her gaze looked across the mirror-surface. Then she drank and washed her face. For a while she looked to her injuries and her bruises. Slowly, she rolled her aching shoulders; one way and then back, flexed her fingers and stretched until her joints popped. Her left arm throbbed and she sniffed the linens, smelling for infection. There was none.

The last faint stars disappeared with the breaking of dawn, and the Rangers began their journey. Following the bank back, they soon came to the mouth of the river; a heavy silence had fallen, for not even the pale sunrise could chase away the desolate gloom of the marshes. Smoke-like wisps of mist crept up from boggy pools, drifting high into the sky where light grew. There was no wind and the air was cold. While they did not speak, soon they came into familiar roles as they had back in Eriador. Her chieftain searched for tracks along the banks of the lake, continuously making a way northbound, and Rell kept her gaze high in all directions. Watching the horizon for enemies, though her bow and weapon was of little use.

They would hold the course North, following the Emyn Muil for many miles, until the hills led into the Noman-lands. The path was hard and dreary, and they made only slow progress; there were fewer mires and flooded fens, but the ground was soft with deep mud. It slowed their walk. Rougher and more barren than the Dead Marshes. Exposed, out in the open they felt, and so they walked with weary steps.

The clouds of night had passed, swift-flowing, borne upon a high wind that reached them not. The sun came out, pale and bright. As their cover melted away, the Rangers halted in a low hollow shrouded by reeds and thorny bushes. For a while Aragorn stood on the ridge, looking both eastwards and southwards. Silent and watchful. He stood with his head posed, as if he was listening, and Rell watched with quiet attention. Light fell on him; fair and grim he seemed all at once.

Suddenly, and with great haste, he ran quickly to the left.

She could only watch in a daze, thoughts disrupted by his unexpected movements. Ten long strides he took, head bowed low as he stooped over the ground; swiftly he then turned and crouched. Deep-set eyes watched the earth with great deliberation. Brushed across the surface of the mud; twirled dry, yellow straws of grass between his fingers. Quickly, Rell rose and walked carefully to him, watching her steps. Her heartbeat quickened.

With disbelief and wonder she watched his findings.

The marks of feet.

Chapter Text

For another day and another night, Éomer stayed at Helm's Deep. It was only very little that the inhabitants of the fortress saw of the prince and the marshal, for they found council in one another; discussing the plight of their people, and the long, hard months to come of either peace or war. The work of Saruman was their foremost concern, but also the lands to the North and East were considered with great detail. To them it felt as if they were surrounded by enemies on all sides.

Many a time out-riders came to the keep, bringing with them tidings of the world.

But now the hour of departure was upon them. He had been away long enough from Aldburg, and the Eastemnet could not go long without leadership and protection. It was some comfort that a heightened watch had been set by the Gap of Rohan, so that no hillmen could succeed in another attack. The sight of his people, those he was tasked with protecting, lying dead; hewn down in their own homes; and the dark-spiralling smoke and flames that had blotched out the clear skies, left his heart black with hatred. Men and women. Children. He was eager to ride once more, but loath to part from his cousin.

They had spent the morning together, side by side on the dais, giving instructions to his riders for their departure. Éothain had had much work to do in the early hours of light. One hundred of his men would not return to their awaiting families; they would remain, to strengthen the forces of Théodred, and defend the region if it came to such. When there was nothing more to be said, the prince and Éomer stood. All about them, the room fell quiet. "We shall be ready," Théodred said, so quietly only the two of them could hear his words. "Let no thoughts of despair grip your heart, cousin."

"If only our fears are unfounded. That such dark times were not before us, but rather those of gladness and peace." Éomer sighed deeply and raked a hand through his hair. "However, we are not blessed with such luck." Then they clasped hands, grips firm as their eyes met; both did they know what lay ahead, that war could not be avoided in spite of their best efforts, and it would not be long now. "May our courage and our hearts never falter."

"Be careful."

"So must you," Éomer said. "Remain vigilant."

Together they left the hall and passed through the great entrance, where the bright light of morning slanted through opened doors; stepping out into the open where they were met with Éomer's riders. Taking the steps two at a time with wide strides, the cousins approached the company. Éothain came to meet the marshal, the horse-tailed helmet tucked beneath his arm then offered forward. His horse had already been saddled, white coat glistening and restless tail flickering.

Éomer flung himself up into the saddle, quickly checking the reins until Firefoot calmed and stood perfectly still. The breath of the large animal came as puffs in the chill air.

He looked to his men; grim-faced, touched by the bitterness of hard days, yet with unwavering loyalty in their hearts. Brave they were, and it was clear in their eyes when they returned his gaze. Not one of them would ever falter, nor hesitate to ride out into battle by his command. He placed the helmet upon his head. Firefoot danced across the stones of the courtyard, and with the deep echo of many hooves, they parted. Éomer raised his hand in farewell.

The road from the Hornburg was bathed in a golden light, though the far distance was darkened by grey clouds and the wind was on his face. Behind him, as he peered back one final time, Thrihyrne stood lofty; red the peaks glowed, shimmering both gold and white for ever were they covered in snow. They turned onto the old road, cutting a way through many hills.

Along the riders went. The new morning soon blotted from the sky, and dark fell about them. Heavy grey clouds came swift on the wind, borne far and beyond the eaves of Fangorn and the Misty Mountains. Coldness was in the air. As he rode, Éomer's mind wandered, and he contemplated many things. Both large and small. It did not sit well with him to leave the matter of Saruman to his cousin, though neither could he forsake his duties eastbound. They were now beset from two fronts. A wavering eye sees only little, he thought. A warning to his doubtful heart.

Far and long they rode.

Through the day and into the night, until at last they camped on the top-most crest of a wide valley. With the first rays of morning they set out again; their horses were swift-footed and rested, and many miles passed beneath the trampling of hooves. The sloped hills evened out into a long stretch of open lands and fields, with only few rocks protruding like grey teeth in the tall, swaying grass. Scattered patches of trees were but mere dots in the distance. They had left the old road almost an hour earlier, keeping the contoured ridges of the White Mountains as their guiding beacon upon their right.

Throughout the day they had ridden undisturbed, passing only few farmsteads, houses and barns, and fenced pastures. When the sun climbed to its highest point in the sky, they came to a halt beneath a large, lone-standing oak. On all sides about them the view was open. Massive and gnarled roots crawled like fingers over the earth, securing the tree trunk in its place as a last defence against the ever-changing seasons; ridges of bark, dried greyish brown from the deep-cutting winds and orange-brown leaves glowed. Its crown of leaves was an intricate web of branches until barely any light filtered through, and, instead, a cooling shade fell over the Marshal. Dismounting, Éomer sat men to the watch and out-riders were sent ahead, bringing with them words of the Éored's arrival.

A breeze swept across the field, fresh with air from the snow-covered peaks that shimmered white against a cloudless sky.

The morning had again dawned grey and damp, holding a promise of rain, but the clouds soon cleared with the passing hours, until the far horizon now claimed the last flecks of swirling white and grey. As he peered into the distance, shielding his gaze with a flat hand, he noticed a glimmer of water barely a narrow line between the green. They had gradually moved closer to the Snowbourn, slowly leading the horses through the plains, but as they now approached Edoras Éomer required a moment's peace. To think.

Throughout the journey from Helm's Deep, he had decided to turn aside from the road and pass by the court of Meduseld. A gnawing thought had long festered in his mind, whispering words of ill. The king was not well, that was clear. But if it was the crippling of body and mind from old age, or something more malicious, Éomer could not tell. He remembered his uncle, the one who had taken two orphaned children in, as if they were his own; his strength, his honour and bravery, but such memories had long since become muddled. Tarnished by what was now.

Éomer wished to see the state of the court and its king for himself.

Steeling his heart, words of their departure spread and orders were issued, as he climbed into the saddle once more. A solitary horn blew, far but soon faint upon the wind.

Éomer spurred Firefoot, and the great steed sprang forth; tufts of dirt and grass flew from trampling hooves. Before them stood the mountains, streaked with black, and rolling hills passed in a blur of green. They carved a way southeast, until the hills grew tall and many, but always ahead he kept the Snowbourn. The blue hue of the river changed colour as they approached; an almost translucent paleness near the shore, changing to a deep dark as the shallows disappeared into the depth of foaming waters.

A dirt-road – flattened by both feet, hooves and wagon wheels – followed the winding ways of the waters. Swiftly he pulled at the reins and changed his course onto the path straight south. Wings flapped, loudly and with strength, as blue-grey ducks were disturbed between the reeds. Flanked by both great and small stones, and a deep vegetation of bulrushes and willow-trees on one side, and the open grasslands on his other, Éomer could soon see a shimmer in the far distance. Where the valley between two spurs of the mountain opened among the hills, stood a tall peak at the mouth of the valley.

Solitary, the green hill of weathered rock rose above the plain.

Noon was drawing to a close when the Marshal could once more see the golden roof of Meduseld, shining far over the land. The first streaks of dark blue and blackish grey, creeping over the cloudless sky to the East, heralded the slow arrival of evening. Still, night was some time away. They followed the road, weaving along with every bend and curve of the river-shore. From their position he could see the thorny fence encircling the city and green banners fluttering upon the wind from Starkhorn.

A new haste came to their steeds.

The path led them forward, passing by the mounds of ancient kings. High and green they stood. Éomer lowered his head in solemn greeting, for always were the barrows cause for great sorrow and reverence. Simbelmynë grew ever-green on their western sides. From the last hills the road sloped up the green shoulders of the rock, turned and followed the stockade hewn from old cedars the last stretch to the gate. Here, they slowed their horses and approached at a lessened pace. From beyond the fence came many sounds; the enclosing quietude was broken by voices, shouts, and laughter. The constant beat of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil, and the creaking and clanking of carts. A dog was barking, and a child wailed loudly.

Something ahead caught his gaze.

Where the road met the gates stood a lone figure clad in white. Éomer rose to attention, and delight and surprise stirred his heart. Behind her – for it was a woman, bright as the sun and white as snow – guards stood at a distance. Tall spears shimmered in the light of day; with green tabards pulled over chainmail, and helmets crowned with horse-tails on their heads. They raised their spears in greeting. A soft breeze plucked at her clothes, blowing loose strands of hair into her face. Her golden belt shimmered.

As Éomer jumped from the saddle, she, likewise, stepped forward to meet him.

For a moment, the sight of his sister turned all unpleasant thoughts aside, and only joy was left. Quickly, he came to stand before her and embraced the slim, graceful shoulders. "How glad I am to see you, Éowyn," he said. Laughter was in his voice. Then Éomer took a step back, looking over the woman before him; there was gladness, and love, in her grey eyes, but her face was cast in tired gloom that could not be overshadowed. The gazes of his riders were upon them, and so he said nothing of it.

"When word of your arrival reached us, I wanted to be here to meet you first," she said, holding out an arm for him to take. Her look became rueful. "How dearly I have missed you, brother. But what brings you on this path? You have not come here from Aldburg, and rather from our dearest cousin to the west?"

He gently patted her hand. "I came about this way."

Their eyes met briefly, and, despite the pursing of her lips, she gave a nod of understanding. His words were enough to still her questions. Éomer wished not to trouble her with matters of the Mark; to burden a heart so greatly troubled already. "Well." She smiled a thin smile and turned to the gates. "Glad I am of it! Come now, the King awaits your arrival."

Side by side they entered, as the dark gates were swung open before them. The guards bowed deep. Behind him the riders followed; Éothain had taken the reins of Firefoot, and a great rolling sound of hooves travelled through the ground paved with hewn stones. The people of Edoras were busy out and at work; swiftly they made way for the Marshal and his men, yet there was no hurry in the steps of Éomer. Concern brewed in his mind once more, and his walk was slow – as if it was but a leisurely stroll, that to him felt like the final walk to the gallows.

Chattering, sparkling in the pale light of early winter, a stream ran down the sloping path; its waters swift and churning as the hill wound further up. The stones turned to short flights of steps, and here he parted with his riders. His gaze turned to the high platform above. The stairs broadened onto the green terrace, and on the very top sat guards. They were seated; green shields flanked their sides, and drawn swords laid upon their knees. The doorwardens moved not, appearing statue-like if not for deep and watchful eyes that met Éomer's gaze.

Behind them was the great hall, Meduseld, home of Rohan's king and court. Its roof glowed golden in the pale light.

When Éomer climbed the long stair, they rose; silently they waited until he came before them. A single guard stepped forward. "Hail, Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark. You are expected by the King." A chilling wind blew cold from the lofty peaks of the White Mountains, tall and dark shadows looming against a blue sky.

The doorwarden moved aside, and the doors, groaning on great hinges, were swung open to reveal a dark hall. Long and broad it was, warmed by a clear-burning fire upon the hearth, and smoke was in the heavy air. Whispering voices echoed between pillars richly carved and decorated with woven cloths, and Éomer saw moving shapes in the half lights; shafts of light fell through high windows facing the East, but the hall seemed almost deserted. It put Éomer on edge, for their steps felt deafening in the quiet. He looked up to the dais.

There, upon a great gilded chair, sat a man.

Familiar he was, yet also foreign; so bent with age was his uncle, where there once had been strength; high and proud was the king in his memories. White was his hair now beneath the golden circlet, and slumped he sat so that he seemed small. Éomer's step faltered. There was a tension and urgency in Éowyn's grip on his arm, and he went forward, past the fire until he came to stand before the steps. "Hail, Théoden son of Thengel!" He called in a clear voice and bowed deep. "King of the Mark!"

When Éomer looked up, he was met with a gaze burning with a bright light as the king gazed upon him. Unblinking. Life had not been completely snuffed out, smothered by age, and he allowed a quiet sigh of relief. At first there was only silence, and the king did not move in his seat. The old man's breathing could be heard, wheezing rasps that grated on his ears.

Éowyn stepped forward and came to kneel by their uncle's side, white skirts pooled about her, a pale touch lightly placed on his withered sword-hand. Have their hands always been the same in size? "Uncle," she spoke tenderly, voice low. "My brother has arrived." The king's head turned slightly, closer at her words, and the single white diamond on his forehead shone.

Dry lips parted. "Éomer–"

But as the king started to speak, movement caught the marshal's attention as a shadow shifted from the corner of the hall. Forward stepped a wizened man, slow and calculated were his movements, clothed in black; with a face pale and sullen. His heavy-lidded eyes trailed over Éomer, and disdain felt clear upon his features. Like a snake he moved. Éomer straightened and sent a quick, flittering look to his sister; so vulnerable she appeared, as if shutters had come up over her grey eyes to mask her distress. "We greet you," the man said slowly, words weighed with great care.

Éomer barely inclined his head. "Gríma." Another name was said only in his mind and heart. Then he returned his gaze to the dais. "Strange, I find it, that not the King – my uncle – should greet me. I have travelled far."

"The king is not well," Gríma answered slowly. "Speak not ill of the lord of Rohan's courtesy, for I adviced him to leave your visit entirely up to others. Rest is needed, though still you request much and with little regard. What brings you here, lord Éomer, and with only half of your éored?" If he had not kept his feelings forcefully in check, Éomer would have then startled; cold was his face, and his hands clenched. The advisor smiled, honeyed and dangerous, yet it only made his face more haggard. "Many days ago we received word that the Third Marshal was riding west. Yet now you have returned with only one-hundred horses."

Shifting on his feet, shoulders squared, Éomer paused in thought. Anger flickered through his mind, though he kept his eyes turned to his uncle and his hand off his sword; he would not spare another glance on the venomous worm. "Théodred needed more men," he bit out, forcefully. "I provided them."

"Yet that is not in your power to command." The man walked the three steps up onto the dais, where he came to stand by the right side of the king. Éowyn turned rigid, though kept her head high and eyes steeled. Her jaw was taut, and frail was the light that fell upon her. "While questions of battle, brutal – crude, even – is best left in your most capable hands, I would think our forces are best kept at our eastern borders? Mordor is the enemy."

"If you understand it, then be content and say no more," returned Éomer. "If you have no wisdom for war, perhaps it is best not to speak witlessly of it?" He then addressed the king. "My lord, Gondor holds strong still! We should not expect any attacks on the Wold. But enemies have crossed our borders from the west. Dunlendings have raided villages, and surely they are the greater threat to our peace in this moment. I have spoken with your son, with Théodred, and he agreed."

Éomer took swift steps forward, all the while drawing forth his sword, and kneeled before the dais.

The blade was rested against his leg. "I did what I believed was right to protect the people of Rohan, my lord. If it was wrong, then I gladly offer my life as atonement." Dark were the stones beneath his lowered gaze, shimmering as clouds passed high above against a fleeting sun. No words were spoken, for the wickedness of Gríma – Wormtongue – could not rightfully intervene in the marshal's submission to his own king.

A shadow moved, and a weakened, feeble voice broke the silence. "Stand," said Théoden. The beat of a cane against the stones reverberated. "You have done right, sister-son."

When he looked up, he saw the figure of his uncle; bent and frail, like a tree swaying precarious in the wind – as if it could fall over at any time. White knuckles gripped a staff of twisted dark wood. With faltering steps the old man walked down from the dais and came to stand before Éomer. Behind him, Éowyn's face was thoughtful, grave, and Gríma's wretched features were hard to read. Slowly, Éomer rose. "My lord."

For a long-stretching moment, the king regarded his marshal. Slow and deliberate, but soon the clever eyes were clouded by weary age, and he turned to leave. Veiled had his gaze suddenly turned. A burden seemed heavy on his shoulders, and with the soft-repeated clacks of the cane, Éomer was left alone in the great hall with his sister. The advisor followed Théoden out; a second shadow attached to him, following wherever he walked.

Upon their departure, quickly Éomer now spoke. His voice was low and secret, naught but a soft hiss through his teeth, and none save Éowyn could hear him. "So dark it is here." He turned to face her. "Such great harm has come to Meduseld!"

There was sorrow in her grey eyes, but she did not speak. Rather, she came to stand by his side and with gentle hands led him outside. The air was fresh and cold, stark against the dull gloom behind them; a pale sun shone bright and lit the rooftops in gold. They stood by the steps, feeling the watching eyes of the doorwardens. He looked out, over many leagues upon leagues of land, until he came to the end of sight. Far it was, and further still beyond the misty haze of the horizon lay Gondor. Their allies in peace, and their first line of defence in war against a pressing enemy.

Éomer prayed his choice had been right. Both hope and fear came to his mind, in equal measures they strove and battled. Then his gaze turned closer; tents were taking shape outside the fence, white and shining cloths in the pale light, where his Éored had set up camp instead of burdening the guesthouses. Men milled about, awaiting orders of departure from the Marshal. Still, Éomer knew not for how long he would stay. Concern filled him.

As they were not alone, their conversation turned to small, unimportant matters; such matters shared between siblings that had gone long without one another. Éowyn pointed to many things in Edoras, telling stories of the daily lives of their people; of the foals in late Spring, and the harvest of the year. Chill the wind blew, yet proud and unfazed her back was as she told him of court; of new and old faces, the passing of seasons and all the work that followed. Her duties were many, though never did a word of complaint escape her.

But when she mentioned shifting powers, a hushed silence quickly fell on them. He put her arm in his, and together they descended the steps into town. "You need not tell me," Éomer said quietly, head turned to look at her. Yet his eyes fell on the great hall. It felt as if a dark, flickering shadow shifted and vanished. "I know." He could tell there was sorrow in her eyes, though only because she was his sister; a calm composure was ever her companion, as it had been for many years. "The horizon will grow light again, I promise you."

They followed the winding stream, slowly, making their way to a place undisturbed.

"Tell me," she said after a while as they walked by wooden houses, half in shadow and half in light. "Is Aldburg much the same?"

He smiled. "The hall still stands – just as it did when you last saw it. I have not yet managed to tear it apart. The wind blows cold, and the steppes are green. Though I am not much there, for my duty lies on the plains, and–," he paused briefly, pondering his next words. They came, ringing of bitterness, yet there was no such feeling in his heart. "It feels not so much like a home, for the people that made it one are not there anymore. They have not been for a very long time."

Éowyn became quiet.

Grey eyes watched his face, searching, and it was not long before he regretted his words. The deaths of their parents had hit them both hard; she had been seven when Orcs slew their father, and they had soon after witnessed their mother succumb to illness. Heartbreak, he thought. Sorrow had claimed her. In silence for a while they walked, now passing through the gates into the openness beyond Edoras. The guards bowed; Éomer looked briefly to the camp below the sloping hill, shadowed by the risen cliff, then he steered right and away.

They followed the descending road, until they reached the flower-dotted mounds of their ancestors. Simbelmynë glowed pale and white. Éowyn's ponderings had been much the same as his, and with a low voice she finally broke the quiet when they passed far enough from the guards. "We have our uncle – and Théodred." A sense of pride and stubbornness was in her gaze, and she drew him to a halt. Love came to her words then. "And you will always have me, Éomer."

A thin smile was on his lips. "I know. Heed not my words; I am weary with concern, and clouded are my thoughts."

They had gone half a mile or so, when the pair came to a lone hill where the view was clear to all sides, and upon its crest they sat down; the grass was wet with dew, wintry blades that brushed against his skin. On one side the escarpment fell away sharply, to the other it rolled away. Éomer took a deep breath. An encroaching dread clutched his heart, but as he leaned back to stare at the empty sky, it passed; like a fleeting cloud torn apart by an unrelenting breeze. Silence was about, and he felt as if a thick veil cut them off from the world around them. Far away he saw a bird, dark against the blue horizon, circle and hover; flying at a great height, round and round, the hawk ducked quickly out of view.

The day drew on. Noon had passed, and it would not be long before night came dark and quiet over the Riddermark. The Winter days were short. Long and thin were their shadows on the grass. The sun hung low to the West, its touch soon naught but a caress over the mountain spurs. By his side, Éowyn ran a hand absently through the tall-swaying greens; twirling grass between her fingers, as the wind caught her hair. Then, suddenly, as if her mind had been made up; she spoke. "Aldburg could be a home again."

"How so?" He asked, stretching as he put his hands behind his head. From the corner of an eye he watched her.

A grin, wry and mischievous, came to her. "A wife."

He let out a clear laugh that travelled far over the plains. When his gaze met hers, the mischievious eyes of his sister were shining and Éomer sighed. Though it was not without some amusement. "Well, I could marry! You do not know, perhaps, how many young maidens covet my attention? I am much desired!" Then he sat up fully. The sun was but an arc of fire, a red glow over the ridge of the world, and a darkness came to the eastern sky. His face was drawn into deep sincerity, but his sister looked little convinced.

"You could," she said. "Yet you do not."

Éomer ran a hand across his brow. "Where should I ever find the time, sister dearest? No, you should rather look to find a match for Théodred – for the country is in need of an heir." He pulled himself to his feet and stepped to the edge of the hill; he drew his cloak about him, watching as the slanting light died. "Certainly and truly, he is not getting any younger, and his duty leaves him exposed to many dangers." Then he looked back to her. "Is there not a woman at court worthy of him?"

"There are plenty of women for the both of you," she chimed in, throwing balls of grass at him.

"I wonder." He circled around her, steps slow and deliberate, and pulled the cloak from his shoulders. As he placed it over her slim frame, he felt a bite of night-cold that touched him little; winter was drawing close, and soon the first snow would fall. He found a place on the ground once more. "I tell you this, no woman should be deserving of such a fate. Seldom I am home. What wife would wish to be alone, to handle the dealings of my hall and all its people, while the husband is away at war? To every day wait for news, be they good or bad."

From the corner of her eye, Éowyn watched him. "You would be surprised," she then said. He murmured a reply, but turned his gaze to the darkening horizon; the light was growing pale, dull and dwindling, a veil of grey covered the world about them. By the bend of the mountains, the last rays of sun cut over black peaks westward, soon unable to pierce the haze. Shadows fell. The grass grew in tussocks and flattened in waves with each gust of wind. Suddenly he felt Éowyn rest her head against his shoulder, white skirts pooling over the green grass and golden hair brushing the nape of his neck.

"I do not even remember when I last spoke with a woman," Éomer confessed thoughtfully, brow furrowed. "If I do not count you – and the housekeeper."

"Old Gamrun?" She laughed out loud, a joyful laughter that could likely be heard from a mile away, and he fought back a smile of his own. "Never in your entire life would she spare you a moment!" He drew his arm around her shoulders, shaking her until she could hardly breathe; then, when her mirth died down and only mischief remained in her eyes, he allowed her a pause.

For a while the siblings sat in silence under the shadow of dusk, waiting for the gloaming night to settle, when a thought struck him. "I have met one," he said.

Éowyn shifted. "Met one?"

Bewilderment was in her tone of voice, surprise in her eyes, yet Éomer was quick to correct himself before his sister's misunderstanding grew. "We came upon a woman in the Eastemnet, a Ranger from the north beyond the Misty Mountains." A face came to him; silver-grey eyes and dark hair, proud but not unrelenting. So young she had seemed, and for a moment he wondered what fate the Dúnedain had met in the wild. Her people that had followed, searching for her. He had guided her forward on a path that could only end in bitterness. "This is the reason I rode for Helm's Deep. Why I had to speak with Théodred."

At his words, she sat up straight and watched him attentively.

For a long time Éomer spoke, telling Éowyn of all that had happened; though he left out parts of his tale, for he could not bear to see concern grow on her face. Pale and tired, worried, she was already – he would not bring further heaviness to her heart. So he allowed her to ask, to lead the conversation with her questions, that mostly fell to the stranger from another land. There was clear interest in the woman, and Éomer was quick to indulge his sister; her weapons and her horse, how many hillmen she had slain; what her purpose had been, travelling alone in the wilderness and further still. To the East.

So, at length it was, that true night came about them, and small flickering stars streaked the sky. In the darkness they sat for a long time, talking as a silence crept over the plains; until Éowyn's head grew heavy against his shoulder. Her breathing became slow and quiet, and she fell fast asleep. The pale silver light of the moon made it hard to see far ahead, yet he could not miss the lines – the crease of her brow – that would not leave her thoughts even in rest. He brushed strands of hair from her face.

"Worry not, Éowyn," he whispered, "You are safe with me."

Displeasure, soon turning to fury, boiled beneath the surface of his mind. If not for his uncle's protection, the worm would have been without his head a long time ago. Always watching, waiting in the shadows; following her every move like a viper ready to strike. It was hard to miss the thinly veiled desire in Gríma's gaze. As if his fair and proud sister was some prey to be stalked. He gritted his teeth. Without proof he could do nothing. The king and the kingdom were weakening, yet all seemed blind to it; poisoned to believe all was well, though their walls were crumbling from within.

His anger became too much, and Éomer rose slowly, careful not to wake his sleeping sister. He pulled her into his arms, lifting her as her head was supported against his chest; thin, frail she appeared. A shimmer of white under the dull moon. He cautiously shifted the weight in his arms around. "If you ever need me, I will be there." Éomer drew the cloak close around her, and then, with twilight about them, he walked back to the road.

In the dark night he could see torches upon the rampart; glowing eyes and moving shadows. Spearheads flickered orange from the dancing flames, and they had surely been watched upon the hill. The dusty ground crunched beneath his boots; past the mounds enclosed by the eerie silence of the dead, and further as the road sloped upwards. Yet here it was that Éomer turned from the path, now stepping through the tall grass and away from the city. There was no sense of safety to be found within the walls of Edoras.

The night was cold and still. Golden and red in the darkness, watch-fires burned in a ring around the Éored's encampment. Sentries stood to attention at his approach, at first only shadowy shapes that glinted now and again, when the flames reflected across their armour, but soon they came clear to his eyes. Éomer gave a nod of recognition, but was quick to enter the camp where a nighttime quiet had settled; he did not need help in finding his own tent, for it was larger than the rest, standing out above the others – and a banner stood by its entrance, set in the frozen ground.

A horse, ghostly white, danced in the breeze.

As he approached, he saw that by the fire outside the tent Éothain sat waiting. The man had removed his helmet and by his side rested a green shield, yet by his belt his sword still hung; he came to stand and watch, waiting, gaze settling on the sleeping form in Éomer's arms. Neither said anything. The Marshal pushed aside the tent-flap, finding the insides darkened and left to shadows. It was hard to see much. Yet the layout was simple, and it did not take him long before he could carefully place his sister down onto the cot.

For a brief moment he marvelled; once she had been a graceless girl, ever clinging to her sword and her horses, yet now it was no longer so. Strands of hair fell across her face, and he brushed them aside before drawing a thick woolen cover over her sleeping form. They had long parted ways with fond, yet distant, memories, and only the harshness of adulthood remained. Biting like the Winter's chill. He prayed she could one day be free again, and that the joys of her youth could be found once more. "Sleep well, Éowyn."

Then he left once more.

With armour rustling, Éomer found a place by the fire. The ground was hard and cold beneath him, but the fire did much good and he sat for many long moments in silence. Over the flames an iron-wrought pot simmered, and something was bubbling inside; a smell came to him, of lamb and mushrooms, and wild herbs. For a while they sat without words under the light of the moon, too weary for much else, until finally the pair began to speak in the quiet of the camp.

It was Éothain that was first to raise his voice, and his tone was light. Concern masked. "How fares the court of Meduseld?"

Éomer drew a hand across his brow, allowing a sigh to escape him before resting his elbows on his legs.

Through the darkness of the night he could see dim torches, lining the walls of Edoras above the steep cliff, naught but flickering eyes that glowed with paleness. The city was asleep, though guards looked far and stood ever-vigilant on the ramparts. Scouting for enemies beyond their realm. If only they, too, watched within. "It is much the same as when we were last here," he said at first.

Almost a year ago, the king had sent urgent word for his Marshals to gather; news from Gondor had reached Edoras, and with the whispers of brewing war to the east, ever growing, it had been time to rearrange their own forces throughout the Mark. More riders had been dispatched to Aldburg, to be led by Éomer as the first defence of the Riddermark.

Already then, he had sensed a lurking danger within the great hall.

A shadow, flickering and intangible. He could feel its touch on everything; reaching, searching, greedily devouring all it could until nothing was as it used to be. "Or so it would have us think," he muttered, grim-faced as he stared into the fire. His mind wandered. "I can feel it – in my heart and in my mind – that it is much worse now than before. Something wicked is at large here, and its strength is only growing." Éomer found his squire's gaze across the fire. "The king is not well."

"I felt it," Éothain said. "There was a gloom in the air when we arrived. I had some of the men go about asking questions, sifting the reliable from the unreliable, and certainly a foreboding picture is painted." The large frame shifted as the rider hunched forward, removing the lid of the pot and picked two bowls from the ground. "Things are not as they should be." A large ladle, bent out of shape from once meeting an orc's axe as a makeshift weapon, spooned out stew for the both of them; hunger stirred in Éomer, and despite the burn he was quick to eat.

Around them it had truly turned to nighttime, though Éomer could see only little difference. The heavy sky above was perhaps now utterly black, a roof of dark clouds where previously there had been a grey-blurred edge to the horizon. There was no sound, save from the low-blowing breeze that plucked through the grass, and the fire crackling before him. All seemed peaceful and quiet.

There were no stars above.

Chapter Text

A new haste had come to them, urging the pair of Rangers forward with pressing, yet careful speed. The mud beneath her feet was half-frozen, slippery, yet deep enough to twist an ankle if she stepped wrong; not cold enough to be completely solid. She guided the horse forward between the pools and mires, while she kept her uncle's straightened back before her. The strength of his will drew her forward. Tenacity left her heart beating and her breath short. Embankments of rock and ooze lay to each side, giving them no other choice but to battle over the wintry path that carved treacherously through the Dead Marshes. Her face was splattered in the gritty muck.

Straggling tangles of grimy hair tugged at her neck.

All that could be seen in front of her were the silhouetted shapes of mounds and marshes. Brown and sullen. Rising and rolling for miles, visible up until a touch of emerald light scathed the horizon. Only glimpses of the sun came as an elusive companion, for a great cover of clouds made their way darkened and difficult. Yet the man before her seemed bent on a path through the marshlands. At times she caught sight of the tracks in the mud they were following; a narrow foot, or toes, the slightest dent in the wet soil by the bank of a lake or stream.

Like a flickering hope every small sight lifted her heart.

Though she dared not speak. Fearful that she would break Aragorn's concentration on the task at hand; that her words would tear apart the little wish they both clung to. A long journey, soon four months of travel through harsh and inhospitable lands, could now – possibly – be for a reason. It had been done with a purpose. What Gollum could tell, Rell knew not, if he could even tell them anything. Perhaps the tale of a magical ring, now in the hands of the most unlikely of creatures – a Hobbit, of all things homely and cheery in the world – would come to make sense. To the Grey Wizard who knew much and many things about the world.

The bitterness of failure galled her, spurred by hopeful aspiration.

It was a jumbled feeling of being tired and discouraged, yet not without an attempt to appear valiant; pulling her forward with every heavy step she took.

Rell rolled her shoulder, feeling an ache and a sting in her broken arm. The white linen of the sling had turned brown, hard with frozen mud and damp air. A numbness had crept over her, trailing touches of cold down to the tips of her fingers. A sense of trepidation was upon her, oppressive, and she felt useless in the hunt. Would he move quicker, if not for her presence? Did she slow him down? The mud felt like shackles around her feet. For a while she watched her squelching steps sinking through the ooze, making sure to follow the deep imprints left by her uncle. They were even, and the strides were long.

Hers were slow and difficult.

Tugging the cloak more snugly around her with some effort, she glanced up. She worked her lip between her teeth, tasting decay and acrid airs, before tightly gripping the reins to increase the pace of her walk. Half a run. It did not take long before she had caught up, and only a few yards separated the Rangers; Aragorn looked back, only briefly, then returned his gaze to the ground below and the horizon ahead.

They walked for an hour, perhaps two. In the indistinct, sullen gloom that hung over the Dead Marshes it was difficult to measure time. Another mile slipped past in a blur of sullen brown, and they came to a place where the path – if she could even call it such – narrowed between reed-grown mires. No echo of movement came to the still surface, no whisper of wind, yet a strange gleam of light fell through the fumes that swathed its waters. She shivered. Dead faces. Waxen and yellowed by times passed, they lay in waiting just beneath the mirror; so serene they would have appeared, if not for the grim vision so many moons ago still clear in her mind.

She glanced to the small stones embedded in the mud and felt an urge to drop one in.

To see if she could hit one of the still faces, lurking and waiting.

Her arm was throbbing, dull throbs that roared in her ears, but the pain sharpened her senses and distracted her wandering – vengeful and curious – mind. With a boot, she lingered close to the edge; considering, thinking, when a voice drew her awake. Near at hand, but oddly hollow-sounding, it drew her from the shore of the pool. "It is unwise to disturb the dead," Aragorn said, face half-turned to the waters. His grey eyes shimmered silver in the glow of the marshes.

Picking at the frayed edge of her sleeve, she banished the thought at once as dusk fell around her and the gloom of day vanished quickly. It grew colder, making mists rise from the pools around them; the stench of the marshes became vile in her nose as her sense of sight began to fail. The air was clammy and, despite no rain, left her clothes perpetually damp. The pair continued only half a mile further before the creeping darkness obscured the path ahead, and it became impossible to go further.

There was no place to lie down, and so they crouched in the mud to eat and rest. Rell fought back a yawn, watching while her uncle carefully examined her arm. He could see very little and was left to prod and touch along the bone. It would heal, Aragorn had told her, but there was a frown on his features as he spoke the words. Low was his voice. Worry gnawed in the pit of her stomach.

The wind changed, and a stench was in the air.

"How blessed it would be to breathe clean air again," she muttered.

Naught but a tired smile came as reply, for they were both left weak with exhaustion; instead they shared only a little of the bread, that had begun to taste strange, and salted meat. The night passed slow. Gurgling and bubbling waters could be heard in the quiet, accompanied by the hissing winds that came cold and harsh. They sat and waited for the sun, though it was still far away over distant lands to the East; visiting Rhûn, where the first Elves awoke many ages passed and were then guided to the West by Oromë. Now it was spoken of as a place of great and many evils.

Rell looked into the darkness. Attempting to wriggle her toes inside the wet, tattered boots. A numbness ached, sending tendrils up through her feet as blood flowed once more; it was cold, and she wondered if they would soon be met with snow. She did not know the lands well enough; back home, Eriador's winters were mild yet always blanketed in white, but now, this far east beyond the Misty Mountains? "How close are we to the Brown Lands?" She asked, voice only a whisper as she turned to look to her uncle.

They were alone, though it felt as if her voice would travel far throughout the marshlands, and she flinched at the sounds. Heard by any and everyone.

She looked to Aragorn, gaze veiled. His face was grey in the night, ashen, and the hood was drawn over his head. "Far, still," he said. "We make only little way in the daylight, and the pools force us many miles around and away. If we made a straight path north-bound then three, perhaps four, days. But we are not." His eyes met hers. Rell nodded. Gollum – it was the creature that chose the way for them; his trek across the lands forced them first one way and then another, following the soft imprints in the mud that were their only beacon to follow. Whether his strange, back-and-forth ways were to shake off their pursuit, or some foulness that drew him forward, the Rangers could not tell.

"Is there any hope?" Rell shifted.

"I cannot say – not with certainty – though it seems we are gaining on him."

Then, in that very moment, something flickered in the corner of the Ranger's eye; a glint of faint and unearthly light. Two pale orbs, it seemed. She turned to look, but found nothing. Heard nothing. "Does he know we are behind him?" Her hand drew across the sword at her belt, skimmed the cold steel of the hilt with the tips of her fingers; Rell did not draw it from its scabbard. Despite her best efforts, resurfacing memories brought terror to her mind and cold sweat to her brow. The sheer rock-wall, the long drop and inevitable impact; the hiss on the wind. The pain.

Aragorn followed her gaze. "Perhaps."

For a while they both peered into the gaping dark, though the night seemed but cold and still. Nothing more than empty spaces. No answer came from their watch, unless it was a silence more dreadful than before. They did not speak again. Of the time that followed, Rell thought only little of it until finally a grey light grew; pale and thin it spread like fingers over the distant horizon, beating against the western faces of the mountains of Mordor. At dawn they made ready to go on.

They did not see the rising of the sun. Rell stood and stamped, flapping her cloak for warmth as her breath crystalized in the air before her; then she took Luin by the reins and went out once more. The shadow of the Dark Land seemed nearer and darker that morning than the day before; where it had been distant, faint, now it was a deep gloom that lay over them. Threatening and vast. Her steps were weighty. The pungent stench, always lingering in the air, had lessened and Rell glanced to leaden clouds above them.

It was some hours after sunrise when the first heavy snowflakes came. But they were strange; there was no softness to them when they tapped against her face, no light touch when they melted on her skin. Ice-pellets, as if the weather had been caught between warmth and cold; the Winter gales from the west, or the eastern air that blew hot with ash. Not long after both Rangers were drenched, and the ground had turned treacherous and slippery beneath their feet. Rell attempted, at best, to wrap her cloak over her injured arm; to shield it from the downpour, for with dampness came the festering of illness. There was little more to be done, and worry settled as a stone in her stomach.

The sleet fell continuously for many hours. Around them, pools turned turbid brown where previous they were mirror-still, swelling their banks and, as the hours passed, they came to wade through inches of water that spilled out over the mud-paths. Their steps were heavy and leaden with mud. Her clothes drenched with every stumble, every fall that hurled her into the deep sludge.

The surface of the water was pitted so thickly that the radiating ripples canceled one another out.

Soon they came to realize that, worse than the torrent, they could no longer see the tracks before them.

A revelation that was as sudden as a blow in the night, and her uncle came to a stop. "We lost him," he whispered. Those three words, with a quiet calm that revealed nothing to Rell, was enough to steal her breath away. She rocked to a halt, grip tightening on the reins as the wintry slosh trickled down her hood. Over her cheeks and nose; dripping into her clothes. He stood frozen, between unsettled pools of murky water, head bowed to the muddy ground; shoulders heavy with an invisible weight.

She asked nothing, knowing well that if Aragorn could no longer follow the trail – the best hunter she had ever met and known – then there would be no other hope to be found. She would be of no help. Unless the Valar came from beyond the great seas, from Aman to Middle-Earth, to bless the path ahead; they were truly and utterly lost. Rell opened her mouth as if to speak, though sounds came not to her. She could think of no words of wisdom, no pretended courage to rally them forward. Her mind was blank.

Instead, she stood there. Waiting.

What now?

They were silent for a while. Rell looked one way, then another; back and forth her gaze trailed, to the sullen horizon and the vast sky shrouded in endless clouds. Sleet came unrelenting, almost spitefully and turned her vision blurry, and she could not see the contoured mountains. Neither the sharp-edged cliffs of Emyn Muil, nor the thin black strip of Ephel Dúath's western slopes. The Rangers were stuck in the middle of nowhere. Was it now time to return, despairing and defeated? It was hard for her to swallow the bitterness.

But a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind.

No pledge had been made, no promise to return only with the capture of Gollum – so no oath would be broken if they chose home over the desolate, inhospitable lands of the Enemy. There were other paths to tread, other ways to find knowledge. Surely Gandalf can seek the truth, she thought, somewhere. Elsewhere. Surely her uncle had hunted to the very limits of his abilities. No one could hold this defeat against him. No spiteful words would follow him if he returned homebound. The thought grew, weaving a web of excuses.

At length Aragorn turned to her. "I ask that you remain here." His words came as a surprise, startled her from her own rampant, busy thoughts that spun threads of crushing misery, and clarity came to her. Unlike her, he had not given up. Not yet.

Rell blinked, bemused. Brow furrowed. "Why?"

"There may still be tracks in the area not yet washed away by the waters. I must move with swiftness, and so I cannot bring you with me." Aragorn held up a hand and silenced her, long before her thought became words; his hooded eyes were dark with determination, smoldering with a stubborn belief she had not seen before. Rell shut her mouth and nodded. "Whether I find anything or not, know that I shall return for you."

Haste was needed – and not her arguments. "I will wait here, uncle," she said.

Aragorn took her bow from the saddle, for it was useless to her, quickly strapping the quiver across his back as he shifted the cloak into place. The last cord of rope was slung across his shoulder. He looked at her one last time, eyes flickering over her covered arm and to her sword, and then he spoke. "Be careful on your own." Rell nodded and knew his choice was unpleasant, but there was nothing to do but leave her alone in the marshes; defenceless as she felt. So it was, that he stepped through the enveloping mists and vanished from her sight, in their last and desperate attempt to not lose the hopeless trail.

For a long time she watched and waited, listening to the gurgling waters and the hissing reeds, battered by the ceaseless downpour. It was cold and dark around her, for the day was waning and night soon falling. Her chilled fingers tapped restlessly against her sword, ever so often grasping the hilt tight to make sure it was within easy reach. She walked back and forth on the little island of partly dry land, surrounded by many small and shallow pools, until she had made a long circular trough in the mud where water could spill in. Around her it had grown darker. More than once she startled to a stop, feeling eyes linger on her; like a hunted prey soon caught in a trap, skittish and twitchy, though she could not locate the watcher in the mists.

Luin stood with its head bowed, coat glistening wet and silvery. The ears, between tangled ribbons of mane, twitched; turned as if to determine the source of a sound she could not hear. Inhaling deeply, Rell listened warily and felt apprehension prickle her mind. Nose runny, teeth clattering in the cold. Again, she started her mindless walk. Back and forth.

She felt naked without her sword in hand, but holding it for too long would only bring fatigue. And certainly, she was tired already; haggard and hungry, so that she could just have easily sat down and slept. Or wept. Rell turned her mind to other things, attempting to bring images of Eriador forth in her mind's eye; to replace the sourness of brown and rot-green marshlands. Hot water of a long bath, the touch of newly-washed clothes; the smells of woodlands and a homely hearth. Anything that could turn away the underlying sense of fearsome loneliness. She could almost hear the Elves singing by the rivers and in the glades of Imladris.

There was a sound of splashing.

Then, so swiftly that she was not entirely sure how it happened, something hard struck her head. A flash of light tore across her vision, blinding her, and Rell felt cold fingers close around her neck. With a scream, torn from her lips, she toppled over. She came to lie in the mud. Disoriented, pain hammering through her head, panicked at the dark silhouette crouched over her. Nothing but bones, skeletal arms, and groping hands; astonishingly strong so that her attempts to overthrow the creature became feeble. Scrabbling, flailing, she dug her nails into pallid skin. Drawing blood.

The creature let out a shriek of fury and a new pain tore through her; teeth sunk into her shoulder. Deeper the teeth drove into her, tearing at flesh until grazing sinew and her vision darkened. There was enough malice in the attack, almost a will to reach and bare bone. Rell would have screamed, if only there was any breath left in her. It all happened so quick. Her mouth fell open, gasping rasps for air that did nothing, the long fingers around her neck pressed down with unwavering strength. In a last effort, she kicked out; trying to hit something, anything, but gangly legs locked around her waist, and she could only roll over in the deep mud.

They plummeted into one of the pools, and she sunk through its chilled waters. Gollum did not lessen his grip.

Once more they rolled. The motion was enough to tear the gnawing mouth from her shoulder, but there was little fight left in her. Unconsciousness beckoned her into a warm embrace, her blood pumping the last air out to her struggling muscles, skin numbing as she was held beneath the shallows. There was a hiss close by her ear, and she could see glowing orbs of pale light in her darkening sight; the hunter had come to claim its prize. Her nightmares had become real. Flickering above the surface of the water. The last bubbles of air trickled from her lips, and her fingers around Gollum's wrists slacked.

She released her grip.

The ghost lights came alive. Growing closer, vivid.

Gollum was torn back out of the water with a sudden force, and Rell jerked up. Sputtering, gagging on mire-waters; head pounding as she leaned forward, urgently seeking air. She could then hear a scuffle. Howls and hissing, like an animal cornered, she understood what had happened. Her hands trembled. Aragorn had returned to her just in time – hauled Gollum off of her as he had tried to drown her in the mere; to have her light a candle of her own amongst the long dead.

Another wave of sickness rolled over her and she threw up.

Ice-pellets battered against her head, yet she barely noticed as she emptied her stomach, and she finally tore her gaze from the ground. Specks of light flickered across her vision, while she attempted to see the fight that unfolded before her. Her sight was still blurry from the blows and mud. Her hand flickered across her head, searching for an injury. A soreness and a swelling met her fingers.

The creature wove around in a dance of defiance, nimbly dodging the larger frame with legs kicking, arms grasping, and nails clawing. Each time Aragorn caught hold of something, Gollum writhed with furious abandon. With screeches and hisses. It was difficult enough to keep him from fleeing, yet alone capture him.

Get up, she thought, cursing the quavering of her body. Stand up!

Her hands sank into the mud as she tried to find a solid footing, to find strength enough to join the fight. Her uncle landed a hit, and his adversary crumbled to the ground; now trying to pin the flailing limbs, dodging hands and feet thrown without aim, Aragorn pushed the shrieking creature further down into the mud. Rell pulled her sword from its scabbard, and the grating sound of steel against steel reverberated throughout the quiet lands. Loud and clear. She hobbled closer.

Gollum heard her.

Hatred was turned upon her, his neck thrust forward and teeth bared in a snarl, but Rell turned her weapon to hover over him. It seemed to gleam, though there was no light about them. "While he would prefer to take you alive," Rell spoke with a struggle, finding words hard to pass through the rawness of her throat, she gave a nod towards her uncle. Whether the creature understood her and their language, she could not tell, but surely the rage in her voice was appreciable enough. And so was the sharp edge of her blade. "–Know that I will happily remove your head, if you give me reason to. I will not mourn your death."

Gollum's back arched, drawn tight like a bowstring, but then it snapped and he fell back. A sign of surrender, accompanied by a long drawn-out wail that travelled far across the marshes. Aragorn did not release his tight hold, panting deeply; with exertion and pain, and all his strength utterly spent. Blood dripped down his face. Then he slipped the coil of rope from his shoulder, using only one hand to untangle it while the other closed around his captive's neck, pinning him in place.

Then Aragorn looked into the pale eyes and spoke. "I need you breathing."

He tightened his grip. Forced Gollum to look at him.

"But one can survive perfectly well without an arm. Struggle, and she will take yours."

There was no compassion in her smile then, and the blade was turned over in her grip to linger only inches from the creature's pale and clammy skin. Certainly, Gollum had no friend in her – nor would he ever, for the hurt in her body was not forgotten. Neither was it forgiven. Her uncle moved with swiftness; first tying the rope like a noose around their captive's neck, making sure it was neither too tight nor too loose, before turning him over in the mud. A hiss came, yet no struggle against the ungentle treatment was heard, for his large eyes were transfixed upon the sword.

The end of the rope was cut, and the string used to tie Gollum's hands together behind his back. The long, nimble fingers were best kept under control; Rell looked him up and down, finding him both filthy and craven to behold. He stank. It seemed he had crawled through the marshes on all fours and was now covered in green muck. Difficult it was to see him between the mud and reeds, and for a brief moment she felt a pang of relief to have been attacked. Had we found him if not? This vile creature ...

She rolled her stiff neck. It hurt, likely abloom with fresh purple welts running like fingers across her skin. Would his teeth leave scars? Or worse, disease?

During the struggle and subsequent fight, the downpour had abated and left their surroundings shrouded in dense fog. It had grown colder. A sound of tearing drew her mind back to the present, as Aragorn shredded a part of his already-frayed cloak; a gag. Gollum would have to be muzzled, for clearly even the Orcs marching to the Black Gate were preferred company compared to the Rangers. It would do them no good to have him screaming across the marshlands.

Gollum looked ready to bite the approaching fingers, lips pulled back in a silent snarl, but Rell cleared her throat and took a step closer. Her fingers tapped the hilt of her sword. She rested more on one leg than the other. Something had been pulled wrong in her fall. "I will see even the slightest gesture as an invitation," she warned. "And I shall be happy to accept it."

When finally Aragorn had completed his task – with difficulty, as Gollum proved less than helpful – he drew their captive back onto scrawny, spider-like legs and pulled him towards Luin. The great horse had remained calm throughout the struggle, but blew a deep breath through its nose when Gollum approached, displeased; as if sensing the malice and evil in a creature it had once before met and fought off. Or, perhaps, it was merely the stench that followed.

The rope was there tied securely to the saddle, so that Gollum could walk after the mare.

It was not entirely dark yet. Though they made no plans to head out at once, despite their preparation. There were new, fresh wounds that had to be tended to. While Aragorn had a gash across his eyebrow, oozing a steady stream of blood down his face; Rell boasted many yellow-blue bruises, dotting both sides of her neck, and crusting teeth marks just above her clavicle. He is lacking teeth, she had noted with a frown. Rell could count six. With some difficulty, she helped clean her uncle's cut with their last water. She hoped it would be enough to avoid festering in the humidity. Digging out small pebbles embedded in his skin and the worst grime from the scrimmage, she left the wound to heal on its own.

She brushed the back of her hand across her lip, sniffling, and it came away with streaks of brown and red. "I believe I have taken enough beatings to last me a lifetime, now." Rell shifted, perched on a tussock of reeds that felt as wet as their surroundings. The weather left her perpetually soggy. Then she touched her broken arm, gentle traces from her wrist to her elbow; it stung but seemed unharmed by the scuffle, if not for the bandages now as soaked as everything else. There was not much to be done, not before the fog and rain cleared, or they found enough shelter to light a fire.

Aragorn was looking North through the grey haze, but turned to face her. Creases of concern, intermingled with weary tiredness, marred his features; briefly he looked to her injury, yet spoke not of it, then gave a short nod. "Our journey is far from over. Also," he paused, gaze flickering to their captive that watched them both with wary, unveiled hatred. When he spoke again, it was in Sindarin. "It will only become more dangerous now."

Pushing off against the ground, Rell came to her full height with a long stretch.

An ache travelled the length of her body, tingling touches of pain through her many injuries, but she drummed her fingers against her sword. "Best be away, then," she answered, likewise changing to the language of the Elves. Gollum needed not know what they spoke of; wickedness was in his pale eyes, a clever alertness that had not gone unnoticed. Certainly, he had understood her threats well enough. Realisation dawned on her. There will be no sleep with him around ... Never again would she wish to feel thin, clammy fingers lock around her neck.

Her fingers crept to the bruises on her skin.

"I will bring up the rear, and keep an eye on the lands behind us."

They were then quick to settle into their roles, where Aragorn pulled the horse – and, with it, their captive – forward through the marshlands; Rell keep her attention on the dim horizon, stepping as quick as she could from one muddy patch to another. Often, she looked back into the hazes, searching for shapes between the grey and brown. Again, the Rangers did not speak, but traveled in a deep quiet only ever broken by the sniffling and growling that came from Gollum.

The rest of the late evening passed uneventful, accompanied by the occasional bout of rain that fell cold and hard, or sleet and snow, and with only one measly endeavour at escape from the tied-up captive. Rell had a feeling it was more out of spite than an actual attempt, when Gollum had torn apart from their little group only to be snapped back by the rope around his neck. The snap and the splash that followed lifted her spirits some. After that, nothing happened, yet she walked with a smile on her lips; the creature plodded along quietly, bearing half a limp that made him look almost pitiful.

Almost.

All it took was one glance to her broken arm, hanging in a sling across her chest – useless – and the feeling was cleanly wiped from her mind. They walked and walked, without much change about them, until the darkened fingers of night crept over the Dead Marshes. The last light smothered in a bleak sky. Aragorn had found a path, somewhat solid to tread, and wide enough for her not to ever-so-often slip her boots into the surrounding waters. It was here they made camp; between dry, yellow reeds that grew in scarce patches, and muddy banks sloping down to a wide mirror-still lake.

There was a hollow sandbank, partly shielded by the wind, barely large enough for a single person to find shelter. But it was warmer and, as such, a welcome change. They huddled together, seeking some comfort from the solitude of the lands. Luin was fed the last of the stale bread, while the Rangers shared the miserable supply of dried meat that was left in Aragorn's bags. They, too, were wet. While she would have been content with Gollum going hungry, preferably starving, her uncle offered a piece of his own to the creature.

The gesture nearly cost him a finger.

So they left him to his own devices, and it was not long before the creature curled into a ball of pallid skin and protruding bones on the cold ground to rest. They both knew Gollum did not sleep. Beneath his droopy eyelids there was a sliver of pale silver. He was watching them, as much as they were watching him. Guarded and always prepared. When they had finished eating their scarce supper, talk fell on their continued journey.

While they spoke in a language that, surely, Gollum did not understand, their voices were low and secretive.

"What do we do now?" She asked, pulling her cloak tight as she leaned into his shoulder. Warmth seeped through her skin, welcomed in the marrow of her bones, and she shifted to find comfort; his arm draped across her shoulder. Eyes were on the creature, following every slow rise and fall as it breathed steadily. There was a constant, dull throb of pain through her head that kept her from sleep. Pain and restlessness, wariness. "What do we do with him?"

Aragorn did not speak at first. His brow furrowed, jaw clenched tight and, like her, he was watching Gollum. Though his gaze held no aversion, no seething loathing, but rather faint lines of interest; he saw something she did not, and it intrigued him. When Rell noticed his strange attention, she breathed deeply in an attempt to regard their captive with unprejudiced eyes. To shake off the mistrust that blanketed her gaze. It proved difficult to see past the gangly limbs, the pallid and sunken skin – corpse-like, of one who had long shunned the sun – but his bound hands caught, and held, her notice.

She ran a tongue across her lower lip. "He is injured."

"Indeed." Reddened and swollen scars, jagged and long, marred his wrists; trailed up both his arms and legs, coated his back beneath the layer of mud. They seemed fresh still, the surrounding skin with a discolouring that told her they had not healed properly. Perhaps completely foregone treatment. From the corner of an eye, she glanced to her uncle. If anything, it seemed Gollum had gone through terrible torment not long ago. "I fear we are not the first to capture him, nor were we the roughest. Far from it. And that troubles me deeply."

Rell was watching him intently then, dismayed by the thought as a chill overtook her. It was a sickening thought, for surely there could be only one reason to target the loathsome, pitiful, creature. To leave such marks; deliberate strokes of someone who knew what they were doing. Where it would hurt the most, to find a truth hidden. The Ring, her mind whispered. "Has he been with the Enemy?"

With a short nod, Aragorn replied. "There is not much else that can explain it. So indeed, it would seem we were too late in our hunt – what he can tell us, without doubt the servants of Sauron already know. If he had told them nothing, he would not have been released." He sighed, deep and long. "It would seem his importance to them has been spent." Aragorn ran a hand across his brow, pausing briefly to school his features to that of poised confidence; if anything, her uncle knew well how she easily came to mirror his thoughts. He masked his worry. "Worse yet is how he came to be free, for strongly I doubt he escaped."

They spoke no more after that, but left the unsettling thought to fester and grow between them, an echo in their minds. For a long time Rell sat there; legs drawn to her chest, the broken arm nested in-between, and gaze turned down at the creature. There was no sleep to be found, held at bay by both concerns and the sullen dampness of the weather. Instead, she awaited dawn and the beginning of a new day; there was little to do but get through one day at a time, to complete the task at hand, and leave the worries for another time.

There was nothing more they could do then, between the mires of the Dead Marshes. In the land of nowhere. Gollum would have to be brought to a place of safety; words had to be send for the Grey Wizard, and many questions needed answers. Nothing else mattered to them in that moment. One step at a time, she thought. With a new thought taking root in mind, she asked Aragorn of their further journey. What had to be done with the morning light, and how they were to leave the marshes.

"We go north," he said as he came to stand.

At this, the Rangers both turned their eyes to the distant North. Such a journey, Rell thought, then rested her gaze on her uncle once more.

Behind Aragorn, naught but a pale and distant glow, morning came to the lands of Mordor; it was the time of departure. Her limbs were rigid, numb from the chill, and standing was difficult at first. The first real movements were agony. Rell stamped, breathing hot air into her palms, before she went forward to prepare Luin. She left Gollum to her uncle. Brow furrowed, she looked into the hazes and further still where she knew they could find open, barren plains. "To the Brown Lands? Would that not set us on a different path away from Rivendell?"

Aragorn sat crouching, keeping an arm's reach from the creature for safety; poised, ready for any sudden attack and with the hand on the hilt of his sword. "We are not returning to Rivendell," he replied at first. "It was agreed that Gollum should be taken to Mirkwood, if by some stroke of luck the hunt proved triumphant." He looked up at her, but then the Ranger returned to the Common Speech. This time, he addressed Gollum with a tone sharp and clipped. "Cease your pretend and stand."

Nothing came of it, for Gollum remained curled up and silent on the ground.

If he had been a lesser man, surely Aragorn's patience would have then come to an end. Though all he did was breathe deeply, squarely as his eyes hardened, before drawing the blade from its scabbard with slow and deliberate movements. Still, their captive said and did nothing, but the tensing of bony shoulders did not go unnoticed by either of them. He knew well what was happening.

Rell kept her attention on the exchange, while her hand fumbled to secure the rope already tied to the saddle; the defiance but a mockery against the Rangers, against those he had no chance to escape. Certainly he would not make their lives easy. She pulled at the cord, tightening the knot, then turned to look at them. "Even if we bind both his hands and feet, I doubt Luin would take him far – if carry him at all." There were many things her horse would do for her, but to carry such a vile thing on its back? She had her doubts.

She pictured Gollum soaring through the air, cast from the saddle, and she fought back an involuntary smile.

"Yet we must be away, and with haste if we do not wish to be caught by the Enemy." Once again they spoke in Sindarin, and there was despair in his voice despite his efforts to quell it. "I do not believe he escaped on his own." Aragorn came to stand, allowing the blade to rest against his side as he with cold, stern eyes watched Gollum's shrinking form. "This will be your one and only warning. Stand, or the next you receive from me will not be words."

Slowly, deliberately so, pale half-lidded eyes turned to them. Hatred shone clear within the whirl of silver, but beyond the muffled snarl no open hostility was shown. Aragorn took a step back, never allowing his grip on the weapon to lessen but gave the creature a wide berth; enough space that the threat lessened to some extent. They would not harm him if he obeyed. To show that compliance would deserve mercy. Gollum scrambled onto his feet, stiffly and with every movement on edge. Not even once did his gaze stray from them.

Rell pulled Luin closer by the reins, and the rope tied around Gollum's throat slackened. The pair watched, waited in quiet anticipation, but while pale eyes flickered to the horse Gollum remained hunched. Silent, suspiciously obedient. Allowing her uncle to take the reins from her, she quietly watched him lead their strange party foward through the marshlands; a tautness to her jaw as their captive did not move at once, though rather kept a look of malicious appraisal on her until the rope grew taut. Then, he moved.

Well, she thought, taking her hand off the hilt of her sword to trudge after them. She did not remember gripping her weapon. I regret this already.

For a long time as they walked, Rell came to dwell on unpleasant and sullen thoughts. She watched Gollum clamber through the deep mud, splashing drops of water as he went; spider-like arms and legs unfliching, despite the sharp touches of the reeds and rocks. Bent. And so they went forward throughout the sullen day, until they reached the waning of the light and the arrival of evening. Aragorn led them with haste, and as darkness came to grow about them she could faintly see the mountains of Emyn Muil to the west.

Lofty cliffs, an impenetrable wall that cut off any chance to return to the Misty Mountains. North was their only path then, until they would reach the plains of the Dagorlad. There was but a small hope of finding an opening through the rock-lands, through luck rather than skill, a way around that would not lead so close to the Enemy. Come morning they came closer once more, until they walked in the jagged shadows cast by tall peaks; around pools of acrid waters, with the cold wind on their backs and a howling through the cracks.

They found nothing that day, nor the days following.

The fourth night after Gollum's capture, there was no fighting the fatigue in her mind; too heavy, a constant throbbing behind her eyes, and Rell could go no further without sleep. It was the stopping that undid her, not because of the footing, but because her legs suddenly wanted to do nothing more than collapse. Her wariness had kept her awake, as if feeling eyes lingering on her whenever she attempted to find rest. So, when they came by some cover that evening, Rell did not argue about the first watch. With the hood drawn up over her face, the ground damp and chill beneath her, she settled.

It proved no adversary against the drowsiness, and she slept throughout the night.

At the break of dawn she was roused by gentle, but insistent hands. Startling awake, her uncle's grey eyes were laced with concern and she was at once alert. First her gaze darted about until settling on Gollum – still fast secured to the rope, glowering right back – and the sudden fear abated. She drew a ragged breath, somewhat reassured, though Aragorn's unease made her stand quickly. While Gollum had not escaped during the night, something else was afoot. "What is happening?"

The light was pale, breaking through a cover of white clouds, and their surroundings stood clear before her. What had been hidden in the gloom of night became then discernible. Through the reeds, growing thickly by the banks of a lake, there were clear signs of heavy footfalls. Many footfalls, so that the yellow-dry turf had been trodden flat. Rell stepped over the trail, measured its length and found it long, looking to where it came from and where it went.

Running a straight and sure path through the Dead Marshes, cutting from west to east in a direct line towards Mordor; they had found a path. The boots had dug deep into the mud. Then she looked to Aragorn for answers. "It is an Orc road, one of many that run through the northern marshes where the pools thin and the ground becomes harder. We have travelled further than what I first thought. We are much closer to the Enemy."

He motioned for Gollum to stand.

"We must be away at once," he said. "This place is not safe."

"Are enemies nearby?" She asked, swiftly falling into line by his side with a final glance back to Gollum; their captive followed soundlessly, almost moving faster than what he had throughout the previous leg of their journey. It was an unexpected show of cooperation. Then again, perhaps the Rangers were better company than Mordor's orcs. They crossed the path, eager to put a distance between themselves and the patrols of the Black Gate. Rell kept a sharp look-out on the horizon, finding her sight clear after the much needed, and welcomed, sleep; it felt as if everything should have been later, though it was still only early morning and the light was dim.

Aragorn's lips were pulled tight, naught but a thin line of white in a dark-grimed face. Shoulders stooped, eyes trained on the ground below his booted feet. He appeared beyond exhausted, as if forcing himself forward only by sheer will where most others would have succumbed. To complete a task not for glory, but for a necessary duty to protect the unsuspecting and the innocent. "The roads are seldom used, though I will not take such a risk and stay."

Rell nodded, although she could feel a thought gnawing in the back of her mind. Just out of reach, intangible but somehow so very important; it slipped through her fingers. A subconscious, intangible call. There was something about the path that felt incredibly out of place to her. Why here? She glanced back, then to both sides with attentive eyes. They were not close to any stronghold; the realm of Gondor lay many leagues behind them, and the regions both to the north and west were unclaimed, inhospitable lands that were of no use – not even to an insatiable enemy bent on conquest.

"The path is out of place," she mumbled beneath her breath, more to herself than anything, yet it was enough to make her uncle falter.

He turned to look at her, thoughtful surprise overtaking his weathered features. "What do you mean?"

Baffled at his interest, Rell motioned to their surroundings; to the endless stretch of marshes, and the towering walls of the impenetrable rock-lands. "What is the purpose of a road, albeit seldom used and almost hidden, when there is no destination of importance to the one that walks it? I do not understand." And it was then, as the words left her mouth and the thought truly took shape, that it dawned on both of them. Clarity had come to the Rangers. There was a purpose behind the path going through what seemed like nowhere, a reason why the orcs passed through.

They had found a way into the Emyn Muil.

Chapter Text

It was not easy, nor would it ever be, to part from his sister. To leave her on her own to fend off the wolves of Meduseld, even though she appeared brave both in spirit and in stature. Unfaltering. But so it was, and they had come to a time of farewell. For almost a month he, and his men, had stayed at Edoras; he had made good use of the hospitality of the King, despite Wormtongue's less than subtle disdain. Éomer had kept a close eye on the vile counselor and never strayed far from his dearest sister, both his weapon and his mind sharp and ready for even the slightest hint of foul thoughts. But it was to be no more.

Twenty-seven days after his departure from Helm's Deep, Éomer stood by the gate of Edoras and looked far out over the plains. No longer could he postpone his duties in the East. The sky of noon was a light blue, edges still touched golden, and the air came cool and fragrant to them on the hill. On the battlements the white horse danced against the green backdrop, fluttering in the breeze that swept down from the tall peaks further south. Always was it running; always it was free.

But where the wintry world seemed fair, pure, entirely untouched by the ongoings and constant strife of mortals, his mind was grim in thought. He saw not the beauty around him, heeded it not through what he saw. In his mind he had turned from the green of his homeland, then looking instead to where all was barren and cold beyond their vision. His shoulders were weighed down, not from the plated armour that adorned him, but rather a heaviness that clutched his heart like a metal vice.

At length he turned from the sight. The hateful thoughts passed slowly and reluctantly. The ground beneath him crunched, for a layer of snow had fallen during the night; now melting under the sun, the first sign of Winter would soon disappear only to return with a vengeance in the approaching days of falling darkness. The next months would be long, dark, and cold. By his side, silent and waiting, Éowyn stood. Unmoving, unbending, as proud as a great tree that clung to the earth; too stubborn to release its hold despite the gale storms bearing down upon it. Her eyes held sorrow.

"Do what you can, as much as you are able – care for our King, even if your deeds may be regarded with abhorrence by those who are blind." His voice was low, only a whisper for ever did he feel eyes on them. No word could truly be passed in secret. "Allow not your loyalty to falter, though they may paint your choices as wrong. Believe and listen to your own heart."

Éomer came to find her hand in his; it bore the innocence of a young girl, soft and delicate, yet with the strength of a woman that would not yield. Of one that would not, nor could, ever surrender. "Fear not for me," she said quietly. Her words came as a whisper, meant only for him to hear. "People are allowed to have their own thoughts, be they right or wrong, and I am allowed to be unmoved by them! I will handle things here, do not worry about me." Her smile seemed almost rueful, but she quickly pressed his fingers tight with reassurance, and then released her hold. Suddenly changed; hiding her feelings behind a mask of courageous stoicism, she took a step back towards the gate. "It is you, brother, that must be careful."

At first, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but he said nothing.

Inclining his head, both in silent acceptance and farewell, he soon came to sit in the saddle while she disappeared behind the tall, wooden fence. How long, he wondered, would it be before he would see her again? In waiting, Éothain handed him his helmet and spear, and with one last, long look at the gate he turned Firefoot down the path. They followed the walled hill and further, as the way ran under the shadow of many mounds. When he came to the open plains, he was met with his awaiting riders; only twenty strong of his Éored remained, for the rest he had sent ahead days before under the banner of one of his captains.

The rest sat ready, and Éomer did not linger a moment longer.

He did not look back, not even as he felt eyes – hostile and dark – following their departure with rapt attention.

But the day wore on, and when afternoon faded to evening there had been little change about them. They made camp in a nook among great jagged rocks; sheltered from the southern wind. Stunted trees grew between the stones, their branches leaving shadows to twist and dance as his men lit the fires. Éomer spoke very little beside orders, and soon he draped the cloak around his shoulders to find a little rest. Back against a large boulder, he found slumber; it came to him accompanied by unease, often startling to sudden wakefulness.

Through slitted lids he watched the fire, chasing away the worry that kept him from rest and, instead, he thought and plotted. He would need eyes and ears in Meduseld, for the task could not fall to Éowyn alone. And when the last streaks of night vanished into the far west beyond the horizon, they emptied camp and found a swift pace down the dusty path. They would halt no more before reaching Aldburg, but ride the fastest and straight way east. Ahead, Éomer could see the meandering road – a dust-brown string weaving through green – continue, further until it bent straight through growing outcrops of cliffs.

The landscape changed very little at first, and the green fields continued on all sides.

But the slopes turned steep and soon hills stole away their previously unhindered view of their surroundings; cliffs, jagged and razor-edged, protruded from the ground and bathed the bending road in broken shadows beneath the sun. It was the fastest path, rather than to go around the rocky hills that stretched for some miles both ways. The riders grew more attentive, more sharp-eyed as they entered beneath the darkened gloom, for the ravine turned narrow around them until only a handful could ride alongside one another.

Their hands never loosened the grip on their spears. Yet they would find no enemies in the Folde, for while Éomer had taken most men with him, he had not left the region unguarded. The lofty tips of the White Mountains glowed in the distance when he glanced up, coming into view as the rock-lands changed once more; trees dotted the landscape, growing between cracks and crevices, and bird-song filled the clear air.

An arrow whirred inches past his head, failing to claim Éomer's life to instead lodge into the rock.

There was a pause, an utter silence that lasted only the briefest of moments, as realization settled. Éomer looked around, then started barking orders; voice tearing through the shocked quiet. "Ambush! Shields up!" All about him, the riders startled into action; shouts of an attack rolled up between the cliffs, an echo that mingled with the pounding of his own heart. "Bowmen, return the attack!" Pulling tightly on the reins, he whirled Firefoot around and drew up his own shield; it had come from above, and they were now easy prey against their assailants. They were but shadows against the pale sun, flickering and swift-moving, and Éomer saw no more beyond the brief glimpses.

He felt, rather than saw, the second arrow as it drove into his shoulder with a thud.

The third came swiftly after and hit much closer.

Right over the rim of the shield, it pierced and tore through flesh; the impact forced him back, almost out of the saddle as the spear fell from his hand. Coldness, then warmth spread down his chest. Vision turning hazy, Éomer toppled forward with a groan – yet still, despite his foggy mind, he fumbled to find the arrow-shafts with his trembling hand. To gauge the injury. Éothain was at once by his side; his voice seemed distant, far away and muffled. The worry was almost palpable, and if not for his pain Éomer would have smiled. "My lord! My lord–! Éomer!"

"It is ..." He croaked. "Get the men out of here. Every breath came with a ripple of pain, another wave of blood that oozed from the wound. Warm and trickling. In his mind he cursed. It was a struggle to remain awake. "Into the ... Open."

"To the Marshal!" Éothain's voice rang clear over the din, despite the shouts and terror-struck horses; through the whir of arrows that fell like rain from a clear sky, and the strange words from their attackers echoing between the cliffs. They sounded familiar to his ears, but he could not determine why through the pull of his injury. "Rohirrim!" An arm came to support him, shifting him back into place in the saddle, and his riders surrounded Firefoot.

They began a hasty retreat through the ravine.

Éomer saw little of their escape, feeling only the rippling movements that came through his steed and the sharp-piercing tugs of the arrows. It took all his strength to not fall unconscious, urging to allow himself to let go; when he tried to straighten, blackness swept across his vision and he was forced to ride out the attack. Until they got to safety. Through it all he could hear Éothain's insistent voice. Calling out to him with increasing dread. Who ... His mind struggled. How much blood ...?

The host tore a way through the gully at a breakneck speed, and the sudden light came sharp to his eyes. Its brightness blinding him, and Éomer was forced to rely solely on his ears; the trampling of hooves and the shouts, in the strangely familiar language, that followed after them. Jumping from one cliff to another and keeping up with them, for while the horses of the Riddermark were fast and agile, they were then slowed by the inhospitable land of rocks. Arrows sang through the air. "Éothain." Speaking came as a challenge, but he forced out the words. "The men–"

"–Are behind you, my lord," his squire cut him off, breath heavy and voice clipped with worry. "They are holding them off admirably." The grip across his shoulders tightened, clasping onto him like a vice, and everything shook as Firefoot carved a way forward without a hand to guide it. Surely, the great steed could smell its rider's blood and knew what had to be done. At last they broke through the final crevice ahead and came to open fields – and while Éothain rode further, most of his men veered off and turned to then face the rock-lands.

Here, they would hold their ground.

It was to the thundering of horses, and with a bitterness, that Éomer was bound to leave his riders behind. Duty; the word rang in his head, painfully repeated again and again to absolve his responsibility as their commander. In their loyalty, they would gladly forfeit their own lives. As he would have done for them. Though, as it was, in those moments he could do nothing; he was no longer the master of his own Fate. A duty to survive made the wounds so much worse.

Éothain continued the straight way west, leaving as much distance as possible between them and the ambush; with a furious pace, and only a handful riders in their swathe, the noises soon blurred to a faint clamor. With a struggle, Éomer forced himself up into the saddle with a groan. The pain hit him hard, a throbbing both deep and warm; unsteady, there was little to see as his hand found the second wound. Blood was soaking through the chainmail, dark but clear in the light it drippled, and their aim had been true.

He brought his vision into focus, as the voices of the riders startled to alarm. They drew their steeds to a sudden halt, fumbling with shields and spears, for something approached from ahead with swiftness. Éomer felt no fear, only coldness, while Firefoot was turned by the hand of another; there was so little he could do. Away from the ones approaching, as to lessen the angle of the attack from the first blow, he saw what approached.

Grey cloaks spread like dragon-wings behind the riders.

Their scabbards gleamed silvery and pale, but their swords were not drawn.

When they were but a few breaths away, the forerunner lowered a dark shield, fastened to his arm, almost as if waving to ask them to move from his path. In the next moment, swift like the arrow from the bow, six figures spread around and swept past them; gone before Éomer saw much beyond grey cloaks and lithe horses. An involuntary gasp of relief rushed from his chest.

They were not enemies.

It felt impossible to move again, as if all his remaining strength had then suddenly drained – the hard-pounding struggles of his heart, the breathing, the blood became too much for his body. "I must down," he said through gritted teeth, and another wave of pain drove through him as he moved in the saddle. "It must be treated." With a scramble, Éothain immediately came to stand by Firefoot's flank, and Éomer was eased down onto the ground.

It proved an excruciating task to bare the wounds.

Éomer sat his teeth and endured it at best, although the steady but unrelenting ooze of blood left him despairing. Worse of all, he understood well what end such an injury could lead to. One had gone through his shoulder, arrowhead broken through the small rings of his mail only to lodge into the chains on his back; and they were swift to begin the ugly task of removing it. While they worked, he took a moment of welcome clarity to see the other wound. The second arrow was in a far worse, and grave, position.

As they pushed the first arrow clean through, what was before a constant throbbing pain became instantly sharp; digging deep into him, and at long last he could no longer fight off the fatigue. He closed his eyes, willing his mind to focus beyond the pain. Feeling every gentle, prodding touch around the edges of the wounds; the cooling wind that more than anything smelled of his own blood. In the distance, he could hear shouts and steel meeting steel.

"My lord, the second arrow ..."

When he opened his eyes again, Éomer was met with Éothain's worried gaze through a greying, flickering haze. It was a losing battle against unconsciousness; one he could not win.

Swallowing, finding his mouth dry and words hard, Éomer gave a short nod of silent approval.

When he came to once more, Éomer awoke to find that he was lying on a soft bed; exhaustion clung to him still, and movement was difficult as he attempted to rise. He came to sit, his vision swimming, and it took several long, drawn-out moments before his sight adjusted. His left arm felt useless by his side. Stiff and leaden. Upon drawing the covers aside, he found his chest and shoulder bandaged in fresh linens, and through the opened window he could see the thatched, familiar roofs of Aldburg. Beech trees glimmered in the chill light, their branches filtering the worst bite of the sharp sun; they sparkled with frost.

In the distance, the horizon was tinted in streaks of purple and red; soon the calmness of evening would settle over the Folde, and the sight made him wonder. Marveled that, somehow, he had returned – in time for treatment against a wound that, to him, had felt like the mark of certain death. Carefully, he moved his fingers to assess the damage and, strangely, found little trouble in doing so. His brow furrowed. The skin was a sullen grey, but felt warm to the touch as his uninjured hand moved across the arm.

By his side on a table, he saw water set out for him. He drank greedily despite the trembling of his muscles. Éomer found the taste clear and fresh, as if just then brought down from the streams of the White Mountains, yet in it, there was also traces of something else. Lingering on the tip of his tongue; something strangely familiar. He held the wooden cup up and inhaled deeply.

He remembered that smell.

Grey; clear and clever eyes came to his mind, and just as when he last smelled the scent of athelas, now tension dwindled until he could no longer feel the strain. He drank the last water, turning the cup thoughtfully around in his hand as his finger glided across its edge; the scent had borne him back to the day when he had first uncovered the betrayal, and for a moment all else was out of his memory. The Ranger cloaked in grey. Though the moment lasted only briefly, like a mist of soon forgotten memories torn apart by the breeze.

He then recalled the ambush, and Éomer hurried to his feet.

A spell of lightheadedness hit him, forcing him back onto the bed with an inward groan. His wound throbbed. Again, waiting for the clouding of his vision to fade, he glanced about the room; eyes swimming, slowly focused, and his breath fell heavy and jagged from his lips. Think, he called in his own mind. It did not sit well with him, to so idly do nothing – to know nothing of what had transpired. The language had been that of the Wild Men, yet how they knew to attack them there ... how they had gone unnoticed once again through the Wold.

For many long moments Éomer sat silent in thought. His head hung low, gaze turned to the shadowed floor; over the lines in the wood, looking beyond to distant lands. Weathered hands clutched, tightened until they turned white. A wretched feeling of dread churned his stomach, and once more he felt utterly surrounded by enemies. As if they knew his every step, his every move and they would then lay in waiting. Pain, fear, sadness – anger – so intertwined that Éomer could not distinguish a difference.

Yet he focused on one in particular. He smothered the foreboding fear with anger; drowned it until an almost tangible fury boiled in his mind, a shield that naught else could penetrate. At times his temper blinded him, made him act without reason in uncontrollable outbursts, but more often it proved an anchor to sharp clarity. Rage came so much easier. A sharp, digging pain traveled up his arm and dug into his injured shoulder, as he clenched his fingers even further; had the Dunlendings waited for them? How could they have known?

It was with bitterness, that Éomer realised the answer. Truthfully, he had known from the very beginning – someone had betrayed them.

"My Lord, you are awake!" A voice broke through his muddled thoughts, and his head snapped up to the door. Startled. Only slightly ajar, so that the woman could peer inside, he could see torchlight dance against her silhouette in the hallway beyond. Éomer had little chance to reply, for at once she came inside and approached the bed; lines of age apparent on her face, turned to a frown of concern as she nudged at his bandages. He allowed it without a word. Gentle but insistent hands examined him; hazel eyes on his features in a search for any discomfort. "Have you no shame," she mumbled.

Éomer chuckled. Part of his anger drained from his taut muscles, and his hands fell to his side. With a sigh, he replied. "Dearest Gamrun, of what crime am I guilty?"

The housekeeper narrowed her eyes at him, stabbing him once – quickly, sharply, once she deemed his injury sufferable – with a knobbly finger. "I am old and weary, not long from my death bed! My poor heart cannot bear to see such sights." Despite the lightness of her tone and gestures, the smallest tremble raking through her voice did not go unnoticed by him.

He could only imagine the fright Éothain had instilled in her when he had ridden into Aldburg. The woman had been as close to a grandmother for Éowyn and he, as anyone could possibly be after the death of their parents; and she much regarded them as her own two bundles of mischief. Even as they had grown to adulthood. "I do apologize," he replied dutifully.

Tutting, she patted his cheek before turning to the door. "I will bring food and tell that big oaf of yours he can enter. Lumbering after me all day ..."

Accompanied by the pitter-patter of footfalls, irregular in her step from a winter's sickness many years ago, the housekeeper disappeared down the hall. The hinges on the door creaked shut. Once more Éomer was left alone with his thoughts. The soft, alluring whispers of fatigue called to him from the back of his mind, but he fought off the pull of sleep. He stood; momentarily gauging his balance, and found this time he was not hit by dizziness. The floor was cool underneath his bare feet. He stretched, as much as he was able, allowing his shoulder to roll cautiously.

There was a sting and an ache, yet he could still feel his strength bubbling underneath; by some miracle, the arm – and his life – had been saved. He came to stand by the window. Over the settlement the sky was painted by the fair weather and a clear sun, yet to him it seemed but a mockery. The winds blew fresh and cold, blowing boldly from the distant mountains. Grey shapes that towered against the skies, dim and formless in the haze and its glowing tips shrouded; the branches of the trees swayed, rattling like old bones, and he could almost smell Winter in the air. The southern faces of the White Mountains were sheer, falling in cliff to the green and tumbled fields of Rohan.

As he had expected, Éomer had little time to admire the view of open plains and stone ridges, for Éothain came quickly after receiving word of his awakening. Out of breath; pearls of sweat trailing beads down his neck, flushed red from the chill, the man entered with a knock. "What news do you have for me?" Éomer asked immediately, giving the other no time to voice concerns nor gladness. He turned fully from the window. Dark specks whirled across his vision.

Éothain straightened. "From what we could tell by their attire, the men we found dead were all hillmen. Some escaped through the hills when the tides of battle turned. We have trackers following them," he paused, running a hand across his brow. There was pain in his eyes, grief and understanding; what came next was terrible in Éomer's ears. "And we lost five men to their arrows."

It felt like all air was punched from his gut, a wretched feeling. Shame and sorrow washed over him; he bowed his head. With a great effort, breathing twice, heavily, he raised his gaze with difficulty to the other man. In his heart he wept, but no tears came to his dry eyes. Bleak the day felt. From the corner of his sight, he found Gúthwinë by the foot of his bed; the long blade sheathed and unused. No blood had been drawn by his hand. Again, he tasted bitterness and swallowed. "Have they been returned to their families?"

"They have," Éothain replied, but then said nothing more. Instead, he stood waiting, torn between words of rest and silence; watching his lord for a command they both knew soon would come. Grim-faced and with hands continuously clenching and unclenching, Éomer found a shirt already laid out for him. He dressed swiftly, disregarding the bite of his wounds and the haunting calls of the dead, to find resolution. Shoulders squared, he strapped his belt and sword to his waist. He motioned for Éothain to follow him out.

"For how long have I been asleep?"

"Nearly two days," Éothain said, and although the words startled Éomer, he did not reply.

The hallway glowed in the warmth of torches, and they soon found their way to the great hall. He saw Éothain linger close by, within easy reach, and he felt like snapping; he could walk on his own. Though, with an effort, he held his tongue and stepped into the large room. It was much lesser in its grandeur compared to the court of Meduseld, and neither was it a match to the stone chambers and vaults of Helm's Deep. But it was something else to him. Home. He did not step to the dais, nor to the grand chair from which he ruled; instead, he went to a long table, carved from ancient oaks and embellished with ebony, that stood in the center of the hall. Often his men sat there, eating and drinking when they returned from the wild; minstrels would play, the fires roaring.

Now Éomer found the table empty.

Narrow channels beneath the roof allowed rays of light to filter down to the floor. Only one of four great fireplaces smoldered still, embers of orange and red that made contorted shadows dance against the tapestries. It was with an effort he slumped into a chair at the end of the table; he felt weak, feeble in his body and spirit broken. At first, Éothain stood at the ready by his side, but Éomer quickly waved him to a seat.

From seemingly out of nowhere, Gamrun appeared with a bowl of broth and a mug of ale. Her gaze was on him but, mirroring the silence of Éothain, she said nothing. The woman quickly retired from the hall once more. He watched her leave, picking up the spoon to twirl through the soup; it was the colour of the autumnal vegetables growing by the northern wall, the deepest green, yet with a hue softened just a bit by the addition of cheese. "The riders in the grey cloaks ..." Éomer paused, then recalling the swift horsemen that had come to their aid. Without faltering and without pause.

Through the openings under the roof, he saw the last shafts of fire as the sun sank behind the rim of the world.

"Who were they?"

"It seems, my Lord, that soon we owe much to the Rangers of the North. For they were the riders – and the ones that treated your wound." The revelation came not as a true surprise to Éomer, as he expected as much from their attire and their horses; as well as the familiar scent of athelas in his drink, but still it astonished him. Again they had proved their worth, shown their allegiance to the Free People wherever the road took them. Éothain continued his tale. "They have much to tell, still, and I asked them to remain in Aldburg until you woke; though they sent their two best trackers to assist our men in the hunt, the others remain."

"They are still here?" He inquired, and Éothain nodded. "Very well. Please bring them to me. They shall have my gratitude – and my welcome."

"I shall bring them here, my Lord. I have seen to it that they were given quarters, as well as food for themselves and their horses. Far they had ridden, and hard they fought." His squire stood, unfurling the green cloak as it draped across his weapon. With a brisk bow, Éothain made ready to leave the hall. "Their leader will be glad to meet you."

So it was that amid a gathering gloom, where servants quietly brought life to the fires, that he sat waiting for the Rangers who had rescued him. He ate only little, despite his hunger; for his heart was heavy and brought nausea to his stomach, facing the great doors while his mind worked. The flowing characters on the woven tapestries moved and came alive as the flames started a spirited dance. At length he heard voices approaching, but as they advanced they fell silent until only a footfall of many boots echoed. The heavy wings of the doors swung inwards and a handful grey-cloaked, unarmed men met Éomer.

Dark haired and pale-faced, tall and noble they seemed to him; yet also weathered and concealed, as if to hide themselves better from curious eyes. Éomer came to stand. At best he disregarded the throbbing of his wounds, hands flat against the table for leverage as the chair scraped across the floor. Prideful, he cursed his own weakness. At his full height, he spoke. "I, Éomer son of Éomund, welcome you to my hall."

The four Rangers then stood before him, and each in turn they bowed – gloved hand against their chest and head inclined, so was their greeting. One, older than the others, was the first to speak in return. "We greet you, Marshal of the Riddermark, and glad we are to see you in recovery." The man was clad in grey rags and layers of leather, dull in the low light; his hair was raven black, streaked with lines of age, and grey were his eyes gleaming bright under deep brows. "I am Halbarad, leader of these men. We were given leave to cross your lands."

"And thankful I am for it," Éomer replied, eyes roaming from one man to the next in a search for any injury. They appeared unharmed, and he was grateful for it; if they had lost their lives to save his, he knew not what he would do. What to think and what to say. How dark his thoughts would have then turned. "I hope you shall spare a moment to answer my questions, for I have many in need of answers – both of worry and wonder. Perhaps you can help me in finding such."

When he motioned for the table, they thanked him kindly and soon he found himself seated once more. Éothain was at his side, vigilant but not untrusting; stance relaxed, and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword more from habit than alertness. Their captain, Halbarad, sat with a polite distance from him, two chairs over, and his company further down the line. When offered food and drink they accepted easily; and soon Gamrun and her aides were busy at work in setting the table.

The men spoke not at first, until at length the servants left them to it once more.

Quiet it was around them, for only the kindled logs crackled and snapped. A breeze howled beneath the rafters, a low, eerie cry that soon died away.

"Twice before have I met your kin." Éomer broke the silence, eyes on the oldest Ranger who, in kind, returned his gaze evenly. "The first came to save one of our villages from a Dunlending raid; the other seeking her in the glow of nightfall. And now you sit before me again, Rangers of the North; you, who come from lands far from my own. It would seem the fates bring us together," he said slowly and very softly, giving himself time to regard the others around the great table.

While he did not mistrust them, neither could he affort lenience. Too often had he been faced with deceit and betrayal as of late.

"Both my father and my uncle, the King, has told tales of your kin. But all are they from times long passed and when they, themselves, were children or young men. That is now many years ago, and your kind has passed into tales of the old. Seldom you seem to cross our borders. Strange, I find it, that now – not once, nor twice, but thrice – our paths cross in the span of only months."

"Yes, my Lord, so it is. And, begging your pardon," Halbarad said as he shifted in his seat, grey eyes glinting. He, too, had allowed the food to go untouched on the plate before him. Instead, his hands came to the clasp of his cloak. Éomer saw the lines of many old wounds and calluses, white lines in the dull, yellow glow. "May it be fate, or chance, or the will of beings greater than our understanding that guided us here; seldom we travel these roads east of the Misty Mountains. A pretty stroke of fortune none the less as we search for one important to us."

On the table, he placed the silver pendant between them. It seemed to burn with an inner fire, tendrils of red and yellow flickering as the flames danced, and the star held Éomer's gaze enthralled. With a brief look to the Ranger, he reached forward and picked it up from the table to hold between his fingers; he knew very little of their history, the story engraved in the sharp edges. Though, to show it seemed a great sign of trust for the Rangers. To them, it explained and answered many questions.

"So it would seem," Éomer said. "However, peculiar it also appears to me; for fate to bring you here when so many leagues lay between our lands."

The Ranger shifted, straightened, whether from unease or mere discomfort from sitting Éomer could not tell, yet still there was a glint in his grey eyes. "You may find the truth difficult to believe, my lord, though give it I shall." With a hand outstretched, the pendant was returned to its owner. "A member of our company travels alone and, admittedly, without leave. It was our task to see her return safely home." Listening quietly, he startled at the man's words. Is the task no longer theirs? "We lost the trail at the High Pass and so went two ways around the mountains, hoping at least one group to be in time."

Éomer gave a nod. "I received tidings from Dunland by Rangers passing that way, were they one of your parties?"

"Yes, and with tidings brought with them they have made a way to the realm of Gondor." Halbarad replied, fingers nimbly working to fasten the star to his cloak. All around them, the shadows and the light had shifted; evening was upon Aldburg, and the sky turned a deeper, blackening blue. He could hear swallows piping above the roof; picturing their pale silhouettes carving through the air, and with night they would vanish in the darkness. Life bustled as it always had outside the walls of the keep, for much had to be done before there was time to rest. "But while they came to Helm's Deep by the long way west, my men and I crossed the Gladden Fields and passed beneath the eaves of Lothlórien. Words came to us then by the Wardens."

"From the Golden Woods?" Éomer's eyes narrowed and for a moment silence stretched between them, as if they all weighed their words with care. By his side Éothain leaned back, muscles tense, though he remained quiet. The Rohirrim did not find the forest of the Elves friendly, let alone traversable, and never did they wander close enough to see those that dwelled within. Never did the Elves, in return, show themselves. It was a place of deep and ancient secrets. And if one wizard had turned to the ways of evil, what, then, could be thought of a sorceress already veiled in stories of wicked spells?

Long had the stories of the Lady of the Woods been dark.

If the sudden distrust unsettled the Rangers, certainly they did not show it. The one in command watched him quietly, while the other three kept their attention on their supper; Éomer knew they were listening, heads turned and eyes gleaming, but it appeared the conversation was not for them to partake in. "Aye," Halbarad then replied, "While we lost the trail, our wayward kin was forever clear in the eyes of the eagles; for they nest on the eastward slopes of the Misty Mountains – and so it was revealed to the Elves. When news came to us, she had long parted far from our reach. Though, with but a small hope, we have still continued west and were met with our second party. So it was that we came to these parts."

"By mere chance you came upon us, just as hillmen sprung their ambush?" Éothain cut in, unable to contain his distrustful astonishment; briefly, he glanced to his lord for permission, yet Éomer said nothing. The words resounded in his mind, as much as had they been his very own. Strange, indeed, were the paths of fate. With a small nod, he allowed his squire to speak. "Certainly, as you say! A stroke of luck if I ever heard one."

The Ranger inclined his head.

"So it was."

At last Éomer rose from his seat to his full height, Éothain beside him, and he looked at the Rangers. "Thankful I am for your aid. You and your men are welcome in Aldburg for as long as you deem needed. Food and shelter shall be given; my men will see to it that you are brought undisturbed to our borders, be your journey continued or returning home, and you will ride under the protection of the Third Marshal." With that, he said his farewells to the company, bidding them to stay and enjoy supper, and left the hall. His shoulder ached, sharp and digging.

Walking behind him, Éothain's steps were slow and cautious.

Only when he was certain that their words could be heard by none, Éomer spoke again in the quiet of the hallway. "Make sure they have an escort once they depart Aldburg. In our time of trouble, I will have no stranger roam these lands unattended – not even those who have proven their worth." If there was a subtle taste of bitterness in his mouth, he heeded it not. What have we come to? Éomer thought. To distrust even the honourable.

"It will be done," Éothain said.

Chapter Text

Long pointed shadows went on before them, for the last of the sun soon crept beyond the edges of tall cliffs, standing bare as bone against the skies. Day was waning. Her steps were slow, painfully so, and weariness clouded her thoughts; they had walked far that day through many steep valleys and deep gorges. Always vigilant, always alert. It was not a friendly place and dreary foreboding hung heavy in the air. The path was that of enemies, of orcs and other foul creatures of Mordor. Around them, the wind danced through the bare shoulders of rock; falling and rising, soft-sighing and suddenly wailing.

It had been four days since they had stumbled upon the hidden path through Emyn Muil. They had had no other choice then; the jagged ridges and cold walls were unscalable unless they abandoned both horse and captive, and so the Rangers took to the road. The frowning precipices were wreathed in grey mist. At times they came by hewn stones and smooth patches of rock, or old fires long abandoned; signs they were not the first to step foot within the shadowy world. But the tracks were old, often stretching many years back to a time when orcs could not openly walk the open plains of the Brown Lands and Dagorlad.

Although he remained sharp-eyed and watchful, Aragorn had soothed her worries about their current whereabouts.

And certainly, they had encountered no living beast, creature or man; neither foul nor fair, and only did they have Gollum's pale, ever-watching eyes for company. Their captive had been quiet, almost to the point it unnerved Rell greatly and almost drove sleep away entirely. The eyes were clever, scheming, and he would most likely take any chance that presented itself. Presently, he was scrambling along only a few steps ahead of her as the path sloped steadily uphill. Gangly, spider-like movements and sharp, protruding limbs, his bony hands easily finding one place after another for holds.

She, on the other hand, found the path difficult to walk and stumbled often. Loose pebbles slid beneath her feet in a travel down into the darkness behind them, always accompanied by echoing clacks that resounded for many long moments following. Each time she sensed from the corner of her eye a sliver of silver. Gollum watched her. Her useful hand itched for her sword, but instead it was forced to grope and search for rocks to help her forward and upwards. Be wary of the captured beast, for always are his teeth sharp and ready, she thought to herself.

Above them the sky seemed almost cloudless, but only because the veil was so dense there was no pause in the grey. Her breath escaped her in puffs of white. A haze that hung long suspended in the air before her face. Her stomach rumbled, and she swallowed only to find her mouth dry. They had forgone food and drink throughout the day, stretching their measly rations for a while longer – hoping they would soon find places to hunt and scavenge for supplies, yet also making sure they would not run out too soon.

Walking through Emyn Muil proved harsh on Rell, as the trek was accompanied by horrid memories that had not yet turned distant. She remembered well the pull of starvation, and the desperate attempt to find a way out. The realisation that she would have likely died, lost and alone if not for a stroke of fate or chance. Yet now they had once more ventured inside, willingly, to walk beneath the dark teeth on a path they knew not where ended. If it would ever end.

Rell found the figure of her uncle ahead; a grey shape in the dim waning light, still touched by a red-faded sun as he pulled Luin after him.

I am not alone. Not this time.

For another hour they continued the arduous climb. Then the final glow sank beneath the rim of the world and true darkness settled about them. Only a fool would have then carried on, and instead they found shelter beneath groping rocks; with a view behind and ahead of the path clear to them. No enemy would spring upon them in the night. The wind was cold and biting, harsh against any bared skin and Rell covered under her tattered cloak. Gollum lay not far from her; tightly rolled in on himself, large head tucked away under bony arms.

With quiet steps Aragorn returned to camp. For a while he had walked ahead, to search for tracks in the waning light, but still the road was long abandoned. When he came to sit beside her, eyes lingering briefly on Gollum's curled-up form, he told of his findings. "The road bends east and then north, but at last it turns away and goes straight west." He leaned forward, brow furrowed. "I believe it may lead us to the Great River – if luck is on our side. I believe this path may have been a point of passage to the western lands, now no longer used for the orcs need not hide. It has not been used for many years."

Rell spoke not, but long she pondered his words. Mists had gathered around them, thick and cold and clammy, and soon the ground became blacker than night. The wall of rock rose like an impenetrable gloom; and there they sat in silence, in the narrow lane between leering towers. The wind howled and danced high above, but it did not bring the choking mists with it. The dark forest of Mirkwood was their destination, yet the path now turned them further west.

Pressing her lips together, Rell rested her head on her knee and carefully nestled her injured arm in-between.

The dull throb was constant, though soon something she had grown accustomed to. Never did her thoughts linger long on the damage done, whether it would be permanent when she was so far from healing hands; instead she was careful, tentative and, at best, hopeful. Her fingers clenched, rigid and slowly. "If we go west," she said carefully; her voice felt harsh in her throat and loud in the darkness. "What then?"

"I know not where the path ends," he replied. "But Sauron has many spies afoot in all the lands beyond the marshes, even if one may not think it so. It is best to avoid detection, and so we will make for a much longer, but safer, road." She could feel his gaze on her, how there were words unspoken and thoughts withheld from her. Pulling her legs closer, ignoring the sharp sting that came with it, she looked out into the grey haze. She blew a deep breath.

Rell said no more. She sat still now, but rest did not come to her that night; her uncle's breathing soon came softly, asleep in a few minutes. At first she tried to think of nothing, instead staring ahead until the bleak darkness filled her vision. But at last she could stand it no longer and quietly came to stand, wrapping the cloak around her. Even Gollum appeared deep in sleep in the gloom.

She crept over the rocks, following the path with difficulty. There was no moon nor starlight to lit her way, so she moved slowly. Around her the mist whirled, blown away with each step she took; clammy fingers that brushed gently against her cheek, icy cold to the touch. Yet there was no rot, no smell of decay clinging to the air. Perhaps we are far from the marshlands now. It was hard to tell, always surrounded by tall cliffs that stole away their sight; the maze obscuring their knowledge of the lands.

A pebble slipped beneath her foot and clattered down the slope. The clacks came many, echoing deep into the hollow. Rell glanced back, eyes flickering to Aragorn; his eyes were closed, seemingly asleep still, and made no sign to wake. But another had heard her. Through the dark two pale lights turned to her. Gollum watched her, gaze long and hard; there was no warmth in them, yet neither the smoldering hate that was usually alive in the daylight. For a long moment she stood there, torn between thought and speech.

In a sense she was curious; the creature was so very strange, unlike any other, but could he truly be the only one? What had shaped his fate? How did you become such a wretched thing? A sudden wind blew harsh. Bone-chilling, her broken arm ached and at once she turned away. Rell drew the cloak about herself, once more looking up and into the misty grey. What had once been was no more – perhaps Gollum had been something else, though now he was but a servant of evil. Willingly or not. Change would not come easy, and her words would make no difference.

Rell climbed further up the slope, groping and searching for solid footings until at length the path evened out to a flat stretch of even, wind-bitten rocks. She had come to the end of the ravine. The eastern fences of Emyn Muil grew as sheer walls of stone, lined with jagged teeth gnawing towards the skies; black ridges that brought dread to her heart. But the west came clear to her eyes. There, under the deep gloom of night, she could see black trees far beyond the rocks. So utterly black the forest seemed before her.

Finding a solitary stone, she sat down. There was not much to be seen, and she could discern nothing save the brief glimpses blessed by the moon's touch. Around her there seemed the endless whisper of the wind, a murmur in no known tongue. Time passed unreckoned, until Rell saw a sight that cheered her spirits. Away to the east the sun glittered in the gloom. Faintly, perhaps only her mind's imagination, she suddenly heard the tinkle of water; the calls of the long chill river that flowed all the way to the Bay of Belfalas. And, as dawn grew, there before her lay the uplands of Emyn Muil. A great vale of many hills, steep slopes, all grey in that hour.

Daylight was upon them.

Long had the terror of the Emyn Muil lain upon the Rangers and upon the empty lands. Yet no more; for in the ground by her feet grew grass. Wilted and yellow, the straws felt dry between her fingers as she crouched down, but glad she was. The arduous climb would soon come to an end. With light growing around her, Rell half-ran down the slope to the small company in the gully. Stones rolled before her, boots slapping hollow against the rocks. The sounds stirred her uncle from sleep and he was wide awake as Rell came to him.

"There are trees," she cried, coming to a halt by his side. The protests of her body were overpowered by the elation of her heart. "Beyond the slope ahead, I can see a forest to the west. We must have reached the Anduin at last!"

With renewed strength, their journey soon continued.

Greatly changed were her steps. Light they seemed upon the stony way, and not-so-grey the sky above was painted; the sun came pale and chill with morning, its glow but a glimmer on dark stones. Broken hills opened around them, where the path grew wide and slanting down – down through the last huge crevices of the Emyn Muil, until the air became clearer and colder. Behind Rell, the mountains stood as ominous frowning towers. Cloudy on the edge of sight. And so she took one last, long look at the terrible place in silent farewell.

With that she went down to the bottom of the gully, looking out and ahead as she went. Hopeful to never return. Clear sky was growing over the distant skirts of the forest, where great trees flanked the river. But first the Rangers had a long downward way to go; formless slopes stretched ahead, brown and withered before changing to green grass. The naked stretch was the last leg of a shelterless journey, before they could find safety and cover beneath the canopy of trees. They had come to the northern end of Emyn Muil, just above Sarn Gebir. If they had continued, rather than veered off onto a path west, they would soon have crossed to the open plains of the Brown Lands.

It would have been a faster road to Mirkwood, yet also overtaken by companies of orcs and other foul creatures.

That realm was now claimed by the Enemy.

As day grew, soon they came to walk between thorn and bramble. The weathered stones became swallowed by the slowly encroaching forest, crowning crumbled cliffs with ivy. There were many birds in the sky, whirling and circling; black against blue, soon dipping between branches only to swiftly reappear. Rell was glad to see life once more. Chased by the wind, the clouds broke and sun came to hooded, lowered backs. Somewhere to the west she could hear the roar of the Anduin. Fair yet cold it was; Winter was upon them, and frost made the grass crunch beneath her boots.

By the end of midday they made camp between rock and tree.

Aragorn left to look ahead and hunt, leaving Rell the ungrateful task of guarding their captive. Before her uncle left, he had tied Gollum securely to the bole of an old, withered birch that stood gnarled and stunted between moss-covered rocks. Like a dog tied to a too-short leash with only little room to move, and certainly without chance to bite. Yet still, Rell kept her distance. At first she tended to Luin – accompanied with softly-muttered words of tenderness and praise – removing flaked mud, digging pebbles imbedded in the hooves, and finding consolation in the horse's warmth. If not for you, I would have died, she thought.

Rell pressed her forehead to Luin's soft coat, feeling warm air blown against her neck and breast. "Agorel vae," she whispered.

Allowing the horse to freely graze the small patches of grass, she then turned her attention back to the task at hand. Tentatively, she stepped closer and came to sit on a rock before Gollum; he stared back with enormous, glinting eyes. It seemed like he had slunk into the shadows of the tree, just beyond the reach of the pale sun above. Settling into a more comfortable position, she drew her broken arm onto her lap with a small wince. Her ears were trained for sound – but her full attention was on the creature before her.

"Are you hungry?" She asked.

There was no answer, and neither did she expect one. The gag was still in place.

I am. She looked out across the lands; here and there above the trees she could see a faint mist rising, vapors from the mighty river, and beneath the crowns of the trees stretched silence. A chill came to her. Again, she shifted. It felt oddly quiet around her, and she glanced to the skies for birds. There were none. Suddenly, as if the world knew a secret she did not, everything had turned deadly silent. Rell slipped down from the rock.

Quickly, giving Gollum a hard look as she pressed a finger to her mouth, she stepped further in between the dark boles.

Rell moved slowly through the undergrowth, moving with a guarded pace that left her steps soundless; drowned by roaring waters further beyond. The ground was coloured orange and red. For a while she walked, circled the clearing in which they had made camp to always keep one eye on Gollum, listening and watching. If he had sensed something, at least he did not let it show. Fallen leaves crunched faintly beneath her feet, and branches brushed ghostly touched against her arms; light came in thin, shredded beams through the tall-reaching but bare trees. It was cold and quiet. Windless.

The harsh cry of a crow tore through the forest and she startled.

With beating wings the bird beat through the branches and climbed quickly into the air. She cast her gaze upon the noise, breath heavy, before she let out a low sigh of relief. A shaky laugh followed, and she withdrew her hand from the hilt of her sword. It took her a moment to regain her composure, for the trembling to cease and the loud rush in her ears to subside.

Unease still clung to her mind, but this time she looked around the forest with a little less apprehension.

Old roots dug deep into the ground, between wintry shrubs and herbs; clinging still to life in the frost-covered season, she even managed to find clusters of mushrooms in places of shade. Most were inedible, a swift death if one was lucky, yet upon closer inspection Rell found some familiar to her – snow-caps, peeking out between tall growing reeds. She collected as many as she could carry in one arm, then returned to the clearing.

She had to wait another hour with only Gollum's dreary company, sitting on a broken, lightning-struck trunk with legs dangling above the yellowed reeds, before her uncle returned from the deep thickets. Trudging his way between brambles and wilted bushes, he seemed to have met with a fruitless hunt. To her great chagrin, there was no fresh meat brought back with him; no rabbits or birds hanging from his shoulder, nothing that could sate the deep-gnawing hunger in the pit of her stomach.

At the mere thought it let out a grumbled complaint. They were both with little strength left after the long way through the marshes and rocklands, weakened after sparse meals and the exhaustive climb. Rell shifted on the trunk, allowing an empty spot for Aragorn to sit by her side. His shoulders were heavy and his eyes tired.

"The Anduin is not far," he said with a quiet voice. For a long moment his gaze rested on Gollum. "Less than a day's travel the straight way west, though I fear we cannot cross it there. Sarn Gebir blocks our path forward." While she listened, Rell peered into the forest; she wetted her dry lips, swallowed, and allowed her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. Leaves rattled in the chill wind sweeping across the forest floor, a rustle that carried on deep within and between the ancient boles.

"What then?" She asked.

"If possible, we shall follow the water until we find a way across. For cross it we must." A dark shadow passed his vision. "There is something strange, foreign to the forest, on this side of the river. There were no birds nor beasts afoot, no sounds that one would imagine to hear." Rell gave a nod in agreement, for she had felt much the same in her short walk beyond the clearing. It seemed as if the world was frozen, awaiting the inevitable to happen in bated breath.

The travelers now turned their faces to the journey; with no food to quell their hunger, there was little reason for rest. The sun was before them, and their eyes dazzled by the pale light that left them vulnerable amidst the open lands. Winter trees stood with twisting roots that writhed, disappearing into the frozen soil. Rough bark glistened with the morning frost, thawing not even from the light of the sun as midday came and passed. The ground fell and rose uneven beneath their feet. Dark cracks lay in the bark like scars.

Rell mustered all her remaining strength, forcing one leg to move before the other; step by step, despite the insistent weariness. In her heart she felt time was pressing. Brown and withered the forest seemed around her; tall trees that grasped for grey skies, their branches like eager fingers weaving in the wind. Though some comfort they also brought, a cover against hostile eyes and hidden enemies.

The Rangers carried on until night brought darkness to the lands. By then, Rell was drowsy and longed for camp, yet they pressed further on through the falling gloom; the river's roar had grown loud and deafening in the distance. Aragorn wished to reach the Anduin before they settled – to see where, exactly, they were. Frost came as snow without cloud, a soft vapor on the breeze. Each time her eyes lulled with fatigue, another vigorous wind roused her.

Suddenly, something caught her sight; at first it was but a glimmer between the trees and her stare was listless, but then the slivers grew and came clear to her. Passing through an opening they came to an abrupt end to the forest. Before them lay large, sharp-teethed rocks; through the rolling, roaring waters that churned with foam they stood. The bank was studded with black boulders and great reeds, and beyond, on the distant shore the land rose with steepness to tall-reaching cliffs. Below the moon, the river shimmered equally silver and dark, shadows cast by many eyots in the water.

They made their way through the hissing reeds, until at length they came to the very edge of the Anduin. Rell led Luin to its waters with slippery difficulty, allowing the horse to drink as they looked about. The flow was turbulent, bringing with it both tree and driftwood to the distant sea. Any attempt to cross would lead to a cold death within the deep. She kicked a pebble and watched it disappear beneath the surface; stars shimmered broken as ripples were torn apart with the current.

At long last they made camp.

While Aragorn found rest with ease, Rell took the first watch on a flat rock by the riverside. Her sword in its scabbard lay by her side, unfastened from her belt. The bank twisted sharply, hiding them from view, and – while every muscle tingled in vigilance – she felt a semblance of safety. The reeds proved an excellent cover. She felt tired, but still she had declined Aragorn's offer; instead, she revelled the clear and cold water cupped within her hands. Rubbing eagerly, desperately, the last remnants of her long journey were scrubbed away from her. The skin prickled from the chill, raw and red, but nonetheless a smile came to her lips.

When finally she was washed, Rell draped herself in cloak and hood. The world around her was dark and grey, quietly waiting for the morning still faraway. Droplets splattered her cheeks, and she moved from her place of rest. Running a hand through the reeds, feeling sharp edges dig into the thin skin of her palm, she returned to her company.

Only the moon watched her, a crescent sphere of silver. For three hours Rell sat by her uncle's side, listening to the water's roar and rhythmic lapping against the shores. The howling wind blew cold from the north. No creatures of the night were about; no fox scampering through the woods in the hunt for prey, nor the piercing cries of an owl in the tall branches. Not even the shuffling feet of a mouse. All was silent. Too silent. Though, despite her fretful worries, she was glad when they changed watch and she could curl up by his side.

Rell listened to Aragorn's low hum, a song she could not quite remember the words to; but with his hand combing gently through her hair, she soon found sleep.

Chapter Text

With the first glow of morning, they continued once more. Following the banks of the Anduin north, they hoped to escape the untraversable cliffs and swift-passing currents of Sarn Gebir. Always did they watch for ways to cross the river, but either was the drop too deep on the eastern bank, or there was no way up and out of the waters on the other side. Once, they passed broken stones; like teeth in an old woman's mouth, the last remnants of a bridge of older days. Once, perhaps, they could have passed.

So they headed for the Undeeps further upstream; to the riverbends, where there were many wide shoals and shallow waters.

Rell had taken to the saddle, guiding Luin forward as her eyes flickered from one point to the next. Behind her, snuffling and hissing, Gollum was pulled along by the rope; often she turned to look down upon the creature, though – as she had noticed herself – there was no malice in her gaze, nor in her thoughts. Perhaps she was too tired to dwell on her own hurt. She did not imagine the twang in her chest to be pity; not for something so cruel and vile, rather the soft appraisal of the curious.

Yet Gollum never returned her attention.

Often his pale eyes were turned to the forest. When Rell caught him staring, he was quick to return to the ground below his hands and feet; heavy-lidded, veiled from her, sniffling just a bit louder with his head bowed low. Submissive. For a while after, she would always stare with narrowed eyes into the shadows beneath the eaves. Behind the wall of ancient boles. What do you see? Never did she spot anything, and she would return to the musings of her own restless mind.

Further behind Aragorn made up the rear, wielding his own sword, as well as her bow and arrows.

The ground began to rise, slow-climbing, until suddenly the river swept round a bend in the hills. The banks rose upon either side from wet mud to dark stones, and the silver-foaming water became hidden in a steep drop as the river carved through the rock-hill. Rell leaned out of her saddle, grip tight on the reins, and saw away below them the sweeping river. Grey and pale it gleamed in the thin light. Still the slope climbed, up and further up, until the drop made her head spin. Rocky outcrops poked through the ground, fencing in the waters with stone walls.

For a while after, the hill rose and fell like waves on the sea and ahead they saw glimpses of half-veiled woods, carrying on into the hazes; then and again, there were patches of openness, clearings and plains on the western banks. To the northeast there were brown, sullen stretches of land far in the distance. At length the slope evened out, allowing them to walk quite a drop above the river; the wind came in rushing, powerful gusts. Challenging, it roughed up her face, sprayed about her hair, only to then race away and around the peaks of the hill, to come back for another lark.

A long clammy hand grasped her neck and another tightened around her arm.

Taken off her guard, Rell toppled backwards out of the saddle with a yelp. It was with surprise painted across her face, that she hit the ground hard and there she lay, confused rather than fearful. When – and how – Gollum had loosened his bindings, she could not fathom, but his hands were certainly free. With a hiss, strong fingers twisted around her throat and forced air from her lungs. Instantly, she struggled against the attack.

Rell kicked out, hitting nothing. But this time she was not alone, and with a shout Aragorn sprang forward; as he grabbed and pulled at Gollum, the tighter the creature's hold grew on her. Spots of light danced across her vision. Though, what truly enraged her then, and not so much the sudden assault, was when the gag came loose and Gollum sank his teeth into her neck. Again, she screamed.

Hot fury boiled in her, bubbled over and she turned her own teeth on him. Biting down, she tried to ignore the taste that welled up in her mouth; the scum and the blood. More, her mind pressed her on. He squealed like a stuck pig, loud and terrible in her ear – but at least he had released her. When his fingers left her neck and Aragorn could pull him back, she doubled over. Spitting the filth from her mouth onto the grass. Her actions astounded herself, and had likely surprised Gollum even more. She spat twice more, then rubbed her mouth with vigour.

She came to sit in the grass, dazed but unharmed.

Aragorn had little trouble binding Gollum once more, for the creature appeared too distracted by her attack. He whined, clutching his face as he trashed about like a petulant child for the first time scolded by its parents. "It hurts, it hurtss! Nasssty thing bit us!" At his words, Rell started.

"You bit me first!"

At that, Gollum wailed even louder.

While he was busy with the ropes, Aragorn did manage to look at her with tired bemusement. "I believe you will win very little by arguing with him. Come, help me instead if you are without injury." She chewed back any remaining words of indignation, standing to help with a glower on her face directed at Gollum. She spat again. Her fingers trailed the new wounds, finding small puncture holes that dripped beads of blood into her shirt. When her uncle spoke again, he had turned to Sindarin and his eyes were tired. "It seems we must be more vigilant in our watch."

When Rell found the torn cords in the grass, it was clear that Gollum had slowly but diligently worked them apart during their journey. "It would seem it," she replied and showed her findings. Her brow furrowed as she turned the ropes over in her hand. "Though why did he not flee in the night? He would have made it farther with one of us asleep, rather than come at me now. It was a foolish attempt, and he cannot have believed much would come from it."

Both glanced at the captive between them. Gollum hissed and whispered to himself, but it appeared that he was pleased. Their unease grew. "Let us not dwell on such matters," Aragorn said. "Madness or some other ploy, only he knows. At least we will make sure it does not happen again – and perhaps glad of it we should be, that he did not escape in the darkness!" He walked to Luin, securing the long coil of rope that tied Gollum to the horse.

Meanwhile, Rell crouched and came to sit before the pale creature. As she watched him, it was difficult to see what went on in his wretched heart, though she could sense a change in him once more. Far too obedient and tame ever since they had left the rocklands behind, there was now a strange look in his eyes that had not been there before. Of some wickedness she could not read; and that wickedness was now turned upon her. "What?" She growled. "Poor, unfortunate little thing, did I hurt you?"

If Rell had expected anything from Gollum, it most certainly was not the smug leer that came to him then. "Ssshe fell all by her own sself, yes, gollum gollum! Climbed high and fell ssso far ..." Rell paled at his words, once more reminded of that horrible drop and the long, agonizing wait for death. The terror that had seized her heart. "Sssnap went the bone!" She pulled the gag back in place with force, and her hand skimmed her own teeth-marks left in his skin.

They stared long and hard at one another, until at length Rell drew away and came to stand.

Despicable creature!

It was with a deep frown that Rell set out once more, fuming in the saddle as they traversed a land of hill and tree, and it took many hours for her seething anger to subside. The forest grew denser here, not so beaten back by the unrestrained waters of the Anduin; the river churned a deep drop below the cliff. Glad she was for it, for now they could find some shelter within the woods. Too exposed they had been on the naked, climbing hilltop, black figures clear from miles away, and there was no bite from the wind to gnaw at her skin. Instead, everything seemed peaceful and quiet.

They stayed under the cover of trees until nightfall.

The cold increased as darkness came on. Around them, they could see nothing but a grey land vanishing into shadow, and they found rest in a hollowed-out dell large enough for both Rangers. The ever-constant roar of the Anduin rolled like dimmed thunder through the ground. Rell shared the mushrooms between them. The sky above was clear and filled with twinkling stars, slipping in and out of view with every passing cloud. Rell wrapped herself in her cloak and huddled against Aragorn. They did not risk a fire that night, just as they had not for many moons now; and so they readied themselves against the biting chill, and another night without warmth.

Rell watched for a while the mists swirling between the trees, a slow and alluring dance with the wind leading; then, after several deep breaths, she closed her eyes and fell fast asleep. Too tired for dreams, her rest was deep and black. And far too soon the watch changed, and she was roused by her uncle. The wind was then howling without mercy, bitter in the Winter months, and she hunkered further down into the dell – though it was of little use. Her fingers prickled.

The clouds had been torn apart in the wind, setting every branch and tree alight with glimmering white and silver frost, as the moon hung naked in the sky. Gollum looked pale, almost translucent in its light; just as his eyes were shining, cleverness and excitement whirling together. Glowing with triumph. At once Rell sat up straight. The creature was not looking at her, despite her movements, but instead his gaze was turned to the forest. A chill crawled up her skin.

At first she remained rigid on the ground, attention flickering from Gollum to the woods.

A branch snapped somewhere within the forest, some distance away, but still she felt her back and shoulders seize with dreadful fear. Her breath hitched in her throat, stilled to listen to any sound that followed. An animal ...? It was too dark to see anything, despite the moonlight. Her eyes flickered to Luin, finding the horse awake and alert. With rapt attention on her surroundings, Rell carefully drew her sword from its sheath; pulling it so slowly not even Gollum noticed her weapon. In her hand it gleamed.

Carefully, she rose to her feet. A terrible thought came to her mind, making her grip tighten until her knuckles turned white. Fingers curled around the hilt, and she suppressed the sudden urge to strike their captive down. Does he have allies within the forest? Has he been in reporting without us knowing? The secret glances, the submissiveness. His sudden attack not long before came to her mind; his squeals would have been heard from miles away! Another rustle; the crumbling sound of wilted leaves, rattled through the silence as a boot met the ground.

"Uncle," she whispered through clenched teeth. "Aragorn."

Instantly, he became awake.

Concern transformed to sudden awareness, for his eyes soon found her sword drawn; at once he was standing, unsheathing his own blade with one fluid movement. Rell crept to Gollum's side, yanking quickly and harshly against the rope to turn pale orbs to meet her hardened gaze. "One word from your mouth, and I will take your life – be of use as it may be to some, I will kill you." Her voice came as a hiss, lower than even the muttering wind and the distant river. But heard her he had. She turned her head, nodding towards the forest as she addressed Aragorn. "We are not alone. Twice I have heard movement within the woods."

Rell yanked Gollum with her, the strain harsh through her arm, until he was shoved into the dell. Then she stood before him; half turned to watch their scheming captive, and half with her attention on the dark forest. Anger burned clear in her eyes, and Gollum hunkered down with quick obedience. Her threat was certainly real. It was too dark to see anything beyond the first trees, and so they stood listening.

"Are you certain?" Aragorn asked, voice low as he glanced to her.

With a nod, Rell tightened her grip on Gollum's ropes. Whatever creature was lurking within the forest, she prayed it would carry on and that they had passed unnoticed. Cold sweat coated her brow, and her mouth was dry as she swallowed. Her heart hammered at a rapid pace, threatening to break through her chest when her uncle motioned for her to stay; alone, he crept into the black forest.

For a long time, endlessly stretching it felt to her, Rell waited. Her grip on the sword was tight, held with every ounce of courage she could muster. A prayer repeated in her mind; be safe. Dark eyes peered ahead into nothing, hoping to see Aragorn return through the thicket. To bring with him words of encouragement and reassurance, battling away any thoughts of enemies within the forest. But the moments stretched further, and doubt tore shreds into her resolve until her hands trembled. She shifted from one foot to another.

All around her was seeped deeply in silence, deafening; a roar was in her ears, from the great river below the cliff-drop or from blood rushing through her veins – thunderingly loud. The air did not move. Normally, they would have made their way away, run off some time ago, with the threat of danger to their camp. Gollum made such a thing impossible. And Aragorn was now out there, searching, listening.

The first touch of fear began as but a small seed; but soon it spread, filling her heart and mind with chilling dread. It was not for herself, nor her chieftain. It was for their quest – for every hardship and injury, every solitary step taken that had brought them to Gollum. To have come this far, endured so much, only to now fail. Rell bit her lip, allowing the sharp pain to wash away the whispers of defeat. She focused her mind on what was before her.

Waiting some minutes more, the second Ranger returned at long last.

Breathless, in a hurry he came to her side. Blood coated his blade, dripping into the grass as it rested by his side; dark splatters stark against the paleness of his face, it was clear he had encountered something within the forest. He did not delay, but spoke at once as he took the rope from her hands. His words solidified her thoughts, the ones that had imagined the worst. "Orcs. Scouts, but I fear more are not far behind." He pulled Gollum up, disregarding the low growl he then received.

"How far?" Rell asked.

"I know not how long it will take before they notice the deaths of their scouts, soundless as they may have been; we must be away before then." There were creases of worry in his gaze then turned to Gollum. They would not make it far like this – not against Orcs in the darkness of night. This was the hour of all evil in the world, and their own senses could help them very little in escape. Behind them, the river gurgled and bubbled in the silence, and before them the endless forest stretched into deep shadow.

But for how long? The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, her ears strained for the first sounds that would warn them of their discovery. Rell clicked her tongue once, low and sharp, and her horse turned clever eyes to her. Luin came trotting over to her at her command, and she wrapped her uninjured arm around the reins. The idea had settled in her mind, nestled and made itself at home, as she had waited for her uncle's return. Waiting had given her time to think, to come to terms with what was likely to happen.

To her, it felt as if the choice was already beyond questions and doubt. There were no two ways about it, not if they should ever have a chance to bring Gollum to their destination. They could set him free, and make the path their own – then the Orcs would be of little concern. Mayhap, her decision was foolish at best, and, at worst, lead her to her death. But, strange as it was, her heart was steeled and there was confidence in her voice as she spoke. "I will go."

Her eyes were hard with certainty, yet Aragorn would not hear it. "No, that I cannot allow."

"It has to be done, or not even one of us will make it through the night." Again, they glanced to the forest; a distant screech carved through the silence. Long-drawn and dreadful it echoed, soon swallowed by the roar of the waters. They were running out of time. Soon, they needed not decide, for the Orcs would be upon them. "Let me do this, uncle. I came because I felt you would need me, yet all I so far have done is delay you. Allow me this chance to be useful! Only I am responsible for my own fate."

Aragorn did not look at her, not at first, but peered deep into the trees and to Gollum. Torn he was, between duties; to forsake his task or abandon his kin. Another hoarse cry rose from the canopy, this time closer. He gripped her shoulder, and she could feel hesitation radiate off of him in waves. Then he stepped back, bringing Gollum after him by the rope; the creature watched them both with odd curiosity, though not entirely without dark joy. For a long moment he strove with the choice, until at last he nodded. "Five days. Five days I shall wait under the eaves of Lóthlorien, but no more."

Rell gave a thin smile, before she swung into the saddle.

"Little one," Aragorn said, "I hope that I shall see you once again."

She drew the reins to her, tightening her grip as she could ride only with one hand. But she trusted her horse; Luin would guide her safely through the woods. "Be it under this sun, or another, we will meet again. Now go, I will draw them away from the river as best as I can." As Rell watched him leave, she felt a cold dread creeping over her heart, yet she dared not question her choice. All she had to do was earn her uncle enough time to slip away, and then with Luin's speed make her own way through the forest.

We will meet again. Over the lip of the hill, upon which they had rested, she saw the shadow of Aragorn rise and disappear. Slowly and cautiously he moved without sound. Gollum was pulled after him, reluctant but wary of her uncle's sharp blade; with one last look back at her, Rell saw the glint of malice clear in his eyes. Then, they were gone entirely. All seemed quiet and still, and for a moment a pale light appeared above the trees and hills that overshadowed her; the waxing moon had reached its peak. The shadow of the forest grew long across the stony ground, and she watched them intently.

Rell thought she heard a faint hiss and low voices.

With one deep breath, she knew it was time. Spurring Luin forward, the large beast tore through the line of trees; branches snapped beneath its hooves, and Rell felt twigs rap her face and arms. There was nothing to be seen in the forest's darkness, and above their own noise she could hear nothing else. In fast succession, her heartbeat drummed loudly, pressing against her throat. Further, and further still, they ventured in with haste. Too quick for her to begin wondering why she had been so eager; for a brief moment she wondered if Aragorn would make it.

She released the reins, allowing Luin control of their path. The long sword of her father was drawn, shimmering in the half-lights cast by a moon through filtering leaves. As they rode, she swung her weapon one way and another against the frosted boles. Each thud rang hollow throughout the forest. If this would not lure the Orcs to her, rather than her uncle, Rell knew not what to do. A tremor rolled up her arm for every hit, but she forced her grip to tighten with all her strength. Let them come!

The night was airless and windless, but then she heard it. From somewhere beyond the hidden trees, a sound like faint drums. For a moment she drew Luin to a halt. She lifted her head to listen. The faint pulse ceased suddenly and then started again from another direction. First nearer, then further off. It was difficult to tell, and she could not see them in the low darkness, but now, with certainty, she had come to the end of her folly. The daunting thought scared her little; fear would not take her heart, not now, when all depended on her.

The hunt had begun.

"Now, Luin, it is time to show them the speed of Elven horses!"

And away they sprang again, this time faster and more reckless; no longer did Rell need to draw their vile thoughts to her, for surely, she had all their attention. The orcs were quick on her tail. The screeches thundered between the darkness, weaving around the trees and sprang forth from all about her. Most came from the side away from the river, soon so loud that the roar of the waters became deafened. Where earlier it had been but indiscernible shrieks and howls, now she could hear garbled words. Though worst of all – and, at this, she paled – the sounds now also came from ahead.

Faster! With a cry to Luin, the horse broke through bush and bracken, heedless of any sharp-digging cuts that followed. With her grip on the sword, she commanded the great steed through words; soon her own shouts mingled with that of the orcs. Out of the formless stream of malicious cries, sometimes strings of words would now and again shape themselves; grim, hard and heartless. Everything passed by her vision in a blur of black and dark-green, touched only faintly by shimmers of moon. But at times she thought she saw the hue of orange eyes flicker between the trees, blinking in and out of her sight only to soon disappear. Torches.

The air dug into her skin, cold against her heated breath. Like a grey arrow whirring through the night, the Ranger carved a path through the forest with little idea of where to go. Yet there was no time to linger on her own thoughts. Rell had lost all clear sense of direction, no longer knowing which way was the river and, with it, her uncle. Would she lead them straight to him? They were being headed off by the dark trees and the glowing flames of torches, simply following a course chosen for her. Into the heart of the forest, she hoped, and not out of it.

It was difficult to tell time. Whether she had ridden for hours or mere moments since the breaking of her company, it could just as easily have been the same to her. The forest seemed endless; the hunt even more so. All she could do was follow the path. Forwards and backwards, then suddenly down as the ground sloped before her – led by the sounds of the orcs, the ground grew soft and again, she could now hear the flowing river. Strong and noisy. At this, her heart clenched in fear. Had she returned to the banks of the Anduin?

She jerked Luin away from the roaring sounds, forcefully tearing through trees this time directly toward the flames. Swiftly the ground went downhill, falling rapidly, over-arched by trees that stole away the moonlight. She would not lead them to her chieftain and their captive. Suddenly, appearing as if out of nothing, a large black figure coalesced from the darkness.

The orc snarled and reached for her.

It was luck, and not skill, that severed his arm clean from his shoulder as Rell swung her sword in a panic. The enemy crumbled to the ground with a dreadful screech that traveled far; yet Rell did not linger, nor finish the fight. Away she was, pulled forward in sheer terror at their closeness. She pressed on, heartbeat loud and her pursuers gaining on her. They were far too many; many more than she had expected to encounter. The torches were closer. Faster.

Coming to an opening ahead, she found that they had made a way to a high steep bank, almost a cliff overhanging the river. Luin reared to a sudden halt and snorted. At its feet were turbid waters, churning white foam as the waves beat against the rock. The drop was deep. At once Rell looked around, searching for an escape; the glowing eyes in the darkness of the forest gleamed and blinked. In and out they flickered, moving with the trampling boots of the orcs. Any hope of escape soon changed to comprehension, for always it seemed she was led back to the river.

Fear was about to take her, yet Rell would not allow it.

She climbed from the saddle and came to the stand in the narrow patch of grass, the river on her back and the forest ahead. Her sword gleamed black. This, she decided, would be her final stand. Her eyes came to Luin, for a brief moment softening, and her voice shook with a tremble of farewell when she spoke. "You have led me so far, but no further can you take me. Go find a home with the Elves!" Then, with a quick rap, she sent away her greatest friend – her most loyal and steadfast companion. The horse bolted away and vanished within the mist.

Be safe, she prayed. Alone she then stood, staring and straining into the gloom.

"Come at me!" She shouted with all the power she had left. From some way off, or so it seemed, she thought she heard a solitary cry. Rell called again, and kept on calling more and more frantically; issuing a challenge for the orcs. For some time she heard no answer, but then it seemed faint and far ahead at first. The drumrolls had started once more. The lights came closer. From one place and another, the screeches and hoarse cries grew in strength and numbers, until at last the first dark creatures crashed through the trees and into the open.

Tall dark figures like shadows against the pale moon. There was a rush of hoarse laughter. They seemed to lean over her, axes and swords raised to strike; their eyes gleamed, lit with a light of evil. They were wretched to behold, behind their iron helmets and large shields. But she met the orcs head on, despite her injuries, her own weapon ready. Rell was on them at once. The blade wedged itself into the ribcage of the one closest to her, sinking deeply through flesh and bone, only to soon be drawn back as the orc tumbled down. Surprise was still in its face as the head was separated from its body.

The helmet rattled and rolled away.

"Do not think me an easy target," she hissed, taking swift steps back and away. Her sudden bout of bravery unsettled the orcs, uncertain of the one before them, though it only gave her the upper hand for a brief moment. Though Rell made use of it. Taking in their numbers – far too many – she jumped into the fray, vowing to take as many as she could before the end. One dove to avoid her blow, only for the Ranger to strike at the next without pause; in quick succession her attacks fell, hacking, carving, all the while she dodged their weapons as the orcs came to retaliate.

She was quicker than them, yet outnumbered. Never did their laughter drown from their lips, and soon Rell found herself retreating; pushed back step by step as they advanced. Blood oozed from her nose and brow, and her sword-arm trembled with exertion. The river's roar rose to meet her as she felt the ground disappear behind her, halting her feet from going further. The orcs encircled her and their voices reached new heights.

From the forest came more, carrying with them torches and spears, and they were led by a huge orc-chieftain that soon carved a way to the front. Clad in black mail and almost man-high; his face was flat and his eyes deep and black as coal. With a thrust of his huge shield he turned the orcs from his path to her. Rell wiped the blood from her sight, one swift movement to clear her vision. His followers howled, gleeful and with exhilaration, thumping their shields and chests. They heeded not the fallen, slain by her hand. The large orc came to stand before her, a wickedness in his gaze and a snarl on his swart lips.

Rell would not give him the chance to strike first.

At once she rushed forward, faster at a close distance, with a sturdy swing of her sword only to watch the orc dive under her blow; his own blade caught her on her right. Only a quick step to the side had saved her from injury, leaving her with a scratch across the skin of her stomach. Though it was enough to surprise her. Again he swung his weapon, wild and without reason. Sweeping to the side, avoiding his attacks to instead follow in quick succession with her own, Rell noticed with growing frustration that she did not land any blow to the orc.

Disheartenment and increasing terror crawled across her mind.

Their swords met head on, locked in a battle of strength and will. The smell was fetid and mingled with the rust of her own blood. Rell kicked his knee, hoping to bend him forward, only to have her force go wide and skid along the armor instead of crippling him. Instead, she found herself stumbling at the missed opportunity; she skipped two steps back to clear the distance. The sound of movement alerted her to the next attack; she lunged at him with the blade, though from the angle of her attack and the shortness between them, Rell only managed to graze his chin.

With a screech, her sword scraped the helmet, and the sound rang clear above the noises of his comrades.

This time she took several steps back.

It was only the briefest of moments, a pause in the fray, where she breathed deeply. Her head was swimming, disoriented from an earlier blow that made it hard to see. Her gaze danced from her adversary and then to all the others, surrounding her; she caught movement from the corner of an eye, and the orc-chieftain was upon her again. Rell barely managed to dive to the side. The blade swished past her ear, howling, so close she could hear it carve the air where her head had been only a blink before.

A mail-clad hand shot out and hit her clearly. Air rushed from her chest by the sudden force, and Rell was hurled to the ground. With a cry, she hacked at the sword just as it came to meet her neck. Its sharp edge dug into the frozen ground and lodged stuck, a mere hair's breadth from her gaze. The hit would have killed her. Before the orc could pull the blade out, Rell rolled over once to gain distance. Dirt stung her eyes, though halted her not. Her breathing fell hard, heart hammering in fear and survival as she attempted to regain her feet. She struggled to keep her hand on the sword.

She pressed her elbow into the ground.

Then a grip stronger than iron seized her.

Iron-clad fingers dug into her shoulder, and Rell felt a sharp spike of pain run through her body as she was hauled upright. A hiss of breath rushed through clenched teeth, but she had time for little more; the orc chieftain smacked her across the face. Her mind darkened at the sudden hit, shattering her nose and senses all in one blow. Blood pooled in her mouth, drippling down her chin, while she dangled bewildered an inch above the grass. Despite the warning of her mind, the sword slipped from her fingers. With a dull thud it hit the ground.

A putrid, foul stench filled her nostrils.

The horrendous face leered at her, black teeth shining in the clouded light of the moon; she blinked, dull and slow, barely conscious enough to understand what had happened. His blade was still lodged in the frozen dirt. Her fingers stretched, scraping inches from it before she felt the world around her spin once more. She was tossed away from the roaring waters, to the gathered group of orcs that stood waiting. Black, malicious eyes gleaming.

Rell hit the ground and scrambled backward at once, frantically searching for her weapons – a way out, an escape – something. A mere crack in the endless row of dark trees, something that could give her a chance against the swiftness of the orcs. But the blackness was absolute. Every part of her was hurting, and the raw taste of blood mingled with the blows to her head made her almost vomit. The ground was frozen, cold against her hand. From the corner of her eye she glanced about, the calmness of a fight taken by growing fear that muddled her thoughts. There was no clarity.

Where was her father's sword?

Heavy boots shook the ground, and she became frozen, rigid. An involuntary shudder trembled through her body as the orc stepped closer. Trapped. There was no way out. Some dark thought in the back of her head noted the limp in his step, gleeful malice she could cling to against the overwhelming hopelessness that drowned her mind. One blow, at least, had hit its mark. Then his boot stomped down hard into her back, and Rell was pressed flat into the grass. Cackles of laughter rang into the silence.

"Where is the other one?" The voice was but a growl, harsh and dark. More pressure was added against her spine, and cold slush seeped through her clothes and the linen on her broken arm. Rell bit her lip and held her tongue. A brief moment of relief as the boot was lifted. Then it returned, closer to her head and only inches below her neck. She stiffened, eyes pressed tightly shut and her breath stolen away even if she wished to speak.

The orc spoke in the foul language of Mordor, something she could not – and did not – want to understand. Though, despite her unwillingness to know, it soon became clear to her. Another scrambled by in a rush, and a hollow screech followed; the previously discarded blade was returned to its owner's hand. There was no repeated question, no time to steel herself against what was to come.

Clear-cutting pain tore through her as the weapon carved into her leg. Rell writhed in agony, attempting to fight her way free as fingers dug through soil, grasping for anything, but the weight pinned her in place. She bit back a scream. The howling of the orcs surrounded her, loathsome and vile and everywhere. It took all her might not to cry out. To withhold that malicious joy from them. The blade sank further into her leg, tearing through tissue as hot blood bubbled. Once more she was met with the foul breath of rot and flesh so close to her ear. "Scream, cry for help. Call your friend."

But Rell did not scream, not even when bone met blade; instead she curled in on herself, away from the pain and the darkness that consumed everything around her. She cried silently, choking back sobs of terrible pain. Screeches and harsh laughter pressed against her ears, yet she willed her mind to focus on something that lay beyond. The roar of the river. It was hard to breathe, and with every heaving sob came blood. Rell swallowed. Fury, pain, fear. Survive. The weapon was slowly, agonizingly so, drawn from her flesh and she hissed in relief.

For the briefest of moments, the orcs halted. Perhaps anticipating an answer.

Her hand found the hidden knife in her boot.

Rell jerked back, pulling the blade out with her, and slit the orc's leg just beneath the knee. It was enough to cripple; with a howl of pain and anger, he fell down hard and, in that moment, an opening presented itself. Before the remaining orcs had time to react, Rell rolled across the ground, swift and heedless of her injuries, away from the company that held her surrounded. Her body was consumed with pain, yet her mind clear and constant – forcefully so, the will to live clinging desperately tight. A hold on her heart that urged her forward. Another roll, and Rell tumbled off of the cliff.

A roar surrounded her, deafening and everywhere.

Then came the sudden plunge into icy waters.

Chapter Text

Struggling, kicking and fighting, she could do so little against the swift currents of the Anduin. Pulling relentless at her from every side. Pain and panic strove in her mind, fighting to overpower her feeble attempts to reach the distant-growing surface. Her leg was screaming in agony, turning the darkness around her red, and her arm felt useless and limp; she could hear nothing beyond the rushing roar in her ears, and her sight caught only glimmers of the moon-speckled surface so far above her. So far from her grasping fingers.

Breaking through the rapid-flowing waters, she gasped for air only to be dragged down under once more. The time between her breaths had become longer, and each was agonizingly painful and terribly short. She wanted to scream, or cry, or breathe, though with every attempt it only allowed cold water to rush in, filling her until all was the river. Another wave rushed over her head, and once more she was thrown underneath its waters. The air was dragged from her.

The edges of reason blurred and fear lurched deep in her stomach. Her struggles turned to clawing against the overwhelming power of the currents. Side to side, up, down, in circles, every which way she went until her last strength was spent, and salvation seemed impossibly distant. The battle was nearly over. The vision at the edge of her sight seemed to turn into black flecks, then pulsed reddish white. Her lungs burned, her chest compressed and pulled apart at the same time. It felt as if fingers pushed inward against her throat, throttling the last life from her in an icy grip.

She could hear her ears throbbing, her own desperate heartbeat. Her own last few pulses.

Rell was left entirely to the mercy of the great river.

The churning, white-foaming waters pulled her downstream, until she was far from the cliff-drop from where she had taken the great plunge.

Though, as it seemed, the Valar had not yet forsaken her. For while the currents were wild and swift, they brought her now to more shallow waters; unknowingly to her, she was not far from the bends of the rocklands before the Argonath, and here many eyots broke through the rapids. Each twisted and slowed the river. It was to her luck – for her senses had long failed her – that she was brought to one such embankment created by the lull and rise of the Anduin. Amongst jagged rocks and stunted trees, trembling fingers curled into soft mud with a final effort, and Rell dragged herself onto land.

She vomited; murky, stringy, bloody, for what felt like hours before she collapsed entirely. Her limbs felt heavy and her body as if on fire; everything screamed in a great cacophony of agony, relief, and hurt. All the sounds around her came onto her all at once, filling her drumming ears with many, too many, details. Birds were crying harsh warnings, somewhere between the trees and reeds; the quietude of night disturbed by her struggle against the river, and even still the roaring waters thundered everywhere around her. Her chest contracted, heaving for air; every inhale and exhale burning raw through her throat.

She was alive.

For a long while she only lay in the wet sand, spent to the very marrow of her bones, finding joy in every small breath she took. But soon the first thoughts of reality trickled into her exhausted mind; her uncle and Gollum, vanishing in the gloom of night with nothing but a frail hope to escape; the panicked ride through the forest; her last stand on the cliff. The plunge into deep and unknown waters. With every recollection slowly taking shape, becoming real, so did the pain. It was unbearable, and only with a great struggle could she choke back the screams.

Rell cried, sobbing into her soaked tunic, rolling over to rest on her back.

Her gaze found the dim moon. The sliver of light was eerily veiled, thin clouds stealing away any sight of stars. So utterly dark it was before her, and just sa dark were her thoughts. She had to move, she understood that well – even if the river had brought her to its western bank, and even though there was some semblance of safety amongst the reeds and rocks. If not the orcs, then certainly her injuries demanded such of her; but the Ranger was left with only the clothes on her body, and her weapons lay still behind on the cliff beyond the turbid waters.

She was utterly helpless.

Again, she wept bitterly. Her father's sword!

Never would he have thought ill of her for abandoning it, but the blade was the only remnant of him; the only thing tying her to a man she, in that very moment, could scarcely remember. Her mind was a blur of confusion and pain, and every small thought so entirely fleeting. "I am sorry, father ... I am so sorry. I had to." Pressing her hands hard against her eyes, she willed the tears to abate. Be strong. Then, with arms and legs trembling, Rell struggled to stand. Her fingers gripped the branch of an old tree, creaking and protesting, as she hauled herself upright; her leg was limp, unable to carry her weight, and she saw dark blood and mangled flesh. Steadily, the wound oozed a trail of warmth down her chilled skin.

In the pale moonlight, Rell found a root thick enough for her to perch on, and she all but collapsed onto it.

Soaked to the bone, water dripped cold down her skin, and trembles shook her to the core.

She leaned forward, slumped with exhaustion and another bout of nausea lurched in the pit of her stomach. She swallowed back the bile, river-water, and bitterness. The sling around her broken arm had been lost to the currents, swept away to the distant seas, and so the limb lay unmovable in her lap. Her gaze was turned to it, brow drawn tight in concern; her uncle's care had been for naught. Soon her free hand found sticky blood where the orc's blade had cut deep, tearing through her in a search for answers she would never give. A clammy chill rose as she felt for the extent of the injury.

All the while examining her body, she glanced about the shore. Eyes dancing over the shimmering water and one way, then another, to distant shores and dark trees. Beyond the canopy, it seemed the cold dawn was at hand, and frosty grey mists were rising in the East like smoke over the forest. The light was far off, but she saw tendrils of red weave over the endless sky. The bank, upon which she found herself, made the river her best defense against her attackers; for the waters were between them.

It was a small blessing of luck, yet a blessing none the less. And thankful she was for it.

Eventually the pain settled to a dulled throb, and her breathing came a little less strained from her lips. Everything was a struggle, though with the terror of the fight against the orcs and the river slowly abating, her mind found focus. Groping through the failing night, she gathered several handfuls of lichen and moss at the forest's edge; the plants were damp between her fingers, for a mist was ever rising. But they were more comfort than nothing at all.

As she found her place on the root once again, precariously holding her leg up before her, she clenched her teeth for what was to come. Another cry cut through the silence, spilling through her lips. Rell ground the fine moss into the slash in her leg and pressed down. Tears pressed against her eyelids, threatening to spill, and she sobbed quietly as she worked.

Tearing strings from her tattered tunic, she bandaged the makeshift suppression with difficulty; tight, and even tighter, until the slow, but steady stream of blood had stilled. It would not hold forever, that much she knew – and her stomach churned with dread at the thought. Without her provisions and belongings, such a wound could only grow worse; fester, until walking became impossible; and in its wake came fever, until ...

Rell pulled at the cloth strings, eyes hard and staring into the lessening darkness.

She willed away the tears.

Death.

When the light of day was slow coming into the sky, but no sun was yet risen above the high rolling hills and ridges of Emyn Muil, Rell made ready to depart. For a while she had sat, listless with exhaustion, in an attempt to regain some semblance of strength. She awaited dawn. But the time for rest was finally over; dread was upon her, overshadowing even her pain and delay would only cripple her further. So Rell stood.

Her wounded leg could hold no support, and the first many steps were hobbled from one tree to another; rough bark scratched her skin – shoulders and face, for her useful arm cradled the one that was broken – and she was soon left panting from exertion. She could hear shallow waters murmuring on the stones. Glancing back, Rell saw clearly the shimmering river and the embankment, swathed in rising mists, though it had seemed as though she had walked and walked. Yet she had gotten nowhere. There was a chill in her blood.

How far will I even make it?

Rell pressed on, searching the undergrowth for broken branches; something that could ease her struggled walk through the dense forest, for every step came painful. It was hard to see much in the darkness, though at length she came across a stump long enough to use for support. Her breathing was strained, falling like shallow gasps from her lips, and ever so often she coughed – violent fits that tasted of iron and sludge – yet the sounds fell dead between the trees. While the sun rose beyond distant hills, the forest ahead was cast in a deep gloom; a mouth of night that peered back at her.

Every step forward was a fight against dread. Without her weapons; so injured, she was left with little means to protect herself; if she encountered enemies there would be little hope. Yet even though nothing assailed her nor crossed her path, steadily fear had grown in her mind as she went on. There was no turning back; only forward. One step and another. Until not even the gurgling waters could be heard in the quiet, and silence came all around her.

So time unreckoned passed.

Of what came and went after that, one hour or many, Rell could not remember. Ever pursued by a groping horror, always beyond reach but always present, and only the low-blowing wind whispered between the trees as company. She stumbled on until the pain became unbearable, and still she endured. Another step. One more. She was wet, shivering, and with so little control over herself.

At times she wept. Overwhelmed with all that had happened; in despair, and also in hope. Despair; for with every step she took, her strength waned. Hope; that her uncle had made it, and her choice had been right. She prayed not for herself, but for her kin and his task. And, soon realising, her struggles were not so bleak when her thoughts turned to her purpose. The decision had been hers, and hers alone, no matter what bitter end she was to face ahead. The prospect of death would not break her.

Around her light grew, and as she passed beneath the endless canopy of naked trees and twisting branches, it became increasingly easy to see what came before her. The dawn was cold and pale, and her journey was still that of greatest haste. Burdened by weariness, though it was a little more endurable in the pale morning. Or, at least it was, in the briefest moment of clarity. For while her spirits lifted with the approach of another day, her wounds and body suffered with every new step she took, until each was made in agony.

She pushed forward.

The shadowy air turned light and grey, clouded, until she finally felt the blessing touches of sun. She was cold and wet, for no warmth could lessen the river's grip on her; she looked up, allowing a moment of quiet peace to fill her as the first rays came through the trees. So very tired, Rell slumped down onto a dew-touched, wilted patch of grass, as if the very last drop of strength abandoned her. From there she watched the rising sphere of glowing red like one would greet an old friend. It came above the forest, touching all that was dark and horrid; chased away groping terrors, and the evils of the world, until there was only light.

Tears were in her eyes, and this time Rell let them drop freely.

For so long she remained, gripped with exhaustion and fighting to regain the will to carry on. So beautiful it was to her tired eyes, and her mind whispered dark yet alluring thoughts to her. Such a place to rest ... The sun rose. It would not be a terrible end. Thorns and briars were clinging as claws to the boles and stones, dark branches interwoven above her head; the breeze was sighing, singing across the ground, but as she listened no other sounds came as light came to the dark world. It seemed so peaceful around her.

Rell felt entirely alone.

When the sun's touch could do little more – for it was but an envoy of Winter – she gathered twigs to build a fire. There would be no orange eye in the dark to alert enemies, for the pale light had grown to morning. Though, still, Rell dug a hole in the cold, frozen soil with trembling fingers; as deep as she could, until the small flickering fire that sprang to life was unseen by any that walked the forest. She lay down beside it. The withered grass was scratchy against her skin and the ground was damp. Taken with exhaustion, Rell watched until her vision was entirely consumed by the flames. Not so terrible at all.

Her sleep was without dreams. Dark and suffocating, until there was nothing but deep emptiness.

Something scampered across the forest floor; quick and fleeting, a sound of snuffling. A fox, mayhab. Coming across her crumbled form, half between sleep and waking. Then, startled from the sudden intrusion, the creature paused. She watched it, as it watched her. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, fighting against the lull of sleep and haze of exhaustion; it was only a flicker of dark orange, and then the beast was gone into the woods once more. Rell forced herself awake.

She was cold and shivering, for the small fire had long since burned to embers. The chill prickling her skin. But it was nothing against the sharp, digging pain that raked through her body as she came to sit; when her body recalled its injuries. Searching fingers found her newest wound, and the hand came back warm. Blood had seeped through her makeshift bandages, coating even the grass beneath her red. The smell had likely lured the curious fox to her. Again, the quiet whispers of dread trickled back into the deep recesses of her mind; whispers of agony, pain ... of death.

As quickly as her legs could carry her, Rell stood.

Her head was swimming, and what was up seemed down in her eyes; the naked forest around her a shimmer of silver-brown, like a murky river flowing by her blurred vision. There was little time to understand what was coming, before Rell buckled over; dry heaves, raw in her throat, burned until she was left coughing. But nothing spilled from her mouth. Nothing remained of her last meal. Only an empty void, slowly but steadily filled to the brim by her own despair. "Do not give up," she mumbled. "Keep going."

One step, she urged herself, one step and then another.

Rell tried to peel away the cloth strings precariously tied around her leg, only to find the crusting blood stuck. Without much thought or struggle, she left the wound to its own; it would only grow worse with time, Rell knew that, yet she felt as if there was nothing to be done. Not by her hand, at least. It would be a problem stalled for another time. And so she stumbled her way through the forest, her feet bringing her forward against the agonizing pain that slowed her. Led by a tiny flicker of hope that, somehow – somewhere beyond the endless trees – help could be found.

The sun was still high in the sky, light falling through a dim haze of thin-striped clouds, and she could not have slept for long.

Nor could she feel any lingering relief from her rest.

At once the pain had returned.

There was a coldness of Winter in the air, weaving between the naked trees that stood swaying, bending, reaching all around her. Her feet dragged, ever so often getting caught in hidden roots or sinking through soft, half-frozen mud. Her leg pulsed in a growing competition with her head. As best as she could, Rell turned her mind elsewhere; far beyond the solitary forest, over the rapid waters of the Anduin; she saw white-peaked mountains, the chuckling waterfalls of Rivendell, and the dancing flames of a hearth. Familiar voices wove, incoherent and intangible, just out of reach of her understanding; she saw faces she could not give names to. One step led to another, until Rell walked as if in a dream.

Bitter was her day, and alone she walked through the forest. A wide grey shadow loomed in the not-so distant horizon. The sky was overcast, leaden, but even as the first heavy drops of rain fell cold and unwarranted Rell pressed on. Her sense of direction was skewed, and she did not know whether she made a way out or further into the forest. She was utterly lost. Utterly spent.

"Better forward than back ..." Rell spoke, voice drowned in the oppressive silence smothering even her footsteps. "And better than nowhere at all." There was a small tone of miserable mirth, for certainly her stumble through the forest could be no worse than the company of Orcs.

Her thoughts fell, as they had done several times before, to her uncle's fate. Always accompanied by guilt and shame; would he have encountered all that they had, if she had not been there? Would his journey not have been so much easier without her? The questions gnawed at her, raw with bitterness. What could ever atone for her mistakes, were she to come out alive?

Icy water trickled down her back, and the ground beneath her feet became slush.

Rell felt numb; her last strength willing her forward, pushing and fighting against surrender. With newfound desperation, she came to understand her own reality. If she stopped again, she would die. Her injuries, the loss of blood. Her solitude in a vast and inhospitable forest. Sitting down to rest would surely mean Rell would not stand again. Her fingers scraped against the rough bark of a tree, so black it seemed with the darkening of her vision.

A roar was in her ears. The thundering beat of her heart.

One more ...

Another tree slipped by her grasping fingers; stunted bushes and thorn nicked her skin, drawing pearls of fresh blood. Red lines on pale-blue skin. Through her exhaustion she felt the ground turn downhill, a small blessing; but there was also a black look in the sky, and the sun was wan. The threat of storm hung heavy above her. A daunting thought that spurred her forward.

With one tired step after another, Rell stumbled ahead as the way became steeper and difficult. Deadly dark under great clouds. Her body moved before her mind could follow, and suddenly she fell through the undergrowth and out into a vast openness of dull gold. The ground was hard with frost as she hit it, making pain shoot tendrils through her arms and knees, though she heeded it not. She was surrounded by an ocean of brilliant light, and it was beautiful. Wheat. Bending, swaying in a soft breeze of Winter. Straws withered and greying, for they, too, were dying in the pale months of cold and darkness.

Yet to Rell it was beyond any treasure to behold.

It was a field.

Chapter Text

While the group of Dúnedain Rangers stayed in Aldburg, following the Marshal's recovery, another pair had made their way with the Rohirrim's own scouts. They had been away at once after the ambush, tracking down the last, fleeing assailants across the Eastemnet. And so it was, four days after waking from his injuries, that Éomer received word of their return; it was early still, and clear sky was growing in the distance once more. Ragged and wet, the air held a tinge of rain fallen throughout the night, but the grey clouds had passed beyond the lofty mountains. The weather held.

The large doors to the keep stood open, and Éomer awaited the riders at the bottom of the steps as they milled into the square. Large horses breathed heavily in exertion, muddied and grim from long days and longer nights without rest. The Ranger captain stood by his side, for they had spoken much that morning and of many things. All weighed heavy in Éomer's already burdened heart.

Both had kept secrets and revealed little, yet Éomer still learned a great deal about these strange protectors of the Northern lands. Wanderers in the wild, hidden in shadow and shunned in the light; always were they fighting, and Éomer saw much of himself – his task and his plight – in the ragged stragglers, though their births had been so different. From worlds apart they fought the same enemy. His mind was caught deep in thought, darkened by worries of war; thoughts that grew not only in his own land but in all parts once fair.

Together they had paced the ramparts under a growing sun, watching night turn to day.

It had been from there that Éomer had seen the trail of dust, and then the approach of horses, welling up between shadowy air and swathes of mist.

He turned his mind from troubled thoughts, from what had come and gone, and things that would be, then allowing clear eyes to see his men as they dismounted. Nothing was hidden from his sight in the clear light of morning. Haggard, exhausted, the trackers appeared, and without any captives following in their wake. Chagrin was in their faces. All were they touched by dejection.

The hunt had been fruitless, or so it seemed. He stepped forward to greet them, and they bowed upon his approach. "I am glad for your return," Éomer said. Then, looking from one to another for many a long moment, he spoke again. "Are there any injured?" While they could show minor cuts, it was exhaustion that left their shoulders slumped and faces pale.

Éomer held an arm out towards the keep.

"Come, food has been prepared, and I hope to hear much of what you have learned. Fast we shall be in our talk, for rest you need – and have deserved!"

The men followed an attendant inside, while Éomer's keen gaze watched them. His thoughtful eyes found the pair of grey-cloaked Rangers who, without pause or question, had joined the hunt. They appeared to remain behind with some hesitation, torn between following the company inside or reporting to their own captain. Éomer recognized one to be the young man from Helm's Deep, seemingly reunited with his kin after his last departure many moons ago.

Halbarad gave a brief nod of reassurance and spoke in the language of Elves. With that the two Rangers swiftly followed the rest, wearily smiling, looking happy at the prospect of food and warmth; their swords hung by their belts, though they had left long bows fastened to the saddles of lithe horses.

Their quivers were empty.

Unlike his own riders, it seemed as though there was but little fatigue clinging to their faces, and their grey eyes remained sharp. "My men are not accustomed to a house of Lords, and worried their manners would be deemed discourteous," Halbarad said as explanation. The man stepped up to Éomer's side; regarded the retreating backs until they disappeared into shadow, and a flutter caught his cloak. For a moment, brief and quiet, the pair stood under a pale sun; green and grey pulling, tugged by the wind that was cold and harsh. Éomer could feel the draw of injury in his shoulder.

He clenched his fingers, willing the dull-throbbing pain to dissipate as his mind cleared.

"I hope it is not so, but I shall apologise on their behalf," the Ranger said.

"You and your kin have done much for the Rohirrim." Éomer's voice was low, yet sharp with certainty. "I do not believe I could find any actions done with insolence. And even if they were, know for certain they shall be immediately pardoned." Then, angling his head only slightly, he turned and climbed the few stone steps up to the keep. His shadow fell long before him.

In the deep gloom of the hall, he found the riders quickly settled by the great oaken table; each with a mug of ale, foam-topped, set out before them as servants ladled out broth and bread. The fire had been stoked and logs crackled, devoured by flames, as crimson shadows danced. His steps rang hollow against the stones. When Éomer found his seat, he allowed them a moment's rest; to eat and regain some semblance of strength. Long they had ridden, and hard they had worked.

But as the bowls turned up empty, quickly refilled, there was soon room to talk.

They had come across tracks amongst the stones in the gully of jagged rocks. Following them, the scouts made a way North until reaching the shores of the Entwash. Further still, they had continued their search, and it appeared as though the Dunlendings followed the river upstream through Rohan. Strange, it seemed to Éomer, that the riders had not caught up to them across the fields; how they had made it so far against the strength of Rohirrim horses, left his mind muddled with thoughts of confusion. But, as he voiced his astonishment, it soon became clear how.

It was one of the Rangers that explained – dark grey eyes set beneath deep brows, scarred by weather and wounds – the tracks had not been fresh.

Clearly, the ones targeting the Marshal's life were not the same as those they had come across by the riverside; someone else had left marks to follow across the fields and plains. And the marks had been left long before the ambush. "But, in the end, we did find them," Éadulf, the one who had taken command of the scouts through age and skill, spoke; his voice was heavy with care, delayed by uncertainty. Éomer saw the same emotions written clearly in the eyes of his riders. Their findings seemed to trouble them greatly. "Slain. Between reeds and rocks at the outskirts of Fangorn Forest, we found five bodies. Left for the crows to pick."

Éomer drew a hand across his face, leaning forward as he found his own next words. Just behind his eyes there was a thundering beat, a sharp pain that made clarity hard-sought; his shoulders felt heavy, and his heart overwhelmed by the news. There were too many pieces to this puzzle before him. "For how long have they been dead?"

"A week, if not more. But there is something else, my lord." The man drew aside his long cloak, taking from within its folds a bundle of tightly coiled fabric. It was laid upon the table with great care, and here it was unfurled; a long, familiar arrow became revealed to him. The make was that of Rohan. "There were no signs of a fight, no struggle beyond a feeble attempt to flee when it was already too late, and all were pierced by arrows such as this."

The bundle was passed forward, until it came before Éomer; barbed with malice and spiteful to his eyes, yet he forced his hand and picked it up. There were still traces of rusted, flaking blood that became but dust in his hands. Turning the arrow between his fingers, he saw the shine of the metal, recognized the feathers and the weight; its balance so well perfected, and found it all hateful. This – this small, unimportant thing proved something so very dreadful to Éomer – and it was clear in the gazes of his men.

He sat for a while in silent thought.

It was but a vain attempt to make up his mind, to sort through the befuddled and fragmented images that flickered; any sense of coherency just beyond his desperate grasp. Éomer stared into the gloom of the hall, and he could make out very little. Then, further up he turned his head, looking to the gleaming sun peeking out through the high rafters. What road must I take? The weight of uncertain choices lay upon him, and before any surity of victory it was hard enough to see even a glimmer of hope.

He shook his head, more than anything to clear his own mind.

The arrow spoke of betrayal. An ever-spinning wheel of treachery, and Éomer could feel the knife dig deep into his heart. Someone, men of the Riddermark, had met and worked together with the Dunlendings. Put to death when their uses were spent; conspired to kill him in the very realm he protected. There was bitterness, perhaps even sorrow in his heart, yet the feeling was soon darkened by an ever-growing rage; it welled up in him, hard and cold and all-consuming. Men without honour, cowards and oathbreakers, and their deeds would forever tarnish the goodness he saw every day in his people.

He felt pursued by a groping horror that seemed always just about to seize him, kept at bay only by his fury. "I thank you all for your hard work," he said with utmost care, biting back the seething tremble that threatened to break through his throat. Then, coming to his feet, he motioned to those gathered at the table as his cloak unfolded around him. Without thought, his hand found the hilt of his sword and calmness overtook him. "Be at rest. Eat, sleep, do what you must for it is well deserved." His eyes found the Rangers' captain. "I have much to do upon your report, and so I leave you to it."

Stepping from the hall and into the chill of morning, he sent away an attendant for Éothain, and another scurried off to prepare the Dunlending captives. Long had they been left alone, rotting away in a cell from where they awaited an unknown fate. So far from their own land, they were the only ones yet still alive to tell him anything; to give him answers he so desperately needed. And, his eyes hardened with the thought and resolution steeled his heart, I will get an answer.

His knuckles whitened on his weapon.

With heavy steps he descended the gently-sloping steps, though he did not make for the small city by its feet. Following a path of hewn stones, winding its way around the hall and hill, Éomer came to a place both narrow and oft unused. Stunted birches grew many here, their gnarled boles flashing and glinting white in the pale sun, rippling almost like ores of silver. In the shade cast by the hill and the trees there stood three small buildings made from wood and stone. Here they were hidden away from the world. As the buildings came into sight, Éomer halted; his grim thoughts were many in his mind, yet always hesitation found even the smallest of openings.

Ahead, only a single guard was posted, in green and gold he sat in the shadow of the trees. He had yet to heed the Marshal's approach.

When at length he had found his resolve once more, sounds came to his ears from behind; the quick footfalls of someone catching up to him on the stone steps, and it was not long before Éothain rounded the corner of the hill. White clouds coiled and drifted above the man, growing swiftly in numbers, and soon the pale sun dwindled over Aldburg just as they came face to face. His squire seemed to have been running, at once by his lord's side when word of command reached him. "What task do you have for me?"

"That much depends on our captives, and how much – or little – they may have to share."

As the slowly descended the winding stairs, all seemed strangely quiet. There was no wind, and the naked trees stood bend and still as if weeping. So hidden they were, by tall fences and hills, that not even the lofty peaks of the White Mountains were seen, nor the hiss of Winter heard. The watchman was at once on his feet; his greeting came swift, and wonder was in his eyes. "My lord Éomer!"

"I have come to see the prisoners."

With another bow and the jangling of keys, a heavy door was swung open; hinges groaning, Éomer looked into the darkness beyond. Only a few torches were lit, their flames dull and dying, and there was no movement within. He walked past the guard, his hand once more finding familiarity against the hilt of his sword. For so long the Dunlendings had been left here, forgotten even in his mind – and he wondered, mirthlessly so, if not even their own kin had much abandoned them to death. When last they had been questioned, there had been little to learn; the crossing of the Isen, the black tower of Orthanc, and words that had planted the first seeds of betrayal in his somber thoughts.

Floorboards creaked beneath him.

A horrible, stark smell of urine and decay permeated the air of the small quarter.

The guard, looking less than guilty, bowed and stepped from the cell to leave Éomer and Éothain. The heavy door rattled shut behind him. The warm touch left by the sun soon faded in the chill darkness; no windows lit up their surroundings, and so they saw only little in the dim torchlight. Contorted shadows danced as he stepped further inside. Perhaps it was for the better to see nothing. The smell burned in his troath, and his breath fell icy from his lips.

Dark, cold, the building stood apart from the houses and homes of Aldburg; hidden behind the large hall of his ancestors and the many stables, always guarded and fenced in. Shadowed by the keep and left to the mercy of Winter. Éomer leaned against the stones and regarded the huddled figure on the ground, as Éothain lit the torches. Naught but bones, pallid skin. Hay had been spread, as one would for a horse, though changed less frequently and cared for even less. What little the Marshal could see of their captive was darkened, covered in grime and his own filth; the hair wild and with a gaze, peering up at him through trembling arms, clouded in fear.

"Where is the other one?" Éomer asked, though knowing well the answer.

Éothain stepped further into the small space, and his large frame, daunting and intimidating, stole away what little light there was; the captive shrank further in on himself, letting out muffled whimpers. "He did not make it," he said. "Buried someplace over the hills in an unmarked grave. We did not think to trouble you with such news." The squire's voice held no compassion for the dead, and he spoke with calm detachment. Then, stepping up to the Dunlending, he nudged the sunken figure with a booted foot. "Doubt this one has long to go."

With a solemn gaze, Éomer regarded the crumbled man.

His hands were tied, riddled with red and festering wounds, and his arms were discoloured from wrists to shoulders.

"Tell me everything you know," Éomer spoke.

His voice rang harshly through the deep silence, grating even to his own ears.

The man jerked upright, panicked, but he refused to speak. His lips, bloody and blue, were pulled tight. Black eyes shone clear with terror, and Éomer crouched before him so that their gazes met; cold, hard, demanding – promising darkness if he did not get what he was after. "Tell me," he repeated sternly. The strange feeling of something sharp and cold dug into him, piercing his chest as he saw the man before him. Regret, shame perhaps? But as he was met with another whimper and no words, he nodded to Éothain. The Dunlending was raised off the ground by large hands around his neck, kicking and squirming to no use, and only as his head lolled was he dropped to the ground.

The hollow thud rang clear in the silence.

They stood waiting, watching, as the Dunlending gasped for breath. Bile spilled onto the hay, forced up through struggling gasps until, at length, it was replaced by garbled words. The language was foreign to his ears, roughened and broken, through panting heaves with little rhyme or reason. Arms outstretched in a plea, hands up-turned and eyes desperate. The prayers turned rapid, fast-flowing until they were no longer words.

Éothain yanked him back, and the weakened body hit the wall with a sickening thump. Then, crumbling, the Dunlending remained limp.

If not for the muttered ramblings, Éomer would have thought him dead.

Éomer moved closer, raising his hand to still his squire's protests, and pulled the captive upright. His touch was not entirely ungentle. He knew well the face of a man broken, and in that moment he felt a bout of hate – not for his enemies, nor for those that had harmed him or betrayed his country; for himself. For what he had been forced to become. The wretchedness of his own heart. The pale skin beneath his fingers was touched by the clammy hand of sickness, teetering precariously on the brink between life and death. In the bleak gaze that found his, listless and defeated, who was truly the evil one? "Bring me plenty of water," he ordered Éothain.

"My lord,–"

"Friend or foe, no man deserves such treatment." No word of dissent followed, for the voice of the Marshal allowed it not, and as heavy boots disappeared beyond the stone walls, Éomer murmured in a breathed hush to himself. "Even less by our hand." While he ran his palm across the man's brow, the other did not stir beyond a small twitch at the first touch; Éomer could feel a fever running beneath the cold grip of Winter, and he swiftly shrugged off his cloak. It would bring little heat, and even less comfort, but it would prove some protection against the chill darkness. To think I have let such things happen ... To have been so blind to the on-going of my own home.

He could not hold the cruel treatment against the guards, for the blame was not theirs alone. For months they had guarded an enemy, one they would much rather see dead before them – one who had killed men and women of the Riddermark – and had been tasked with the enemy's care. The hatred ran deep in them all, wounds so gaping they would never heal. And Éomer did not believe either People wanted them to.

But the treatment was unmerciful.

As he waited for water, he soon found himself speaking once more to the Dunlending. "You will not be released. Not for as long as there is war between your people and mine," he spoke slowly, quietly, as he allowed the man to rest once more in the hay; there was no strength left to remain upright, no power in the half-lidded gaze that was neither in the world of the living nor the dead. Clouded and without sight. "But I do promise you this – you will be treated right, until the time for freedom is upon you. What has happened to you will not be repeated."

He received no reply.

The locked door rattled behind him, groaning on heavy hinges, and a pillar of sun cleaved the room in two. Éothain huffed in exertion. A bucket was placed on the floor, water sloshing and spilling over its sides with the sudden force; though Éomer said nothing of it. Instead, he accepted the offered cloth and soaked it thoroughly in the icy water. Then he turned his attention on the grimed face. "I can understand your reasoning, my lord, and certainly it is the honourable choice," Éothain said, finding his words only slowly. "But is it not wasteful to use your time on him? On one who is not long for death?"

"Had this been one of my men ... Someone held captive beyond the Misty Mountains in a foreign and hostile land–" He looked up, pausing the cloth against a fevered brow. Droplets traveled the length of his arm, soaking into the fabric of his shirt, but left little more than discomfort. In a sense, he felt he deserved at least that much, if not a punishment far greater. "–I would hope they received such a care."

Éothain's hardened gaze was accompanied by a scowl. "They would not."

"I know," Éomer sighed with bitterness, hearing the faint bell of midday ringing out across Aldburg; a mockery of time passing for those that were held captive in the darkness. Truly, he felt shame – toward someone who had slain unarmed women and children, set their homes ablaze. Beheaded his riders, and left their hewn corpses for the crows. The man flinched as the cloth brushed over an untreated wound. White scarring marred the skin, edges red and swollen, and Éomer rubbed at them with slow, careful, movements. "But someone must be the first to show kindness. Even if it comes all too late."

With a huff and a rustle of armour, the other man crouched by Éomer's side.

They never did learn anything from the Dunlending captive.

He had been moved to the house of healing, where those who understood the arts could tend to his wounds and malady. Always in the presence of a guard, and never once were his bindings lessened; his fate was unknown, even to Éomer. But even as the Marshal had returned in the days following, nothing could be told about the crossing on Rohan or the role of Isengard. On his third visit, he came to understand that the captive simply did not know. It were bad tidings in an already grim world, and in the gloom of his mind he found little hope. Perhaps he was simply not meant to ever understand the truth.

An accursed darkness that would cling forever to his mind.

But soon he had little time to dwell on such thoughts.

It was early noon, with a sun only just skimming the top of distant hills. Snow crunched beneath his feet as he stepped between thatched houses and cottages, for cold gales and storms had rattled across the plains throughout the night. But the day had dawned bright, streaked with golden sun and shimmering snow. He stepped, with a fur-lined cloak drawn tight and shoulder aching with a healing injury, over paths touched by ice. A vexing thought made his steps hard, for despite the safety of his own home, Éomer was dressed fully in armour; the ambush and attempt at his life, had turned every flicker of movement to a threat.

Though, throughout his walk around the keep something caught his attention. He could feel astonished and marveling eyes follow him, as children – less subtle than they likely imagined – snuck after him behind buildings and fences; ever since he had started his inspection through the stronghold's many streets and houses. A smile was on his lips, faint and struggling against his concerns that seemed to weigh heavily.

For a moment he halted, turning ever-so-slightly to glance back down the narrow road. Just in time to see small figures hide behind empty barrels. There was not enough room for all of them. He could hear them giggling and shushing one another. Éomer missed nothing, and he held back a laugh; he schooled his features to a solemn mask. Stern and regal. "And who might you be, hiding in shadow and stalking me like one would prey!"

A pair of shoulders, sticking out like a sore thumb, flinched and shifted further in.

Another bout of titters erupted, soon accompanied by shuffling and pushing, until a lanky boy was shoved out – clear into Éomer's view. His face was scarlet, flustered with both dread and awe. Éomer faced him fully, some ten feet apart, and a breeze plucked at his cloak; his persuer glanced nervously to the bared weapon. Gúthwinë held many a role in stories told to the children of Aldburg; of heroic deeds he was uncertain to have ever been part of, spun and woven to create bedtime stories for the young.

"We– I did not mean to follow you, my lord," the boy stammered. The flush reached even his neck and ears.

His gaze was soft, but his voice stern as he replied. "Yet you did." Their steps had not been subtle, and their intentions without malice; but it seemed many were after his life, and so even the innocence of child's play could become unintentional evil. "Now then, you – and your friends, cowering in the dark – accompanied my shadows, and you have my attention. What do you require of a Marshal of the Riddermark?" If he ever had entertained the notion of chastising the children, he took pity on the young boy; he wrung a brown shirt between calloused fingers, wide-eyed glancing to the ones still in hiding.

Éomer heaved a sigh.

"What is your name, boy?"

His eyes snapped back to Éomer, and he bowed hastily, clumsily. "Fastleth, my lord!"

"Fastleth, why do you not invite your friends to join us. I would prefer the company rather than the tag-alongs, and it would seem they have something to tell me?" Upon his words a long silence followed, where the boy whispered and gestured wildly; Éomer rested against the nearby wall, watching and waiting, as he listened to the bustle and life of the town around them. It had been a slow morning, and those that could found shelter in the warmth of their homes. Still, oxes and traders were at foot, making a way to and fro the market; filling the granaries and storehouses, as Éomer had ordered preparations for the inescapable. For war.

But the boy's insistent wheedling proved successful, and shortly after three girls were lured out from hiding behind barrels twice their size. Fastleth looked perturbed, though managed to coax them forward to stand by his side; Éomer said nothing, allowing them the chance to explain. His gaze was softened, gentle as if he was slow-approaching a newborn foal.

The tallest, and most certainly oldest, girl – though no more than ten in age – held the pair by a hand each; sisters, he imagined, for all did they have hair bright and golden as the field's corn, and eyes blue to rival that of Summer skies. Their clothes were simple, and their frames slim; but their faces were full, blushed red to mirror the boy's cheeks. Falsteth cleared his throat, pointedly shooting them a daggered look before his gaze flickered back to the Marshal. "I did as you told me," he muttered to the girls, arms crossing.

While Éomer stood watching the children, something sparked in the back of his mind. The faces were familiar – though he could not place from where. He knew the men of Aldburg, and the wives and children of his riders; the dwellers of town and the visiting traders, on the other hand, were often fleeting glimpses, soon faded from memory. They came and went, and seldom their paths met. Had they been among them, now suddenly sparked to life before his eyes? What was their purpose in seeking him out?

The girl took a precarious step forward, tucking the pair, half-hidden in her wool skirts, with her. Still he remained quiet. Éomer regarded them, searching his mind for the murky memories. "I am Aldryth, daughter of Aldig," she said, voice trembling between reverence and shyness; her eyes were cast to the snow-covered ground, hands clutching the tiny fingers that gripped onto her. The two young ones watched him with wide, blue eyes beneath brown caps. Their faces were flushed crimson in the cold. "These are my sisters, Wídrun and Wídrith. You may not remember us, but … We remember you, my lord."

His brow furrowed. "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Aldryth – both yours, and your sisters', but I must admit I do not recall meeting you before today." Gauging their reaction, Éomer pushed off from the wall and stepped closer. His hands were at his sides, shoulders and back relaxed, and he did his utmost to appear harmless. He knew well his size could scare children.

They did not flinch, and so he walked with swift steps forward until he came to stand before them. Small they appeared, shadowed by his frame bearing both armour and weapons; he crouched quickly so they were eye to eye, one knee digging into the cold slush. He smiled. Behind them the sky was darkening, and there was a breathless quiet in the air. A storm would soon hit the plains of the Riddermark, where already clouds were gathering; as silver-faded, soft whites and strongest of greys they swept over the fields in dark, all-consuming shadows.

Éomer turned his gaze back to the girl.

She spoke quietly, voice holding an edge of sadness that made her words quaver. "You brought us from our farm," she swallowed, and her fingers tightened in her sisters' grip. He saw pain, so much pain, in a face so young. There was no reason for the child to say anything more, for Éomer remembered their first encounter all too well. "When our parents ..."

"I know you now," he said, holding up a hand to still her words. Guilt raked through his chest; harsh and deep, like a jagged blade tearing through the calm of his mind. He had forgotten them. The three children orphaned in the Dunlending raid, brought to Aldburg as their old home still smoldered and new-tossed dirt covered the graves of their parents. Not one thought, no moment in his days, had he spent on them thereafter; as their lord and Mashal, it was his duty to protect them – yet he had done nothing. "Too long have I forsaken my duty to you, and for that I ask your forgiveness."

With his head lowered, dark eyes turned to the snow, he strove to find the right words to seek repentance.

A small hand came to rest carefully on his shoulder, and Éomer looked up. Aldryth stood before him, sisters left by the boy's side, and her face held sadness. So young, and so full of grief. In the briefest of moments, he saw Éowyn as she had once been; how her heart had cracked, shattered, at the death of their father and mother, and how incredibly fragile happiness truly was. "We wanted to thank you, my lord," she said. "You and the lady."

Her words startled him. So different from what he had imagined. And, more so, in a way only a young child ever could, he felt a wave of forgiveness as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her body shook with trembles, tears withheld, and Éomer brought his own hand to her shoulders; uncertainty kept him from speaking at first, instead patting the tiny back in comfort. It was difficult for his warrior heart to know how to act in this sudden predicament.

At length, he spoke. "I do not deserve such thanks."

He could feel her shaking her head. Golden curls tumbled down her back as the muffled reply reached his ear. "You came for us."

Finally, the girl pulled back and regained her composure; so strong she appeared, as one who had suddenly been tasked with the burden of adulthood. How well he knew the feeling. So many years ago, that very same mantle had been placed upon his shoulders and the same look had hardened his gaze; when his seven year old sister had looked to him for guidance, in a world where they were alone. All at once, Éomer held the young Aldryth in high regard. "Allow me to ask what I should have asked many months ago. How is your stay in Aldburg, and is there anything you would ask of this Marshal of the Riddermark? Name it, and it shall be done."

"All is well," she said. "Fastleth's parents are taking good care of us."

The boy turned rigid as Éomer's gaze came to rest on him. He was broad shouldered and sun-touched, as one who had worked in the fields for many years, and his attire seemed in many places far too small for his size; the young girls held on to his hands, watching the Marshal with round eyes beneath their felt caps. They looked well-fed and clothes, lacking in nothing, and the sight stilled his worries. Éomer stood with a broadening smile, gesturing the three children closer. "Have your family the means for three more mouths?" He inquired.

"Yes, my lord. And my mother is very content with girls in the house for once," Fastleth replied without a moment's hesitation. Then, with a half-sheepish grin, he added wryly. "I have four older brothers not yet married. The girls were welcomed company."

Éomer could imagine five growing boys to be a handful – to then also take in the orphaned sisters without a word of complaint? "She certainly sounds like an admirable woman." An idea came to him, and he cast his eyes briefly to the skies; it was still early, not yet midday, and he was not needed in the keep. The sun was still climbing its way across the eastern sky, pale and veiled in thin mists, as the roofs of Aldburg were painted in amber hues. Swallows whistled a shrill tune, carried on the soft-blowing winds of Winter. "Would I impose too much if I were to extend my gratitude to your parents in person?"

"It would be an honour, my lord!"

And so it was, that Éomer was led down narrow alleys. For a while they followed the shadowed path, until he ahead could hear the rise of voices; the way opened ahead, and soon he found himself between traders and merchants. A myriad of wares were displayed from wobbly tables; carts carved a way through the throng of people, the ground churned to slush beneath ox-hoofs, boots and wagon-wheels.

A gaggle of geese squabbled their discontent, snapping and hissing at passing feet. Both men and women were busy at work, and the hectic market was a mesh of sounds and colours; loud voices boomed without pause, with shouts and laughter, yelling and haggles from sellers and buyers alike. Had it been a marketplace in Edoras, Éomer would have found noblewomen in fine silks, strolling leisurely about to spent their coin. Arm in arm they would walk, taking in the goods lined up on display; watching with an air of bored admiration. Traders from distant lands and foreign places would sell items impossible to find elsewhere; glass made with incredible skill, or fabrics woven in intricate patterns and colours. Carvings of wood so dark it rivaled the night sky.

But it was not so in Aldburg, in the place he called home – all was sold from necessity, be it grains and whead, or livestock and salted meats; the people had little need for the trinkets of nobility. And fewer and fewer merchants made their way to the lands of Rohan, for the whispers of war made travel a risk outweighing any profit. Even his people began to hear strange tales; of darker things and uncomfortable rumours, though most still laughed at them. Troubled were the voices of those whose business took them outside their borders, and they spoke in whispers of the Enemy and the land of Mordor.

Ominous and disquieting.

They continued further into the denseness of people, and he found the crowd to part around him as easy as a boat carved through water. Gazes, masked curiosity or outright gawking, carried after him as he followed the young boy; the girls weaved around him like chicks around a hen, in and out with swiftness. They never strayed far from his side and the image brought a smile to Éomer's face. A burly man passed them, leading two equally large pigs that waddled grunting through the melted snow, and beady eyes regarded Éomer momentarily.

He felt the tension in his shoulders build.

But Fastleth led them away from the market, and so they once more found quietude within winding streets, hidden between tall walls of thatched homes. Stepping around a corner, he ducked the branches of a gnarled, thin-limbed willow that dipped out over the fence to a nearby house. Several large crates were precariously stacked, sealed tightly with nails and coils of rope; a few were arranged neatly on an awaiting wagon. The boy stood waiting ahead, on the steps leading to the door as the girls milled up to him. Seemingly, they had reached their destination.

"We are here, my lord," he said. Then, ducking down to quietly whisper to one of the younger girls, he quickly sent her inside before them.

Taking a look at his surroundings, Éomer found a small courtyard flanked by an enclosure of wood-posts – soft bleating of sheep could be heard through the cracks, and there were brief flickers of movement in-between. A stable, with room only for a single horse, stood empty and took up one side before the wall met the front of the house. It was one of the larger homes in Aldburg, that was easy to see, and Éomer assumed the family to be either traders or well-earning farmers with their own hired hands.

His thoughts were interrupted as a plump woman appeared in the doorway, struggling to regain her breath and with the small child pressed against her leg. Her fingers worked quickly over her apron, gaze intently fixed on Éomer before she curtsied. It was awkward and nervous, and so very homely. "My lord Éomer, I– I am Maerrun. Welcome to our home!" Uncertain of herself, she raised her head only a little before speaking again. "How can I be of assistance?"

"Please," Éomer gestured for her to stand. "I am here to show appreciation where it is duly deserved."

Her look turned perplexed. Heat crawled up her neck and cheeks, fingers wringing the fabric of her dress to wrinkles, and strands of grey-touched hair escaped her braid. The words came with a sputter, heavy with confusion. "I do not believe we have done any such thing, for you to honour our home with your presence, my lord?"

"I would say your actions of kindness most certainly justify merit." His gaze turned briefly to the children, and a flicker of understanding passed her face. At this, Éomer smiled. "It takes a noble and selfless heart to take in those without a home – three of them more so, for it is many new mouths to feed. Madam, if it is of no inconvenience to you, may I enter for a while?"

"Never could I deny you, lord Éomer!"

He smiled. "You are the mistress of this house, and ever do you hold the power to turn away unannounced visitors. No matter their rank in life or their station, beneath this roof it is you who rule. I am but a guest." From her saucer-round eyes and fumbling fingers, Éomer knew well his words were much disregarded – but despite the reverence that followed him, he ducked beneath the doorway and stepped inside. The lady of the house came quickly after, all three girls milling about in her wake, and, trailing hesitantly behind, the young boy.

The ceiling hung low, and there was little space to move about; not entirely surprising, for the home housed a great many people. It took a while for his eyes to grow accustomed to the light. Floorboards creaked beneath his boots as he was shown further inside, through the hall and into a larger room; in the middle stood a long table, surrounded by chairs and many opened boxes of fabric and thread. Through the windows fell shafts of pale sun, and a fireplace turned the air almost sweltering and sudden against the cold Winter outside. To the side he found small alcoves, hidden by thick curtains and carpets. The family likely slept there, for it was closest to the heat of the fire.

But Éomer was led to the table, and soon after all the small tools of a seamstress were packed away neatly to make room for their visitor. Only a single button-eyed doll watched him from another chair, though it was soon claimed by the youngest girl who took its place. The child was the only one to find a seat, and the others remained standing; lingering hesitantly around him. He smiled, hand moving to the space around him. "Please do not stand for me," he said.

They moved slowly, but soon, one by one, they found a place around the table until only Maerrun remained rooted to the floor. Again, her fingers brushed and fumbled against her apron, as if she had nowhere else to place them. "Is there anything I can offer you, my lord? I fear we have very little suitable for such honourable company, but I am certain I can prepare something ..."

"There is no need, but I thank you for the offer. I would much rather prefer your company here at the table," he said.

When they were all finally seated, Éomer watched them for a moment in silence. He felt as if they expected something from him, though he could not tell what; the three girls were watching him with large, blue eyes, while the mother and son fidgeted restlessly. As he was about to speak, the oldest sister – Aldryth – moved suddenly. "We have prepared something for you, my lord. A gift we hope you will accept."

He watched as she ducked from the room, accompanied by the soft pitter-patter of feet. Shuffling. A hollow thud. The rest remained waiting in silence, somewhat uncomfortable but too polite to speak; Éomer, at last, found words, only to have Aldryth return. In her hands she carried a small, wooden box.

As it was placed on the table before him, Éomer could feel the expectant gazes of the girls; he smiled quickly, thanking them for their kindness, and pried open the dusty lid. Inside, he found a humble string made from leather, fastening a small pendant – it was but a pebble of shiny grey, appearing almost silver if caught in the light. A stone smoothened as if by a water's current, and he imagined they had gone through great effort to find it. To him, it was a kingly gift.

At once, he placed it around his neck. "I thank you," Éomer said. Then, looking down into the box, he found another of similar make.

The girl spoke with a quiet voice. "It is for the lady, my lord. We hoped you could pass it to her on our behalf."

Éomer watched the stone between his fingers. It was cool to touch. "I shall do my utmost to see it delieved." With a smile to the children, he thanked them once more as his hand came to rest on the pendant; he did not reveal the task to be impossible, and certainly he would do his best to safeguard their gift – but in his heart he knew the truth well enough. He would not meet the Ranger again.

Chapter Text

Parchment and scrolls lay scattered on the table before him, servants and attendants milled about to and fro the hall, and the fire roared with life in the hearth. There was a chill in the air, coldness battling the waves of heat; heavy snow piled continuously outside, flakes that covered both roofs and streets in a blanket of deep white. Yet despite the weather, work had to be done while the rest of Aldburg lay holed up against the siege of Winter. His wound ached, a strain that often sent sparks of pain travelling through his shoulder; pain he forcefully ignored. Nothing remained now but a red-tinted and white scar, faded to another emblem of battle and sinew, yet the memory would not leave him.

As he sat in his seat, his hand pressed into the scarred tissue and resolutely drew out a wave of discomfort. It kept his focus sharp. His darkened gaze was on the work before him, though he saw it not. The musings of his mind made his thoughts wander elsewhere, far and wide to what was yet to come. Though, as it would seem, always it brought him back to the same concerns that plagued many a day as of late. Often, night passed without rest.

Twice had he received news from his cousin, from the scouts and watchposts of Helm's Deep. Never were the tidings good. The latest letter, then laid out by his side, told him nothing he did not already know; the great tower of Isengard remained frighteningly silent, an oppressive tooth of dark stone, and no visitors neither came nor went from the fortress that loomed in the shadow of the Misty Mountains. The numberless windows of Orthanc were empty, yet any that walked beneath their gaze would feel the threatening stare. Everything breathed quiet and peace, as if their fears and all their beliefs were unfounded. Éomer held his head in his hands, eyes pressed shut to allow darkness to seep into his vision, and for his mind to calm.

Indeed, he thought, Saruman must think very little of us, to believe us placated.

Everything was amiss.

But despite his resentful thoughts, the day wore on as all the others had, and when morning faded to afternoon he was still scrambling through work; aimlessly, with only the silence of the hall and the crackling logs as company. The servants' steps fell without sound, and the smoke hung dense in the still air. At times the wind sighed, rattling through the rafters. A breath softly hissing through sharp teeth, when the gales came down from tall peaks. All that day Éothain came and went, bringing with him reports or company in Éomer's solitude, albeit words were seldom spared between them.

Often Éomer felt a gaze filled with concern turned to him, and his squire's worry only increased his own burdens. The mantle of rule upon his shoulders was never meant to outwardly appear heavy; and so he schooled his features, working that much harder. Such weakness had no place in his heart, nor in the minds of those that followed his lead. There would be no chink in his armour.

He pulled the nearest parchment closer, features settling into self-imposed concentration.

His free hand crept idly over the table, the tips tracing the curlicue indents in the wood until they settled. Éothain was still watching him, with quiet judgment and without pause. Then, tapping his fingers restlessly against the hard surface, Éomer heaved a sigh; looking up to the one in chair by his side. "It would appear, in my eyes at least, that you feel there is something you must share with me."

He waited for a moment, but the other man kept his lips sealed tight in a straight line. They watched one another.

"Am I mistaken?"

Still, no reply came.

"Have you nothing to say, Éothain – my great and trusted friend?" His voice came soft, laced with indifferent mirth to mask his burdensome charge. When nothing but silence and quiet regard met his inquiry, Éomer returned his attention to the work spread out before him; accompanied by the flip of a paper, as one page was turned to another, just as his companion at last replied.

"Then so I shall confess my plight, not as a subject to his lord ... But as a friend speaking to another." With a flick of his wrist, Éothain sent away the few attendants that remained from the hall. They were at once alone; the storm and the wind their only company, the creaking of the wooden beams and burning fire. At his words, Éomer pushed aside his work and settled his hands flat on the table as he leaned back.

Éomer needed not wait long.

Éothain's face was solemn, creased in worry beneath his tousled beard and hair. "I know your concerns and your gaze are ever turned to the Riddermark, and here you see much and many things. We could ask for no better man to lead us. But I fear you may miss something of equal importance, and to me it seem as though your sight is clouded."

"When have I ever been hasty and unwary, my friend? It would seem you think me blind to some plight?" He exclaimed.

"Blind? Truly, no! There can be no doubt; your duty you would never forsake! At least not knowingly." The air was heavy, clouded in smoke, and shadows loomed closer. Ever darker and longer they grew. Outside, the sun would soon go down before them in the West, and evening came behind; another dark and cold night without the visit of rest. By his side Gúthwïne stood against the chair, the long sword sheathed and gleaming with every flicker of the flames. Soon, he thought, the red shall be that of blood ...

War would be upon them. Much had to be prepared, for those that tarried would fall the quickest. And now, so suddenly, his closest aide brought new words to him; revelations that spoke of his own negligence and oversight. Had he not done his duty admirably? "Tell me, then, what is it that I do not see?"

"Your heart is heavy and your mind burdened, and so you fail to care for your own importance. You cannot hide your darkened eyes, or the restlessness that plague your every night. How often have you not walked beneath the moon, the shadow of a ghost on the ramparts? While the future is unknown and filled with unease, you must not forget yourself! All your men hold you in high regard, for all you have done, yet illness can seize even the proudest and noblest heart. There is nothing more we can do but be prepared for the hammer's fall ... Rebuild your strength, so we that follow can be the shield to protect our people."

Éomer remained quiet for a while, long after his friend had said his last words; certainly, Éothain's heart was faithful, and perhaps there was some truth to his concerns. "So it would seem," he said, slowly and very softly, leaning back into his seat as he regarded the other man. Deep and dark was his gaze. Gleaming. Then, he waved his hand dismissively. "Be at ease. I shall heed your plea, as much as I am able."

"I will ask of nothing more, my lord," Éothain said, smiling a weary sigh. "Though know that I will be watching."

"Like a mother."

"Like a very good friend."

At that, they both laughed; a short and mirthful laughter, soon drowned with solemn gravity. Even such levity held little claim against the terrible prospect of war. Éomer nodded in thought. "Then, my dear friend." He pushed a piece of parchment across the table. "Perhaps we should share some of this work?" It was easy to see what Éothain thought of such a notion – wide-eyed with horror, entire body reclining from the table – yet he was not given chance to voice his objection. In that very moment a howling wind swept through the hall.

The great doors had swung open.

They were at once wary, their attention on the doorwarden; snow whirled in a wild dance around the man, cold and harsh and chilling, and his hurried steps fell heavy. "My lord Éomer," he spoke upon his approach. Then, bowing swiftly before standing, he gave a report that grasped Éomer's heart with sudden terror. So long the thought had festered, in a small and forgotten corner of his mind; insignificant against the overwhelming presence of Orthanc and Saruman. Of Mordor and Gondor, and his uncle, the failing health of their King. Yet for months it had been there. "Word has come from the Eastemnet. Herdsmen found a woman bearing many a great injury."

He knew the path had been fraught with danger. She had been alone, unaccompanied, and so young. Yet still he had allowed her passage through their lands; watched her disappear beyond the hills and plains, feigned ignorance to the bite of bitter truth. Only death awaited those that traveled East. The guard held forward a small item wrapped in cloth, and soon he revealed what lay within.

"Through the fever she spoke your name, my lord." Before him, Éomer now saw the same pendant that adorned the Dunedain Rangers resting in Aldburg. Of those that followed after her. It was the star of the North. Gleaming and shimmering in the light of the fires, its glow a deepened red. Stained with dried blood. Éomer had seen it before. "The villagers fear she will not make it, and they did not wish for her to die alone."

The veiled sun had long westened as they rode from Aldburg, and the heaviness in the air increased as their journey drew on. Dark clouds began to overtake them; a sombre grey, where not even the storm's edges were flecked with light. Dark and oppressive were the skies overhead. The cover turned the rolling fields to a vast, ashen haze as snow fell unrelenting. Gnawing and biting, the wind pressed hard against the riders; he had taken only a handful of his own men – they were but guides for the Dúnedain Rangers, and haste was imperative more so than numbers.

When they learned of their missing kin, Éomer saw first-hand the sheer and utmost fear in their eyes. At once they had been given leave, and with a speed rivalling even the best of Rohan's horses, they overtook league upon league of land in a hectic blur. It was growing darker still, yet they heeded not the treacherous ground beneath the hooves of their steeds. The path was only lit by the pale-gleaming snow and dimmed sun, skirting distant hills until it was but a faint line under the rim of clouds. As dim as the world around them, so were his thoughts.

His mind had once doubted his choice; to allow the Ranger passage without company, a lonesome figure disappearing into eastern lands. One, who in the eyes of many, could still be regarded as a child. So sure she had been of her journey and her troth, who was he to deny her passage? The concern and pressing need of her kin, now riding as if the very evil of Sauron bore down upon them, solidified the previous belief in Éomer's heart. He should not have let her go that distant morning so many months ago.

Truly, she was not meant to be alone. And now I have doomed her to such a fate. Ominous and howling, the storm pressed down on them.

Further they rode, and for much longer, until small eyes of orange light blinked to life through the falling snow.

The small town lay quiet and undisturbed, houses hidden by piles of white and streets empty. Its people had long found comfort and shelter for the night, though he found faces watching them from windows as they passed. One came to meet them as the horses milled into the open space between the centred buildings. Light poured from the door, a lone pillar of warmth as it stood ajar. It did little to battle the falling dusk. The night fell creeping over the lands, frowning as reaching tendrils of gloom swallowed all things fair.

Éomer jumped from the saddle, at once striding through heavy snow to meet the one before him. The man was clad in furs and wool; a herdsman of the plains, face gaunt and weathered. Like shadows in the corner of his eye that moved with him, a pair of Rangers were at once by his side. "Is the woman here?" Éomer asked.

The man nodded, tilting his head to the house behind him. "Yes, inside, my lord. She is fighting the fever, but I fear it is a losing battle."

He moved aside, and so did Éomer, allowing her kin to enter first. They were only two, the captain and the young boy from Helm's Deep; the rest remained mounted. Silent, unmoving figures of grey on their horses; unyielding even against the piling snow. The urgency could be felt in their gazes, and he turned his face from them. The bitter guilt made him shameful. For only the briefest of moments he halted, as if he would be encroaching on something that was not for his eyes; then, steeling his heart, he stepped inside after the Rangers.

The room was small, cast in a warm light from the blazing fire.

There was a smell heavy in the air. Stark, pungent. Ill.

Éomer's eyes fell accustomed; then he saw her.

She was lying by the fire that had been piled high and then burning hotly. At once her companions were bend over her; Halbarad combed strands of hair from her brow, revealing skin pallid and clammy with a fever's touch. White as the frost of Winter. The Ranger kneeled by her bed and whispered quietly in the foreign language of Elves, yet she did not stir. His gentle hands examined her injuries. As they became revealed one by one, Éomer felt a sharp tug cut through his chest; the guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders, and in his heart. He could feel the responsibility for her fate.

The Dúnedain asked for water.

Youthful vigour and life were her companions when last he had seen her, but now only the sickly touch of death lingered in the air.

Despite Halbarad's touch, gentle and searching, she did not move nor wake. Her breathing fell uneven, forcefully drawn as every gasp for air was a struggle; the sound rolled jaggedly through the quiet of the room, deafening in his ears until he could hear nothing else. Had he doomed her to this fate? Éomer turned his gaze from the sight, struggling to tear his eyes away; every cut and bruise against her ghostly skin, the lacerations and her mangled arm. "Where did you come across her?" His voice was harsh in his throat as he addressed the shepherd.

"South of the Undeeps, unconscious in the fields. It was by mere chance we came upon her, and whence she came I cannot tell."

Once more, Éomer regarded her frail and almost lifeless form. In the light he saw her clearly. Her face was gripped in pain, muddled by fretful fears brought in the fever's wake. When last he had seen her, the Ranger had made a path the straight way East to Gondor; now, many months later, she was found in an entirely different part of the Wold, a hundred miles from their place of parting. What brought you on this road? Steeling his heart, Éomer then stepped closer to the bed, and from there he watched her quietly.

When water had been brought, the Rangers crumbled leaves of athelas into the bowl, and a living freshness filled the room. They cleaned her injuries; as they worked, they spoke together in a foreign tongue with voices low and whispered. Éomer could feel their concern, yet he kept his silent vigil – his hands could bring no aid to them. For a long while they strove against the fever, until at length Halbarad leaned forward, one hand pressed against her brow, and his lips to her ear. There, he murmured words that were meant only for her to hear.

Pale was her face, surely touched by Death, but as the Ranger spoke long and quietly to her, the mumblings and muttered breaths stilled. With both hope and fear, Éomer watched; and it seemed that the glow was slow returning, a flush of hidden strength lingering beneath the sickness. Though he feared it was but a mockery of hope. But still, her breathing calmed until she became fast asleep; no restlessness of fever clutched her, and she appeared almost peaceful. It was only for a moment.

Suddenly she stirred. Litted eyes fluttered, and a whimper pressed against her clenched teeth.

She spoke a name. Over and over, the same word tumbled from her lips, and tears of great pain and agony shimmered in the glow of the fire. It seemed to him, that the woman fought against a great struggle, and the calls came with increasing insistency. Though each time more faintly to their hearing, as if she walked afar into some dark place. As if she was calling for one that was lost and so incredibly dear to her. The Rangers sprung at once to her side, careful not to cause further injury when she trashed about in her unseen search; their cries and calls were urgent yet to no avail.

The woman neither heard nor saw them.

Éomer turned from them, gripped by the sudden urge to flee from the sight. He could do nothing, and he felt utterly useless; so he slipped from the room. Outside, ash-grey night had crept over the fields, the long darkness fallen, and no more snow came from a bleak sky. It was entirely black. His eyes found the riders, unmoving and ever-watching, but soon he turned his gaze away. All was silent, save for the whispering gales, and the air was clear and frost-tipped.

Stomping, he wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders, and stood for many long moments – minutes or hours, it was difficult to tell in the gloom of a starless night – deep in thought. The sudden terror had left him with many questions. And so there he stood, and still waited for he knew not what. A great wind rose and blew. There was no movement to be found in the darkness, even as he strained his eyes to peer into the night; keeping his attention firmly away from the building behind him.

His hand worked the pendant, the gift for her that he had pocketed days earlier, between his fingers underneath the cloak. The cold stone anchored his mind; kept him from drowning entirely in bitterness and sorrow. He had believed their paths would never again cross – and so he had given a promise to a child, a promise he could not fulfill. Truly, was this the punishment of the Valar for such a vow?

He gripped the stone.

Only once as he stood waiting, did the youngest Ranger emerge. Pale faced, his shoulders were weighed by an invisible burden, as he stepped to the mounted Rangers. Here they spoke together in low voices, grey cloaks blown about in the chill wind; it was hard to see much, though their worry came clear to Éomer. Far they had ridden, in search for the young woman over league upon league of foreign lands, only to find her all too late. When the boy turned, their gazes met, though neither spoke as a pair of Rangers tore from the group behind him.

There was nothing to be said.

Fast were their horses, and soon the outriders were gone from sight. What purpose lay behind their sudden flight, a disappearance into the night, Éomer could not tell; but with haste they had been called away. It spoke much of the woman's fate for them to leave in such a matter.

So it was, that Éomer spent the waning hours of night silent and watchful. He stood forlorn and chill as the grey light of early day rose in the distant East. No news had come from within the house. The cold touched him little as the glimmer of morning grew far away, though it brought no joy to him. No choice was left to him but to play his part to its end – to her end. He breathed once, jaggedly, and found a deep-buried fragment of courage; there was little hope, but, if anything, he should not turn from the bitterness of truth. Death would come for them all, and all the faster for those that lived by the sword. Her path in life would be no different from the ones that came and went before her.

Or the many others that would follow after.

Sudden heat brushed against him, harsh and sweltering. Nothing had changed; the grief of Nienna remained heavy over the Rangers, and still she had not moved. At least her breathing fell not so ragged, but rather as a slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. The name was no longer on her lips – the unknown she sought even in her fervent dreams. The peace had not yet left her entirely. She was sleeping, or falling, deeper and further into the embrace of death. Éomer did not approach, and chose rather to linger by the doorway.

Halbarad looked up, grey eyes heavy with exhaustion, and his words held little strength. "I can do no more for her," he said, running a hand over her brow with gentle strokes. Her dark hair was damp, and a sheen coated her skin. Éomer looked away and then back, giving a solemn nod; it was as he had feared. "We would ask for something, a waggon or a cart ... A way to take her with us. There may still be help, and hope, to find with the Elves. And," he paused, pain clear in his face. "She will be reunited with her family."

"I will have it prepared at once," Éomer said and turned to leave, though halted, frozen by the coldness in his palm that he unbeknownst had turned over, again and again. Bringing forth the small pendant, Éomer placed it by her side on the bed. At the Rangers' bewilderment, he explained. "It was a gift – from a child whose life she saved." Then, looking down on the pale face one last time, he turned from the room.

He had fulfilled his promise.

When day truly broke, it was both bleak and windy. At sunrise a wain had been prepared, pulled by the Dúnedain's great dark-grey horses, and a clamour took the small village for many showed interest in the strangers. Even more so in their own lord, a Marshal of the Riddermark, who had arrived during the night. The four remaining Rangers were ready to depart; gazes hooded and minds heavy, for in the cart lay their wounded kin beneath great pelts and wools. There was little to be seen of her, as she had been covered against the bone-chilling cold of early morning.

The fever had yet to subside, and the young man – Brenion – was by her side, vigilant and watchful, ever so often tending to her. Her pale hand gripped in his. Around her wrist the pendant shone, bound by the thin leather string, and the gift had been well received. By the Ranger's side lay a long bow, and many long-feathered arrows. Grey eyes a whirl of care and concern, and Éomer knew well the man would not leave her side until the bitter end. May you guard her well, Éomer thought, if enemies befall you on the road.

There was nothing more he, or any from the Mark, could do for them then; for the ones who had saved his people, and his own life. Their path brought them to the eaves of the Golden Wood, and it was a place the Marshal could not follow. Would not follow. Though he prayed help could be found with the Elves, and with their Queen of Sorcery. Certainly, there was no mortal's hand that could now battle the deadly malady holding claim to the frail, unmoving form beneath the pelts.

Éomer stood by the company, green cloak a flutter on the swift winds; his mind hard-fixed away from the woman, for ever did the sight bring shame to him. Instead, he looked to Halbarad. The man appeared weary, haggard, as the company was soon ready for departure. There was a bitter chill in the air, and slowly in the West the dark of night faded to a cold grey. Red shafts of light leapt above the black walls of distant mountains, and the dawn came clear and bright to the Riddermark. Birds were even singing in the tall-swaying grass, welcoming the swift approach of another day; the deep piles of snow glistened in a rising sun, fair and untouched by the workings of Men.

They had come to a time of farewell, for the Rangers could delay their departure no longer.

Steeling his heart for this moment of wretchedness, Éomer approached the wain with slow steps and a reluctant mind. Despite his efforts, his gaze fell on the woman. So pale, so still she lay. She could not have long left. "Go with all the hope and good will of my people," he said, eyes not once leaving her face; her skin was flushed red, not with life but with the chill of Winter, and she breathed only raggedly. Every inhale a struggle more laboured than the one before. "Farewell."

Halbarad gave a nod, hand rested against his chest before he mounted his dark horse. "May our paths cross once more in better days."

The sound of hooves and creaking wheels filled the quiet town, as the wain was slowly picking up pace through the sludge. The Rangers' heads were bowed, hooded and grey, their journey taking them the straight way West. Éomer was about to turn. But as he did so, the woman stirred beneath the furs; he stared, rooted as if turned to stone, for two pale, fever-clouded eyes met his own. Grey they were, almost silver in the morning's clear light, and she was awake for only the briefest of moments. Brenion was at once by her side, stooped over her.

Her gaze was then turned from Éomer, a faint and struggling smile on her lips, and he felt as if he had been released by a spell.

He watched, and waited, until long after the company disappeared from sight.

Chapter Text

She saw a pack of beautiful horses, shining like mother-of-pearl in the light of a clear sun. They ran towards her on a field of flowers, and their manes were white and pure as snow. With tails held high they came in mirth, moving playfully and lithe for there was no evil in their lands. They were not wild, although they were moving freely and without command. But further behind the playful and unsaddled horses came another. Riding on it was a young man.

She raised an arm, for the bright sun was in her eyes. The rider came before her. She saw not his face, though knew he was fair and noble. It was as though she knew him. He spoke, but she could not hear the words. Around them, the horses thundered by and the ground trembled; he spoke again, though to no avail. The light grew until she could see nothing more than a black silhouette before her. He reached down a hand for her, and she stretched her own to meet his.

She took it.

Rell woke.

Soft light filled everything. As if walking in a field of shimmering gold, where she could see nothing but brightness before her. Behind her, around her, and everywhere. And everything was warm. Was she still dreaming? It was as if the pack of horses still thundered by in the distance, a tremble caught in her ears that rolled by over and over again. Loud and deafening. All other sounds were submerged into deep, black waters, and her mind could recall so little else. The hand … his hand … She blinked, blurriness fading, as her surroundings became slowly clearer. Who?

Her limbs were heavy, unmovable; so heavy and dark, so different from the beautiful light of gold that encircled her. Then, suddenly, as if sleeping had become perilous, panic took her. She held no control over her body. A lifeless lump of stone, immobile and useless – and pain. So much pain. Such agony overcame her, all at once, as if her entire being had caught fire. She cried out, yet the sound drowned against the thundering, rolling beat and died on her lips.

She trashed and struggled, but could not move.

Caught. Like she had been by the Orcs on the banks of the Anduin; the excruciating torment, the helplessness. The struggle. Dying. Have I died? And still the light-gold glow filled her vision, blurred by tears with every small return of memories; though, slowly, dark-woven silhouettes broke through the brilliant sameness, and her eyes fought to keep focus on them. She struggled against the light.

Something gripped her hand. Fingers.

Gentle, but firm; someone – a reassurance and unspoken promise – was with her in the light, now already fading all around into nothing, as the shadows grew and melded. A voice spoke to her. But it came to her through the constant roar, intangible and indiscernible, and, despite her desire to, she understood it not. The shadow became clearer. Her vision swam. "Where–," she tried to speak, though could get nothing more out; from thoughts to words. The question died on her lips.

She knew him.

A warm, careful touch came to her brow, and her eyes closed. Cool and near. "You are safe," he said. At his words, she cried. "We are here with you." The voice was light, masking concern, and she could not hear everything, though he spoke still. It came in fragments, pieced together by her confused mind. A feeble attempt to understand. "Rest now and regain your strength. When you wake, we will have much to talk about."

And so it was that Rell allowed an exhausted sleep to reclaim her muddled thoughts, where many questions and little reason whirred enmeshed. The golden light had dimmed, faded to nothing.

Then, everything became entirely dark.

Whether Rell slept for a day, or mayhab weeks, was hard to tell, for fatigue clung ever still to her when once more she came to. Every part of her would ache, deep and dull throbs, or with sharp tugs of pain her constant companions; she could not sit without aid, let alone move, and only for short moments at a time. No strength was in her gaze to marvel at the beauty of Lothlórien – of Caras Galadhon, under the great canopy of mallorn trees, to where she had been brought some time after the river-drop.

On a flet in the trees she spent her time, watching day and night of eternal gold slip by; unchanged, always the same as she weaved between fevers and wakefulness. It was much like her dream, but Rell knew she had lived. The shadow; the horses and the rider; the intangible shapes from her dream did not visit her again, and she was left wondering if it had been truly real or something else.

But she was never left alone with her thoughts for long.

The Elves tended her wounds, gracefully and with care, and Rell allowed all of it without grievances, albeit with much wonderment. No matter how hard she wondered, it made no sense; from the eastern borders of Rohan by the outskirts of Anduin's forests, to the hidden realm of the Galadhrim. How did it come to be? Of all she remembered – and most things very, if not too, vividly – from the ambush in the night, the fight and the fall … the river, struggling and drowning; Rell could recall nothing more beyond the vast field of gold upon which she had stumbled.

She tried to find answers with her caregivers, by questions mumbled through her bouts of fever, or in the brief moments where clarity struck her. One day soon came to follow the next, yet Rell received the same reply. Rest now, they would tell her. All would be explained in due time.

And in the whirlwind of unanswered inquiries and nothing else to do but rest, Rell could watch the true state of her injuries; her bandaged leg that hurt from a mere touch, a cut bone-deep from the Orc's jagged blade. She would walk again, the Elves assured her. Scarred. Still useful. But, what truly made coldness overtake her and dread fill her heart, was when they on the third day of clarity revealed her bandaged arm to her.

No words of comfort could ease her sorrow then.

While the bone had been set properly after her fall in Emyn Muil many moons ago, the hardships Rell had faced after had left the limb crippled. Her fingers did not heed her will; would not flex nor move the way she wanted them to, and their grip felt rigid. For this, she cried, long and inconsolable until a rawness burned her throat. The healers spoke words of comfort, that time could heal many things – and perhaps the arm as well – but Rell knew in her heart the bitter truth.

The arm was lost from use.

She mourned it, just as she mourned her father's sword, and Luin's fate within the darkness. Her failed pledge. More than anything, she worried and wondered. Her uncle. His fate, and Gollum's with him, on that fateful night where they parted ways. Has he made it? He had promised to wait for her under the eaves of Lothlórien, as long as he was able; hopeful she would make the daunting path through the night.

Surely the Elves knew of his journey. Surely he had made it?

Dismal was the wait for answers, until finally they came to her on the fifth day. Immeasurable relief flooded her heart, when all at long last was revealed. It did not take long before she came to understand what had transpired – after her collapse in a field of wheat, waiting for death to claim her. For one morning much like all the others, with the dawning light she awoke, feeling a gentle touch on her brow. A face – familiar and impossible – became clear before her.

"Halbarad?"

"Hello, little one." The man smiled, tired but touched by gladness as he brushed hair from her face. Rell reached out and clasped his hand in hers; unsure if he was truly there. His skin was cool, and there was a sheen of grime and exhaustion to him, as if he had just then returned from the road. But he was real. "You certainly gave us all a fright," he said, "I feared we had lost you."

She struggled to sit upright, half assisted by him, and felt a bout of faintness overtake her. It was a moment longer before Rell recollected her thoughts, vision swimming with specks of light from a gold-flecked sky. "I am sorry for what I did, for … Leaving." Grey eyes met grey. "But in my heart I knew, felt, he needed me." As her mind dwelled on her uncle, hope lived again as she recalled his words in the night, and all else was pushed aside for more important matters. Desperate was her question. "He said he would wait – is he here? Have you seen Aragorn?"

Five days. He had promised to wait for her, under the eaves of Lothlórien. But for how long have I slept?

Halbarad shook his head, and dejection seized her heart. "No, I have not." His fingers gripped hers, drawing her gaze back to his. Reassurance. "He was here. We missed him but within a day's journey, and now he is making his way East once more together with his companion. To Mirkwood as he had first planned."

They made it. Aragorn had traversed the dark night of the forest unscathed, avoided the hunting Orcs that had turned hungering eyes on her; Gollum remained captive, and their arduous journey had not been in vain. Rell breathed deeply, a jagged gasp against tears – for once of gladness and relief. "Thank the Valar. Is he well? Was he hurt?"

"They had slipped unnoticed by the Orcs, and while he was weary with exhaustion – and great worry for you – he was without injury. He left a message with the wardens, words to be passed on to you should you come by the Golden Woods." With a gentle pat on the top of her hand, Halbarad pulled a small, carefully-folded piece of parchment from his pocket. "Forgive me for reading what was intended for you, but we were left blind without knowledge. I hoped to learn more. You must understand how troubled we were, and have been for quite some time."

He passed the letter to her. "I cannot blame you," Rell said, turning the weathered parchment between her fingers. Then, fumbling, she opened it. Everything became a struggle with one hand, and she was eager to learn its contents. For a while, as her eyes danced across the work of a familiar pen, there was silence around them; in the distance, beyond the quietude of the flet, soft voices came upon the breeze, and the Elves joined together for another day of peace and tranquillity.

Neat scribbles dotted with care, yet swift they had fallen and much remained unsaid. But still, Rell was gladdened by the words, knowing now fully that her uncle had made the daunting flight through the night. And he had waited for her, for as long as he was able.

Avarell,

I pray this letter finds you, and that you have found protection in Lothlórien. Loath I was to leave you, though worse yet is my grieving heart that I cannot wait longer for you here. Our captive must be brought to his destination, much and many depend on this duty, and so I shall see it done. Know that I am proud of you, always I have been and always shall be. When we meet again, let it then be by the hearth of a homely fire.

You will be in my thoughts as I venture onward,

Aragorn

She folded the letter once more, neatly resting in her lap; with a quick stroke of her sleeve, she wiped her eyes. It pained her greatly that he had to carry on his journey – burdened with worry – without knowing if she had survived or fallen by the hands of Orcs. Does he believe me dead? It was a lonely path, now leading her chieftain through hostile lands East. "Did he go alone?"

"The wardens followed him to the border of their lands, but could walk with him no further. Alone he carried on," Halbarad said, finding her uninjured hand in his own as Rell reached out. He was warm, a stark contrast to the coldness beneath her skin. It was difficult to put words to her emotions; indescribable relief, first and foremost, for his safety. But grief remained ever-present in the pit of her stomach, hard and gnawing, churning until bile coated her mouth. She could not go with him. "Worry not, little one. He will be safe."

"I know."

For a long while after, the pair sat together in the shade. Daylight grew about them and soon turned to noon; a golden fire that bloomed brighter and brighter. A cooling wind blew, rustling leaves and branches, and Rell could hear little else beyond the flet. They spoke of many things; most often Rell told parts of her tale, of her long journey across the lands and the people she had met. Ashamed she felt at first, to have left under the cover of darkness and without a word.

Yet Halbarad calmed her, speaking words of reassurance. Again, his warmth encompassed her hand. All had been forgiven – the only thing of importance was her safety. And now, finally, after many moons and months, Rell truly was safe. For a brief moment she marvelled at that thought; how many times had she come close to harm? To death. From the Dunlending attack on the plains of Rohan and her capture in Ithilien. Dread seized her heart as her mind wandered, following along every path she had taken … She knew not which was most terrible; the fall in Emyn Muil, or the plunge into Anduin's rabid waters.

She told Halbarad everything.

It felt to her as though the Valar had held a protective hand above her, shielded her from true harm.

And now there she was, once more reunited with her kin. Rell smiled to herself, pausing in her long tale, and so they sat in thoughtful silence. Turning her face aside she watched small patches of open skies; cloudless and bright, she drew in a deep breath. Her mind was a constant whirl of intertwined thoughts; so difficult it was to separate gladness and fear, and it was not long before her smile faded.

"I was so afraid," she whispered, gaze once more returning to the Ranger by her side. There was sorrow in his grey eyes, but he did not speak; Halbarad watched her, quietly, allowing her a chance to continue. Her useful hand clasped the injury, rubbing circles into the linen until pain was drawn from the wound. Her vision turned blurry.

She was crying.

Unbeknownst to her and for how long, tears had trickled silently down her cheeks, but it now seemed as though a dam was breaking. Opening up for all the horrid things she had buried deep, so very deep down, inside her own head. Rell sobbed like a small child, desperate for comfort, and soon strong arms wrapped her in an embrace. Sinking into warmth, she allowed herself this brief moment – to be vulnerable and hurt – and there was no need to be strong.

The fighting flame within her had suffered much, until it was but a small, dull-flickering ember; truly, if her lonely journey had continued for much longer, it would have extinguished entirely. Her defences were down, and she was once more but a small girl; a child that had taken on a burden too heavy for her shoulders to bear. "You did well," he said quietly, soothing words almost drowned by her cries. "I am so proud of you."

Her fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt, knuckles whitening, as Rell struggled to regain her breath. She heaved and hiccupped, leaning into his touch, and a gentle hand stroked reassurances across her hair. She was allowed to cry. For a long while after they sat there, giving her a chance to sift through her muddled thoughts; to finally come to terms with all that had happened. For her tears to abate and calmness overtake her. She was still alive.

Rell had survived.

When finally her turbulent heart and mind settled, once more lulled to a quiet, and her many questions had been answered, a new curiosity came to her. Caras Galadhon, chief city of the Elves of Lothlórien – never before had Rell walked within its shadow. She had seen little of what was around her, through small and narrow openings in the flet, and her time had been spent tending to her many injuries.

But with the release of all her dread and worry, came room for restlessness. She could no longer stay in bed, nursing her wounds and growing pity. So it was that Rell implored Halbarad to bring her outside her small sanctuary. And, despite a brief flicker of concern in his gaze, he indulged her; she was dressed anew in thick, woolly clothes that ran like silk through her fingers, warm against the wind. The air of early Spring was cold and fresh. Her travel-wear was beyond mending, torn and bloodied, and the Healers had but looked at them once before discarding them.

For a moment she wondered. What had happened to the star of her cloak?

Her arm was left useless and limp in a sling across her chest, and she could not walk without a crutch and the constant support of her fellow Ranger. Yet Rell dwelled not on that thought; refused to let the dark whispers seep back into her mind that had long plagued her. I am safe. It was a difficult task – to stand and take her first steps – but she forced herself forward.

The flet, a platform built atop one of the hundreds of mallorns of Lórien, suspended them a dizzying drop above the ground. They paused before their descent, allowing Rell a view of the ancient fortress of Elves. Great trees; golden leaves touched with speckled green, of Winter turning to Spring, grew as far as the eye could see. And in each Rell saw housings much the same as her own place of rest, with white lights as shimmering stars, and below stretched a vast sea of green grass and flowers.

Her eyes looked further. In the forest's centre stood the tallest of the Mallorn trees, barely discernible through the woodland, and she knew it was home to the Lord and Lady of Lórien. Then, finally, Rell found the outskirts of Caras Galadhon; a wall of green earth, the great and distant border surrounding the hill, and saw a dim haze of rising mists; rivers hidden beyond the trees.

Rell tightened her grip on Halbarad's arm, and they began the slow and careful climb down. The path was long, a staircase winding a way along the bole, and left her faint long before they reached its end. There was little time to watch much else, gaze fixed on her unsteady feet – it felt as though she had not walked in many ages, and had almost forgotten how to put one foot ahead of the other. But each time she stumbled, Halbarad was there.

He would squeeze her hand in reassurance, and they would carry on.

Fighting for breath, Rell could finally feel soft earth and grass beneath her feet, and a new view opened around her. Pebbled paths wove between tall boles and archways of white wood. Strange it was to think that, just beyond the enchanted forest, Winter's hold remained a firm grasp of the surrounding lands; in Lórien all was fair, forevermore, and the clean air brought with it the smell of blooming flowers. For a moment she stood, just feeling the forest. Time flowed differently in the Golden Woods.

When asked where she wanted to walk, Rell could not answer. The climb had left her full of weariness, yet still a fitful undercurrent ran beneath her skin. The urge to move had been great, impossible to ignore, but there had been little thought or reason behind it. "Then," he said, "I have something to show you."

And so it was that Halbarad took charge and led her through a smaller pathway, away from the flet. Arm in arm they ducked beneath a canopy of white-flowered vines and interwoven branches, following slow-tumbling steps and he seemed sure of the way. His feet fell light, soundlessly, upon each smooth stone, while Rell's broke the quiet peace about them with each step she took.

She glanced around, but found them to be alone.

"Where are we going?" Rell asked.

He patted her arm, a smile on his lips. "You will see."

Grey eyes watched his face, searching, though he schooled his features quickly; nothing was revealed to her. So Rell followed dutifully. It was not long before the small alcove, under which they had walked, opened up ahead to a meadow; the grass grew tall, like a sea of green waves in the wind; a small stream ran languidly from somewhere beyond the forest's edge, a tinkling song. The music of the meadow came to her ears above the sound of water, a buzzing chorus of insects and whispering winds. High above them the sun had reached its highest point, a daystar bright and golden, that soon would descend for nightfall; no cloud was in sight. It was all so very beautiful.

But the enchanting vision was not what halted her mid-step. For there, amidst the green sea, stood a group of lithe horses; they shone in the light, silver and pearl and gold, ethereal, as they moved in play and mirth. Elvish. It was as if she was met with her dream-vision once more. As if sensing the newly arrived company, the herd stilled, immediately shifting to rapt attention; ears stiffening and tails held high, and soon clever, dark eyes were turned upon the Rangers.

Rell found her at once.

Immediately the mare broke from the flock, letting out a loud whinny that filled the meadow. Rell stumbled forward on eager feet and met the horse that was soon before her; for the second time that day, she cried, as she wrapped her arm around the strong neck and buried herself in familiar warmth. Luin. She could feel her companion – her best friend – inhale quickly, then puffing a deep breath into her hair.

Through her tears she spoke. "I thought I had lost you!"

With a tight squeeze, feeling coarse hairs rub against her cheek, Rell breathed in the mare's scent before withdrawing. She brushed her hand over the grey-dabbled coat, searching for injuries or harm, though found nothing. The horse was unscathed, another blessing from the Valar. Luin sniffed her broken arm, then nibbled her shoulder lightly, ticklishly, in an almost insistent search; Rell could not help but laugh.

"I am well," she said in a whisper, taking the soft muzzle in hand and looking into the dark, almost human-like eyes. Then Rell planted a kiss on the horse. "Thank you for being all right." She received a puff of hot air in return, blown directly into her face.

Steps came from behind her.

Rell glanced over her shoulder; Halbarad had joined them on the field, and he was smiling. "Truly a clever horse. It came four days ago to the eaves of Lothlórien, wandering under the shade until the Wardens found it. Where it came from was unknown to them, but they recognised the make of the saddle. Our marks. And it refused to leave them once their paths had first crossed." As he spoke, Rell did not lessen her attention; fingers running through the silvery mane, or scratching behind twitchy ears. Anything that solidified reality; Luin was there. Unscathed. It was a touch she had missed dearly. "They worried for the rider, and searched for many days … But came upon no one."

"I told Luin to find a home with the Elves. It was my last command to her that night." She smiled, fondness and pride both feelings stronger than the sudden stab of a dark memory. Rell refused to recall anything, and she smothered the half-distorted flashes of images. Of pain. Everything was well. "It would seem she listened."

"Then–" A new voice spoke, and before Rell could startle, she felt arms wrap around her. She was pulled up and spun around, an involuntary cry forced through her lips. "–Clearly the horse listens better than its own master!"

Returned to her own two feet, she turned to the young man; keen and clear his eyes were lit, and their gazes met evenly. His raven hair was tousled, his face tired, but the smile was unmistakable. The star on his chest, twin to the one she had lost, shone as the glow of sun fell on him. At first Rell did not speak. Rather, she found repose in the sight; as if the world had been slightly tilted, misaligned, and now everything shifted back into its rightful place. Though it did not last for long, and soon she took the few steps forward to embrace him. "Am I dreaming, or are you truly here as well, Brenion?"

His arms wrapped around her, carefully but incredibly tight, as if he feared she would disappear. She could feel his shoulders tremble ever so slightly. A pang of guilt rushed through her, twisting her heart. So much grief I have caused them. "You are very much awake. I am here, Avarell." Rell clung to him many long moments longer, reveling in the sudden appearance of her friend; though, after a while, he took a step back and held her at arm's length. "Let me see you proper!"

Rell smiled, a smile touched both by weary exhaustion and gladness; with a pull of her shoulders, she shrugged. "Do I look as you remember?"

For a brief time he looked, pondering, and she could feel the sharp throbs of her arm. With a great effort and pretence, she held her head high and shoulders squared. How much have I changed, from all that has happened ... Do I still appear the same?

"Worry not," Brenion grinned, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "You are as foul on the eye as I remember!" Too quick for her to catch up to him on her bad leg, he jumped several steps backwards; out of reach, and she tried – and failed – not to laugh. In the middle of the talk stood Halbarad, shaking his head, but knew them well enough not to interfere. Little harm would come from their bickering, for the pair had known each other since they were not yet weaned from their mothers; Rell had learned to fight, ride, and hunt side by side with the young Ranger, and always were they in competition.

No one came as close to a brother as he. "It is good to see you," she laughed, shifting the crutch into place after a swift attempt to hit him. Then, with a glance to Halbarad, she spoke again. "Though I did not expect it."

"Many searched long for you in the wilderness, and we were but two of a larger company. I have sent the others ahead of us, to Rivendell with word, and only Brenion and I have remained." As he spoke, heat came to her cheeks; a blush of shame, for truly her thoughtless actions had caused grief to many of her kin. And all were they needed elsewhere, on patrols in Eriador and Arnor – and what of the watch of the Shire? Surely now, more than ever, it was imperative they kept to their task. In the midst of her gloomy thoughts, Halbarad seemed to look right through her. "Come, let us find a place to rest and talk."

After a brief farewell to Luin, promising to return again in the evening, they slowly passed beyond the meadow, speaking no more as they walked. They came to a large pavilion of white wood, roof carved resemble birds in flight and the canopy of trees, with walls curtained off with broidered hangings. Rell found that food was made ready on several rows of tables; here sat a handful of Elves, clad in the garb of Marchwardens. There was little speech between them, and they seemed to eat and drink for the most part in silence. Yet the Rangers were not forgotten.

A servant, one of many passing to and fro, came before them.

They were offered a place by the tables, and for the first time in a very long time, Rell ate until she was full.

Chapter Text

In the days following the Rangers' reunion, Rell spent her time on very little by order of Halbarad.

Fatigue clung ever still to her, both in body and mind, and strength returned was needed for the journey coming ahead; mostly she rested in her flet in the trees, brooding and pensive, or walked through enchanted glades and meadows until her leg could carry her no further. Forcing the limbs so injured to move in a matter of her will. But soon return was upon them. The hospitality of the Elves was boundless, yet they could not delay their leave much longer – with her uncle away, duty fell to the older man of their small company, and many awaited them back in the Angle.

While peace seemed constant in the glades and woods of Lothlórien, it was not so beyond its borders.

War was brewing, dark clouds gathering in a distant, eastern horizon, and each were they needed.

So it was, that Rell sat astride Luin one early morning. Wrapped in cloak and wool, she listened to the chorus of bird-song under a growing sun and fading mists, grey eyes taking one final look at the beauty of Caras Galadhon. Around her, her companions worked. Inhaling, long and deeply, she saved the memory in a corner of her mind untouched by darkened thoughts. The shadows of night passed and fled, setting the trees ablaze in shimmering silver and gold. Beside her own horse stood another pair of similar build, steeds of the Dúnedain. One, a black filly, laden with most of their belongings – with satchels and supplies – it was tied with a thick rope to the dark-coated mare ahead. Upon this sat Halbarad, quiver and bow across his back and sword at his belt.

Approaching steps turned her gaze downward, away from the trees and the light, as Brenion came to her side. Hands clasped together for warmth, his hood was drawn and hid most of his features, yet the smile was unmistakable. Rell huffed but said nothing. She understood well from where his mirth came, and so, instead, shifted in the saddle to make room for him. How he had laughed, upon learning she could not ride on her own; Rell had already then known he meant no harm, it was merely in jest – she was much the better rider of the two – but something sharp, bitter, had lodged in her heart.

It was a painful reminder of her crippled arm and leg.

He swiftly swung himself into the space behind her, arms encasing her waist as his fingers gripped the reins. Rell patted the strong muscles running the length of Luin's neck, speaking loud enough for both horse and rider to hear her. "Let not this trouble your heart, and do not throw him off because he is not I!" A chuckle came from behind, brushing warmth against her hair, as Brenion dug an elbow into her side. With a smile, she added below her breath an afterthought. "Or do."

"Behave, or I will bring you down with me," he replied.

Rell swallowed her next words, for Halbarad drew closer to them; knowing the pair well enough to sense a squabble brewing. Like ducks in a pond far too small for the both of them. "I can tie one of you to the horse like one would a sack of grain, and the other can walk behind after it. Or you can ride together without a word of complaint." With a fleeting glance across her shoulder, catching the eye of her companion, they mirrored grins. Halbarad sighed. "Both of you, behave." And with his last words of warning, they took to the road.

They rode the straight way North, following paths of white, pebbled stones and ancient bridges; they passed the wall of green earth and fosse, beyond Caras Galadhon until coming to Cerin Amroth. Westward the tree-clad slopes climbed towards distant mountains, and Rell could hear the chuckling of water. A glade opened before them onto a hill, encircled by two rings of trees; the outer with white bark, and the inner of Mallorn. Now, out in the open, the wind blew freely. The grass was green and tall, and between the thin straws grew elanor and niphredil; sun-stars and moon flowers.

A solemn tenderness, of understanding and sorrow, came to Rell then, for they had come to the mound of King Amroth. Behind her, Brenion leaned in closer to whisper in her ear. "Can you hear it, too? The singing of Nimrodel?" For a quiet moment she listened. Then, Rell nodded. As the wind blew through the branches, borne upon northern gales, were the sounds of distant seas and cries of birds. And within, barely discernible if one did not listen well, the voice of a maiden once fair.

"Where now she wanders none can tell, in sunlight or in shade," Rell sang quietly, remembering times long ago spent in Rivendell; by the hearth of a fire, in the company of minstrels and those who had lived the tales of old. How she had longed for the world beyond, to follow in her uncle's footsteps, and to walk in strange and foreign lands. Tugging her cloak tighter, voice faltering she finished the verse. She bowed her head. "For lost of yore was Nimrodel, and in the mountains strayed."

But soon the travellers turned their backs to the mound, and with it the green hill dotted with flowers, and went downhill once more. The Rangers crossed the river Nimrodel, pausing not, and the day wore on. Rell felt restless, and she could do little more than peer into the woods.

When the small company passed the last golden Mallorn trees, finally crossing the border of Lothlórien to enter the vast woodland valley beyond, the country changed with it. After they had ridden for some miles they were surrounded by wilderness of weeds and thorns; brambles trailed upon the ground, and small streams intertwined with rock and stone. It seemed to Rell a sad country, just as ancient as the forest behind yet devoid of the beauty of Elves, silent but for the noise of hidden rivers. They had come to the waning edge of Lothlórien's magic.

Sullen clouds drifted high above, and the riders did not speak as they passed further through the ever-thinning woods. They had been half a day's riding on the way when the weather first changed. Where previously a flickering, but bright, sun had followed their path above the canopy of trees, came now swift-flowing clouds of white and grey. Around them the boles, once uncountable in their numbers, dwindled, and the forest broke into open patches of land.

Familiar watchfulness came to their gazes. They were truly beyond the protection of the marchwardens, and entirely on their own. Yet there was no fear in her heart, for Rell did not approach the remote, white-tipped mountains by herself – this time, she would not brave the wrath of Hithaeglir alone. She peered ahead to gleaming peaks of snow, grey teeth cutting across a clouded sky, and wondered how long before she was home. There was a heaviness in her stomach. A churning feeling she could not discern, be it longing or shame, and return was a difficult thought to dwell upon.

Rell worked her lower lip between her teeth, deciding instead to rummage through the pouch at her belt. Within were small treats of bread, honeyed and sweet; a parting gift from the Elves for their journey. They had attended to her with fond kindness, as one would a small child – something, perhaps, she likely was in their eyes. She chewed slowly, handing one to her companion. He was quick to accept her offer, and quicker still to nudge her for another. "They will not last the journey, if you eat them all now."

"I will not last this journey, if I do not get another now."

With a laugh, she broke a bread in two equal halves – one for him, and one for her – and disregarded his grumbles. "Be thankful you get any at all." She wiped her sticky fingers clean on his sleeve, angling her head back so she could see his face. "Or perhaps I should keep them all for myself?" His eyes were lit with veiled mirth, a smile on his lips, when he replied.

"I am thankful for your gifts, be they scarce and miserly, o mistress of the bread." Brenion ruffled her hair, despite her protests, and she knew she would end up looking like a wildling. They laughed until it was hard to breathe, allowing Luin to trod a way after the other horses; Halbarad had watched their foolery with content, shaking his head ever so slightly as he led the company forward.

A large pair of wings pulled their eyes away, just in time to see the form of a bird vanishing into the air; startled from its hiding place within the tall grass, the heron took to the skies. Rell shielded her gaze with a hand and peered after the animal; it soon disappeared in the settling gloom, for night-time seemed fast approaching. Day grew on to dark, the light turning from glowing yellow to deep orange, and the horses' pace lessened from the demanding work of the day. They pressed on, hoping to make a way further in the last light.

Though it was not long after, when Halbarad finally called for camp.

By then the pouch at her belt was empty.

They searched for awhile for a place to rest, until they came to the bank of an oval lake. Its waters were mirror-still, flanked by tall-growing sedges and bulrushes and outcrops of grey stones. A solitary frog leapt into its depths; rings formed and spread across the surface. Brenion was first to dismount, rolling shoulders in a long stretch, before turning back to Rell in the saddle. He did not ask, yet merely wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her carefully from the horse. Finding her bearings, she could feel a dull-throbbing pain cutting through her leg; a pain she was quick to swallow, feigning disregard.

With a quick word, Halbarad left their campsite to scout the area; to search for hidden enemies or unseen paths, mayhab an animal or two not fast enough to escape his arrows. It was not long before his grey cloak shimmered from view, swallowed by the mists of night. She looked for a moment, listening to the sounds about them and his fading footsteps. But then came quiet.

Brenion turned his attention to the three horses, and there he removed a few bags and satchels used for their camp; the rest remained strapped to the packhorse. Better it was, if need came to them and they were forced to vanish into the night. An ambush in the dark was always a looming threat this close to the mountains – or anywhere else it seemed as of late.

Afterwards, the young Ranger led the animals to a small tuft of grass, not far from them, and gave them free reign to roam. They needed not be fastened, for steeds of the Dúnedain would never bolt from their masters. The black filly attempted to chew his hair, as if greeting a dearly missed friend, but he swatted it off good-naturedly. A grin tugged at her lips at the sight, but, pressing a hand to her lips, Rell glanced away and worked meticulously on a fire. She was of little else use, with her crippled arm, and so she had found a spot on the sandy edge of the lake.

The mirroring waters looked as if on fire, dark crimson and orange streaks whirling against the deep blue, and beyond, perched against the dimming horizon, stood vague contours of lonesome peaks. The mountain ridge was but a faint outline, a thin line of white against a darkening horizon. The land appeared tranquil under the setting sun, but darkness was not far behind.

At first it was a struggle, working the flint and steel with only one hand, but it did not take long before embers took hold. A small feat that filled her with quiet pride. Soon a growing flame flickered to life. She kept it burning low, to avoid smoke. Then, Rell sat back, cradling her broken limp between her legs, and allowed heat to wash over her. Hauling the satchels over, Brenion sat down beside her and clasped her shoulder.

"How are you faring?" He asked.

Rell did not look at him, instead willing her focus to remain on the dancing light before her, even if she felt his appraising gaze resting on her features. She replied slowly, flexing her fingers open and close. So rigid they felt. "I am well. Exhausted – but well." For a brief moment, her eyes flickered to him. She tried to smile, to reassure him and battle away his worry. A worry that was clear on his face.

But she could not.

"It hurts," she admitted, wincing at the weakness in her own voice. The frailty she could not hide. "And even more so, it pains me to know nothing can be done. That I can do nothing."

He was quiet and thoughtful. Then he hummed, pulling her even closer until her head rested against his. "Even before we left Lothlórien, your leg was fast healing. Be of good hope! Soon you shall walk, and run, and all other things as you did once before. Before you know it, you will outride me again." His hand stroked her dark hair, tugging it behind her ear; Rell fumbled with her bandaged arm, eyes stinging with unshed tears before she drew her cloak tighter. She wanted so desperately to believe. Brenion continued. "Some things take time – and some more than others, you know this. Bones the longest of all."

Rell nodded. "I know."

"Good." Once more he smiled. "And besides, your head is not big enough for you to carry worries."

Brenion was up and with a good deal of distance from her, long before Rell had mulled over his words. With him he carried a brass pot, dented and oft used, and he stepped to the lake's bank with a laugh. Bending down, he cupped his hand to taste the water, before filling the pot to the brim. A stone whirred past him, hitting the still waters with a plop; Rell had missed, although with no real intent to hit her mark. She shook her head. "You are insufferable."

The light of the fire fell on his beaming face; the white scars illuminated by shadows dancing as he came back. He flexed his fingers, chill droplets of water hitting her skin, when he answered. "And you love me for it."

Rell snorted.

"Perhaps. Say what you like, but one day you will earn yourself a beating." She shuffled to make room for him once more. Her back came to meet a small boulder of mossy grey, and from there she watched him. With a bit of work he suspended the pot over the fire; now the only real light to be seen in the glum dusk. If not for the surrounding hills, perhaps they would not have risked a fire – but they were three, and with horses, and the thoughts of peril lost to the hope of a warm meal.

Waiting for the water to boil, Rell leaned back and caught glimpses of the sky. Dark shapes and shadows passed over the high stars and crescent moon, fading and flashing in and out of view. There was a black look in the sky, one she did not like. The wind had now turned round to the northwest. The snows of Caradhras were in the air, biting and gnawing; the deep Winter was behind them, yet still the warmth of Spring was still further away.

Rell listened anxiously to the howling breeze, for it had travelled far over mountains and valleys, and with it came news. Whispered words of what it had seen. Light steps swept through the grass, approaching their camp. They were much familiar; neither Ranger moved or startled, and soon Halbarad came before them. "It is naught but skin and bone," he said, holding up a rabbit by its ears. "But for a stew it will make do."

"Did you see anything else?" She asked.

Shaking his head, Halbarad finished their small circle around the fire and brought forth a knife from his belt. "A fox passing through on business of his own, and nothing else. This land seemed much abandoned." With that he began his work, skinning and carving the unfortunate victim of his arrow; it was not long before the smell of supper took to the air, and the last breath of the mountains vanished with it. Rell was offered a cup of bitter medicine – a wooden spoon pointed at her with orders of no complaints – of green leaves seeped into boiling water; something she drank dutifully, although reluctantly, for it was made by the Elves.

The taste lingered long after on her tongue.

In the hour following they ate and talked, voices quiet and conversations light. Fear only grew when one spoke of dark things in the hour of twilight. Rell told them of her journey. The green wardens of Ithilien, how they had seemed so much alike in bearing and plight. How capture had turned to kindness. And she spoke of the Horse-lords, amazed to learn it had not been a fevered dream; the face on that grey morning had been familiar, yet distorted and warped, and Rell could not recall if it had ever been real. When she had been reunited with the Dúnedain, he had been there. The young Marshal of the Riddermark.

Gladdened she was.

Steadfast in his duty – and safe.

"That reminds me," Halbarad said. Then, he rummaged through the satchel at his side, searching for something within. Finishing the last of her stew, Rell sat aside her bowl and watched on with interest. "Here. This was a gift." Flat in her hand came to lie a smooth, cool stone of changing colours tied by a coarse string. She turned it over and watched the silver-greys dance. "It was a gift from children you had saved, the ones you spoke of; the Marshal passed it then to you, and you carried it with you on the way to Lothlórien. It was removed, when the healers worked on your ... on your arm."

Rell smiled, curling her fingers tight around the pendant. "To think I was remembered."

And with a warmed heart, Rell welcomed the deep of night under hard clear stars. The small fire flickered in the midst of their circle, and for a while Rell sat hunched over. Through half-lidded eyes she kept her head down, transfixed by her own shadow in quiet contemplation, as her fingers trailed the water-smoothed stone. Silence settled, and the rest of her company appeared in no need to break it.

When the time for rest was upon them it was utterly dark around her. Rell could see nothing as she lay on the ground; bundled in her cloak. Her eyes were strained and grew accustomed to the dimmed moonlight, for Halbarad had choked the fire for the night; they did not risk attention drawn to them during sleep, even if the chill air was biting and cold. The world had turned to a somber grey.

Thought she could not see them, she knew her companions were beside her. She could hear the soft breathing, rising and falling in a quiet, calm lull. The horses stamped and moved every so often, somewhere beyond the hill. Brenion had taken the first watch, and she could see a faint, dark silhouette standing by the mere. He stood at his full height, craning his neck eastward and southward; a quiver and bow on his back, and his cloak fluttering, caught in the breeze. She closed her eyes resolutely.

But though she was tired, Rell could not sleep. The wind was whispering, and rattles brushed through the grass; her mind was filled with thoughts, too many to count or make sense of. She pulled her cloak tighter until only her hand was free, and there, between her fingers, she watched the stone for many long moments. Under the stars it appeared shimmering like silver. She pulled the string above her head, tugging the pendant safely into her shirt, and turned to lay on her back.

Footfalls shifted through the sand, and her friend sat down next to her. "Can you not sleep?" His voice was low, so as to not wake the last Ranger; for Halbarad had no such troubles as she did, and his deep breathing told them he was fast asleep.

"No," she said, shifting to sit upright. "I have too many thoughts."

His warm hand found her brow, and he kept her from rising. "And they will still be there in the morning light. Close your eyes, I am here." At last Rell beckoned her worried mind to ease, and her fingers to find his; he squeezed them with reassurance, to let her know she was not alone. He would be by her side, a silent company, until his watch would end. And certainly she was tired. Her body was heavy, weighed down with exhaustion, and her mind dizzy. She wanted to sleep.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For finding me."

Darkness claimed her, and she did not hear his answer.

The day passed much as the day before had gone, though the stifling silence in the air seemed heavier. And another day followed soon after, sunrise and sunset, and all during the long hours of fitful sun and growing gales they hardly paused. At night they slept fitfully, woken by howling cries in the air; yet never was Rell tasked to watch. They let her sleep, only waking her when all had been packed and they were set to leave.

But on the fourth day something dark was brewing in the clouds, and it was not long passed noon when thunder rolled across the hills. With haste they carried on, and as their march drew on and light waned, came the first cold drops. The had ridden far throughout noon, following the outer ridges that had been bending gradually north. The land had turned to wide flats of weathered rock, at times cut-through by gullies and clefts; and for each they passed, they seemed to become deeper and taller.

There were still trees, but they grew scarce and stumped. Twisted birch for the most part, and here and there a solitary fir, bitten to the core by the winds. The foothills of the mountains were taken by bracken and shrubs, the only life of green resilient enough to withstand the ever-changing temperaments of Caradhras. When the rain came that day, it came with an unbroken roar on the still air. A blinding sheet. Brenion took the worst of the storm, his larger frame shielding her and his cloak pulled around them both, for the wind was on their backs.

All Rell could do was hunker down and allow herself to be led forward. They had covered many miles, many more than she so many months ago – the way had been foreign and new to her, searching for tracks; signs of her uncle that had never been. But the leader of their company had travelled the path to the passes many a time, and he knew the way around the Misty Mountains back to Rivendell.

But the day wore on, and with it the storm, and when afternoon faded to evening the rain had yet to lessen. They had followed a sheer face of rock, a ridge that would soon veer the straight way West. An opening to Caradhras' steep slopes. At last they were brought to a halt. The grey fence took a sharper bend, and on its further side it reared upwards; climbing and climbing, up to the very heart of the mountain. A flash carved the sky. Another crack of thunder that seemed to roll endlessly in the distance, growling and rumbling.

A few small rocks and pebbles rolled down the slope, coming to a stop not far from their horses.

Rell was wet and shivering, peering up to the towering teeth of rock and stone, when Brenion dismounted alongside Halbarad. "I can see a sliver of light in the distance," he said, a hand pointed to the East. The wind was in his face. "I do not think the storm will last. Should we risk the climb or wait?" It was but a flicker of a moment, but she felt their eyes on her. A doubtful glance.

"The rain has nearly given over," she said, teeth clattering. From the saddle she, too, could see the lessening clouds in the distance. Clear skies were brought ever closer. "You should not delay for the sake of I. I am doing nothing, whether it be in camp by the fire or on the back of a horse. And I would rather brave the mountain in daylight, than sleep in the foothills with Orcs as my neighbour!" A cold drop of rain trickled down her nose, and she wiped it away, only to look back at her companions. "I can endure this."

Halbarad stepped close and took her hand in his own, much warmer they were, and he gazed long, and searchingly, into her eyes. Rell did not turn aside. "Well, so much at least is now clear." His face seemed haggard, burdened by worry, yet he gave a tired smile. "I do wonder ... From where do you get your stubbornness? I do not recall your father ever giving me this much trouble."

So it was, that they for a short while followed the ridge as it carved upwards. But as it forked and went one way and another, they turned left and took quietly to the higher pass. The horses went in single file, hooves clip-clopping in an endless echo. Above them the clouds opened to narrow streaks of light; the storm had broken, rolling further ahead, somewhere over Eriador until it would meet the great seas. Rivulets of water ran down the stone ground, winding black ribbons. As they began to climb, Rell looked back and ahead, watching for enemies.

But the climb passed uneventful.

After a brief rest when night was at its darkest, they used the light of the moon and started on their way again. All were eager to get the journey across the mountain over as quickly as possible, for the rocky lands were covered in a blanket of white. Too cold it was to sleep; no fire would burn and no heat came to them. And so they were willing, tired as they were, to go on marching for several hours. But Rell was loath to ride – for out of the three, she was the only one covered in wool and blanket up to the very tip of her ears. Her companions had taken to their own feet, then guiding the horses forward through high piles of snow.

Their walk was slow and laboured.

She hated her own words previously spoken. How she had declined the warmth of a fire, so sure in her own promise that she had taken respite from her own kin. "I am sorry," she called ahead; but the wind caught her voice, and they seemed not to hear her. With sharp, cold-cutting gusts it tugged and pulled at her. A laughing mockery, and she could do nothing more than huddle together. "Sorry ..."

The passage twisted round a few turns, then began to descent. It went steadily down for a long while before it became level again. Despite the gloom and all the windings of the road, Halbarad did not falter and he knew where he wished to go. There was no sound but the sound of their own feet, and the howling wind; the dull stump of booted feet and hooves in the crunching snow. Rell listened, and imagined, and thought she saw and heard many things, but each time it proved to be nothing. And with the moon still hanging high in the sky, she saw ahead a far-stretching land of trees and open fields. Rhudaur and the Trollshaws.

Brenion paused, turning to look back; snowflakes dotted his hair and painted his pale skin red with frost. "It is not far now!" He called up to her.

She smiled and nodded, uncertain of what to say, and instead beckoned him to look ahead once more.

They would soon find familiar places, following hidden paths and river-spanning bridges, that would take them to Rivendell. With a glance down, Rell ran her fingers over her broken arm; a small flickering hope burned warm in her chest, mayhap – hopefully – the Lord of the Last Homely House could help her. So many others had been saved by the master of herbs and healing. Long where the shadows before them as the began their final descent.

In quiet thought, Rell thought of Aragorn.

Uncle. I will do my utmost ... so that I can serve you better when you return.

For return you must.

Chapter Text

The blade felt sharp, scraping against the thin skin of her fingers, cutting at her like a wire of dulled yellow-green. Concentrating, ever so careful, she willed her fingers to move in accordance with her wishes; they would not. Refused her at every turn. Each way and that, struggling, in the end her trembling grew beyond her control and it fell from her grasp. Again. Her brow furrowed in rising ire, and frustration born from failure galled her. The task before her seemed so utmost impossible.

Winds tugged playfully at her as a roar of rushing waters filled the air; her spot by the river Bruinen gave a clear view of the surrounding valley. From the grey-scaling walls of stone, their edges disappearing into a sky that promised rain, to white houses; archways and bridges, peering out through fences of trees of birch and pine. It had been a fortnight since the company of three entered the hidden gorge, following secret paths under the cover of darkness to Rivendell. They had been welcomed as one would distant kin, and after only a long – and much welcomed – night of rest, Rell had stood before the Lord of Imladris.

Where Brenion and Halbarad had gone, she did not know.

Her ears had burned, eyes downcast in her shame to the floorboards below her bared feet. But he had merely offered her a place to sit across from him, on a chair of dark wood and plush velvets, and from there he reached for her broken arm. Clear sun fell on them then. His touch was gentle, travelling over the misaligned lumps of pale white and swollen red; he would pause briefly where the bone had broken, grey eyes searching her face before fingers pressed down into skin. Rell had winced, a sharp breath whistling through clenched teeth, and she attempted to shy away from his grasp.

His words then had reached some burried part of her heart and mind – of mending and comfort – a place so deeply forgotten, that she wept before him. He spoke of hope. Rell had only feeble dreams to cling to, but hearing Lord Elrond, he who was knowledgeable and wise in the great arts? It rekindled the small, but greedy wish in her. A seed left cold from the Winter, now suddenly touched by warmth to bloom once more.

It would take hard work, from her more than anyone, but it was not a fool's hope to pray for recovery. And so, in the days following, Rell did all the Healers asked of her, with diligence and persistence; each night she would stumble to her bed, exhausted and fast asleep within moments, and each morning she would rise to repeat the day. They had begun but slowly, allowing strength time to return to her limb. The swelling and the pain lessened, waning with each sundown and sunrise; with each compress of cool waters and healing herbs.

But already on the second day, Halbarad came to her; he found her sitting under a great tree, her back against the white bole, as she rummaged through fallen leaves. She searched for small pebbles, gravel kicked from the path swerving round the old birchwood. It would mayhap seem purposeless to any watcher, but it strengthened her unwilling fingers that for so long had been without use. For a long while she had sat there, under the far-reaching shadow, and only a small pile of stones had formed by her side.

He had crouched by her, eyes dark and face pale.

He had come to say goodbye.

With the first clear light of morning streaking the distant sky, Rell had bid him farewell; she had watched his cloaked figure disappear beyond the bridges, and he had been the first to return home. His company was no longer required in Rivendell, and he was needed elsewhere. Dangers grew many beyond the Elven borders. His sword was needed.

Brenion left less than a week later. With a smile, he had promised to safe some orcs for her; when her arm was healed and she could wield her bow once more. She had clung to him for many long moments, held on to his frayed cloak and shoulders until duty called him away. And he, too, vanished within the crevices of the valley, until nothing but the roaring waters were left. Alone she had stood, watching the dull-rising mists and high ridges. It had not yet been her time.

Rell blinked.

A drop of icy water trickled down her cheek, a journey soon ended, and she turned from her wandering thoughts to the darkened sky above. The promise of rain was honoured by the clouds, and it was not many moments before another dripped a ghostly touch onto her thigh. Then her arm. Rell bowed down and returned the withered blade of grass, previously dropped, to her hand. For how long she had tried, or how many failed attempts, was hard to tell; to tie a knot on a straw with only one hand, demanded much – if not too much – of her. She pocketed it, hobbling up the path as the downpour broke around her.

Her hair and clothes were damp when she found shelter, but the air inside was warm; she could feel her skin flush, prickling. Careful not to leave sloshing steps down the hallway, Rell ventured further inside and peered one way and another; small chambers brimming with bookshelves, or pots and jars; open spaces with fluttering curtains of white silk. Balconies and darkened, rain-touched bleakness beyond. Rell could hear the wind sighing and singing.

She followed the warmth, smelling ash and fire from a burning hearth. She came to the Hall of Fire. Here, between great, carven pillars a solitary fire burned hot; a deep orange glow filled the room, and it seemed the hall stood empty beside her own presence.

Rell found a spot on the floor, a short distance to the hearth, and from there she watched the dancing embers and licking flames. Pulling her legs close, she found the blade of grass once more. Her uninjured hand twitched, but she forced it to still in her lap, as her other worked the straw between her fingers. Working her lip through her teeth, brow creased and hard set. At first droplets dribbled down her chilled skin, but it was not long before even her soggy clothes dried in the heat; she could feel warmth creep into her cheeks, enlivened her.

For a while, uncertain of how long, Rell had sat by the hearth.

But suddenly, as if sprung from thin air or as a figment of her own mind, a dark figure – a small shadow no larger than a child – stood before her. Rell startled. "Hullo", said he. Dressed in bright colours; a yellow vest over emerald green, embroidered with intricate, almost serpentine gold threads, and a belt of dark, sturdy leather that held a small sheathed blade. Peculiar. His unusually large feet were bare and covered with curly hair. There was a friendly smile, perhaps closer to a grin, on his face as blue eyes twinkled. A hint of pride was in his voice. "It would seem I have not lost the lightness of my own two feet!"

Rell could scarcely reply, instead blinking twice and opening, then closing, her mouth. Many visited Rivendell from far and wide; Elves and Men, from distant lands to both the East and the West, great Lords and travellers alike. But she had not expected a Halfling to spring upon her. "Hello, Master Hobbit," she replied with uncertainty. She glanced about, wondering if there would be more of them.

"Bilbo Baggins am I. At your service and your family's."

The name rekindled a half-forgotten memory. A story told many moons ago, in a land far away; under the shadow of Emyn Muil, where her uncle had finally revealed to her his task. Erebor's terrible malady, a slumbering dragon of old; thirteen Dwarves on a quest to reclaim their homeland. A wizard. Gollum. She repressed a shudder. And a Hobbit. They were face to face, him standing and her sitting, as he gave a well-mannered bow. She returned it with a nod of her head, uncertainty touching her words. "Rell, likewise at yours, Master Baggins."

How strange to meet in such a place.

And with that introductions had been made, or so it seemed, and the Hobbit clapped his hands with eagerness. Then he excused himself for a brief moment, walking off to a place elsewhere, shadowed by the pillars of the hall. Rell heard a loud, scraping noise, and he soon reappeared; clasped under his arm was a red leather-bound book, a couple of quills and an inkpot, and after him he dragged a tiny chair. It was soon placed before Rell.

He sat, and from there he watched her.

The tome was in his lap, hands clasped over it, but this time he said nothing. It seemed as though he was waiting; for her or something else, it was hard for her to glean. And so Rell decided to speak what she thought. "I must admit, it is a surprise to meet one such as yourself, Master Baggins, so far from the Shire. What brings a Hobbit to Rivendell? Is your kin not quite content to call the other races strangers?"

It seemed her choice had been right, for his face lit up once more as he leaned forward. His voice was low, speaking as if a secret shared between them. "Writing."

"Oh," she said. Not what she had expected – if she had expected anything at all. "Writing what, if I may ask?"

"Well, writing. And sitting, and thinking. In truth, it can be quite the task to put all my great adventures to paper. From here and there – and everywhere – I have travelled, and seen so much." His hand patted the sturdy, red leather with a fondness; his cheerful eyes saw things Rell could not, and she had a feeling the small creature before her was half-lost in thoughts. Despite the small size of the chair, his feet did not touch the floor, and they dangled back and forth as he pondered hidden things. Though it was not long, and his attention came to rest on her once more. The twinkle returned. "I have been sitting here for a while today, came to write in the morning's first light. I saw you enter with the rain, though see me you did not."

Rell smiled, not ashamed to have been snuck up upon; even if she took pride in her own quiet feet and stealth, for certainly there was no evil bone in the Hobbit. Clearly, he found amusement in his own accomplishment, and no malice in his actions. Rather, he appeared pleased to have found one who would listen to his tale. "Truly, it would seem you live up to the stories, Master Baggins! That Halflings are seemingly impossible to find, if they do not wish to be found, and no Man, Elf, or other may catch them." He nodded along with her words, humming in agreement.

"That we are." A chuckle bubbled out of him. "Even if it is a skill seldom used. No, no, we are a People of many great loves; of food, and wine, and oh! Pipeweed." A sudden, new thought had come to him. He patted the pockets of his vest and pants, soon conjuring a long pipe of white wood. "Do you mind?" Rell shook her head, and allowed him a moment to fill and lit the dried leaves; a smell took to the air, sweet and deep. The Hobbit puffed for a while, brow furrowed. "Where was I ...? Yes. We have a love of all things home. Never do we venture farther than the borders of Buckland – and most do not ever go that far! I have cousins who have never turned a stone outside the Shire."

"But you have."

"I have," he answered. "Did you know, I have once seen a real dragon?"

She knew, but did not say, and instead angled forward to rest her arm on her knees; Aragorn had told the story, though only what was necessary to explain the path of the Ring, and Gollum's role in it all. She had heard tales of the demise of Smaug – the Terrible, self-proclaimed King under the Mountain – and the battle under the watchful gaze of the Lonely Mountain, yet never from one who had been there. Curiosity had always been a close, well-known friend of hers. "I did not, Master Baggins! There have not been any great serpents for many years now."

"Indeed there has not! But old I am, and I saw with my own two eyes, believe it or not, when a Black Arrow pierced his breast and the last great beast of fire was slain." All about them was quiet, save for the crackling pops of the fire still burning strong it its hearth, and so Rell could hear the storm outside; grown in strength it had, now beating against the roof above their heads, a constant tap-tapping intermingled with the sudden clap of thunder. But the Hall of Fire remained untouched by the weather, and the unlikely occupants – a Hobbit and a Ranger – felt not even a shred of its cold.

An hour came and went, passed in swiftness, as Bilbo Baggins shared his tale. It was a long story; rehearsed and retold many a time, that was certain, for he understood when to pause, or shout, or whisper; suspense hung heavy in the air, and while Rell knew the end, the road to it took her through a remarkable journey. She did not ask questions, nor did she interrupt, and she listened with rapt attention.

Like a child by the fire, listening to bedtime stories of a world beyond the four walls of a home. At times she would close her eyes, imagining the bees and honey of Beorn, skin-changer, and his dogs walking on hind legs; or the dungeons of Mirkwood, and the party of Elves. She could scarcely picture the mountains upon mountains of gold, gems, and treasures of King Thrór, and how one tiny Hobbit had there faced a dragon.

Yet all stories must come to an end, and the one shared then was no different.

And it was with the death of Thorin Oakenshield, that the Hobbit found his.

"I still remember the last words he spoke to me, and the peace we made in the end. A true king he was." A rueful look came over him, a flickering and soon-passed shadow, and instead he smiled. "I was offered my promised one-fourteenth of the treasure by Dáin, then crowned king, but how can one Hobbit ever carry that much? Or what even spend it on!" He gave a short nod. "No, two small chests were plenty for me; one of gold, and one of silver. I returned to the Shire with an incredible story and quite the wealth in my pockets, only to find myself proclaimed dead and my possessions sold off!"

Rell laughed at that. "Truly?"

"Indeed! And I even had to buy my own things back, lest I would end up quarreling with the new owners." He muttered under his breath, something that sounded like a name – those Sagville-Bagginses – before tapping the red book with a finger. "But that is what is written here, or shall be written. I have still a long way to go, for I want the words just right. Yet now my days of adventure and travelling are over, and I shall stay here in Rivendell. To finish my book. Age has caught me, and I am well settled with that thought. And is it not a remarkable place to live out my days? It is a place to listen and think, to hear of the world through those who have lived, and seen, so much more than I."

"I loved visiting here as a child," Rell said. "I heard so many incredible stories, some I could hardly fathom were real, and I dreamed of going myself when I grew up. How many times have I not played knights and battled dragons with my friends?" Her fingers trailed a ghostly touch across her arm, so lightly she barely noticed it herself. The Hobbit watched the movement in quiet appraisal. "I, too, have had my share of adventures. Enough to last me a lifetime, I believe."

"You never know where your feet may take you."

Rell, looking into the bright glow of the fire, felt a dead darkness in her heart. At length she spoke. "I hope they shall carry me home."

Silence came about them. Soft lights and gleaming flames cast grey shapes beyond the pillars, and as they no longer spoke, she found her mind at work. Wondering; would the Healers, and Lord Elrond, soon deem her ready? Could Luin and she return home? Rell longed to go back. Back to the duties she had once found menial and dull, to the humdrum of everyday life and the friends she had left behind. To guard the town and its wooden cottages, or watch the sheep as they grazed the open plains.

A tingle, a clear-ringing bell broke the quiet; calling the guests of Imladris for supper, it rang throughout the great house. Food would be served for those that wished it – and seeing the Hobbit before her suddenly straighten, it appeared to be a sound most welcome. He stood, and bowed with an offer of invitation. "Would you accompany me to dinner?"

Shaking off her glum thoughts, Rell gave another smile. "With pleasure, Master Baggins." It took her a moment, and a struggle, to find her bearings and her legs; but then the pair made their way from the great hall. She fell into step by his side, walking slow and leisurely to match his smaller gait. It suited her well, for her own was still touched by injury. "But only if you share another story with me."

He hummed. "I do not think I have another as grand or exciting, but I can entertain you with my eleventy first birthday? There was a different kind of dragon there, of red sparks and a blast of fire that illuminated the sky; one conjured by that wizard-friend of mine. It certainly gave plenty of good folks a scare, and myself a laugh!"

"I would like that."

Master Baggins – or just Bilbo, as he had asked to be called – proved soon to be a great friend and company while Rell stayed in Rivendell. Often he spent his time in the spot where he had first found her, scribbling away in his large, red book; a drinking-cup and a plate of food by his side, he would mumble and mutter to himself. The quill would dance across the pages, pause, and move once more scratching a different tune. At times he would read aloud to her, or ask her to voice her opinion on a tricky passage. Other times they were not alone, but rather in the presence of Elves; minstrels bringing with them mirth and music.

The Hobbit had made songs of his own, and sometimes he sang them before the small audience. Rell's favourite was about a Man in the Moon, and his peculiar visit to a merry old inn. So much she enjoyed it, that she had learnt it by heart within one night of hearing it. When the Winter weather held, they could be found walking through the gardens or by the riverbank, talking about a great many things; Bilbo would recite stories of his own or made by others, and Rell would share tales about her family and friends. Mostly it was exaggerated deeds or mischief caused by her and Brenion as children, for he seemed to like those the most.

It reminded him of his own cousin back home in the Shire, Bilbo would say. He spoke with such fondness of the boy.

But more often than not, they would sit side by side in peaceful quiet. He would write, and Rell trained her arm meticulously, finding great joy in each small step of improvement she felt and saw.

Those days they spoke little, though neither seemed to mind.

Both were they guests of the Elves, yet they were not Elves themselves; fleeting strangers in a world where time seemed not to pass, and here they had found one another. Where the lands beyond Rivendell's borders were slowly turning to lighter days, of Spring surely, the trees and glades were unchanged; the river flowed steadily, falling with a roar from high peaks, and the people looked the same. It was one such day – a day where Rell had lost all track of time – that Lord Elrond found her. She sat perched on a chair, moving her fingers carefully, as Bilbo was fast asleep by her side. A smile on his face and a pillow on his back.

She made to rise and greet him, but Elrond beckoned her to remain. Brow arched, Rell wondered the reason behind his visit; had something happened? Perhaps word had arrived from her uncle, or the Angle and Halbarad. When she voiced as much, Lord Elrond merely smiled with kindness and reassured her all was well. "Worry not for your kin, child. They are not the reason for me to be here," he replied. Then, taking a seat by her side, Rell noticed an item, long and narrow, and draped in silk. The shape was unmistakable.

Yet she did not pry.

"I am here for you." He motioned for her arm, and she reached out to meet his hands without question. Gently, he rolled up her sleeve; the old injury was revealed, and both they watched the whitening scar. It was fully healed. "How does it feel now?"

"I do not know," Rell answered. "Sometimes I do not feel it at all, which I guess is an improvement. And–," she made an effort, clenching and unclenching her fingers, then twisting her wrist as far as she could. There was a pang, a strenuous pull of muscles. "–I can move it much more freely. It feels as though it is mending." With one last, long look at her arm, Rell glanced up; what Lord Elrond saw on her face, she could not tell, for in her heart she felt many great emotions. Anxiousness and hope. Worry. "Is it better?"

He placed his open palm upon the scar, the touch cool. "It is mending."

A breath rushed through her lips, a sigh of relief, and she gave a thin smile at his words. "I am deeply grateful," she said, about to speak once more. But, deciding against it, Rell withheld her next words and paused instead. There was a light snore from her left, where the Hobbit remained deep in slumber; somewhere outside a crow cawed, hoarse and harsh. She shifted her feet.

"Speak your mind, child."

Her gaze flickered back to meet clever, grey eyes; he seemed to understand her, almost as if he read her mind, and already then knew her thoughts. She wetted her lips. Breathing deeply, Rell spoke. "Can I go home?"

"The answer to your question is the very reason I am here." He reached down for the silk-wrapped object – a sword, she marvelled – and, as it was given forward to her, accepted it. "You may unveil it." Rell removed the cloth with careful fingers, finding first a hilt of dark, almost black, metal that gleamed; revealed by the flames, she saw small figures on the guard. Looking closer, they appeared to be Dúnedain. Swordsmen and archers. It was adorned with nothing more, a simple grip and pommel that felt perfect – almost moulded to fit her hand.

Finally, tightening her fingers and finding no protests from her injury, Rell drew the sword fully from its cover and stood with it.

The blade was long and narrow, but dangerously sharp. Holding the weapon out before her, a straight line with her arm to peer along its length, it weighed almost nothing in her hand. So different to any sword she had held before; her father's had been heavy, a great sword swung with strength. This? A flicker of her wrist would carve flesh and bone. "It is beautiful," she said. Then, turning it one way and another, gauging the balance and swing, she looked back to the Elf. "The craftsmanship is remarkable. It feels ... Flawless."

"And it is yours," he replied, bowing his head in recognition of her words.

"My Lord?" Rell turned the blade to the ground, and fell back into the chair. "This is a sword for great deeds – an Elvish sword."

A smile came to him then, and he reached out; he gently pushed the weapon closer to her. "Your uncle asked for this to be made many years ago, when he took you under his wing. For you. He knew well how deeply you loved your father's sword, a keepsake in his memory; but it was never made for your hand to wield. No one fights the same, and each do we have strengths and weaknesses; Aragorn asked for a blade best suited you."

Rell faltered, glancing from him to the blade. For me ...

The words that came next left her amazed. "I give it to you now, for I believe you are ready to return home."

Chapter Text

They sat in amicable silence, once more – one final time – finding the peace of the land around them in a, perhaps, unusual companionship. A friendship that had bloomed despite, or rather because, of their differences. Rell's fingers fumbled a dance across her skin, a strangeness to her injured arm now suddenly without bandages; the Healers had removed the linens that very same morning, prodding her once-broken limb this way and that until they seemed truly pleased. While she could still feel strength amiss, like a piece of herself no longer there, hope and joy swelled in her chest.

They mirrored the words of Lord Elrond.

Rell gave a small smile at the memory, turning her lowered gaze upwards to the light blue and dove skies above.

The river's roar soared beneath them, a rumble of white foam and rapid waters that spilled from tall cliffs. The balcony, upon which the pair found themselves, spanned the gully below; blue-crowned flowers peaked from beneath dark vines, and the sun broke every so often through the grey-clouded skies. It would not be long before nightfall's rain would pass entirely beyond the mountains, and the day promised fairer weathers. The wind came in bouts of mischief, howling and singing through every crevice; winding its way between pillars of marble and trees of early Spring, to tug at her hair or ruffle her clothes. It was fresh, but not cold.

Winter was in an ever losing battle to the changing of Seasons.

Mayhap the gales were not entirely without a bite, as if they knew well her thoughts and blew then with a little more vigour, and Rell shifted to pull her cloak tight. The fabric between her fingers was smooth, a light grey wool that seemed to shimmer as if caught by the light; it was new, not yet worn, as were the rest of her garments. Gifts from the Elves; in celebration of her recovery, and a way of parting to ease her travels fast approaching. For, soon, she would leave. Her eyes flickered to the sword, sheathed by her belt, and she resisted the urge to draw it out into the sun – something she had done many a time before, to marvel at its beauty, its lightness, and the sharpness of the blade.

It had been a kingly gift, and much welcomed.

Yet her musings were disrupted; not by startlement or wariness, but rather the sudden, insistent scratch of a feathered quill, making its way twirling and leaping across parchment. It seemed her companion had found a moment of clarity. New words formed – he had groused some, about the wiliness of an old mind and how memories could be hard to recall when youth turned to age – and life was now breathed anew into the pages of his red book. Rell glanced to the Hobbit with a smile, watching for many moments as the tiny creature worked. His brow was downturned, hard-set in concentration, and his lips parted in silent words; engrossed in his work, the enthralling tale of his life he muttered to himself, as hairy feet swished back and forth above the stone floor.

Rell would miss the stories, and his company more so, dearly.

But her heart yearned to reunite with her kin beyond Rivendell, to once more walk the small, dusty streets of the Angle; with all that transpired, in the six months since her departure, she struggled to remember their faces. So dark had the lonely days and long nights been, so cloudy and grim they left her mind, and for a flickering moment she feared light would not return to her inner vision. As if the fondness of her childhood was forever tarnished, sullied by the long Winter and all its hardships. Rubbing her forehead with set determination, eyes closed, so forced the hopelessness aside with a heavy, drawn-out sigh.

So loud it was, that even the Hobbit's attention was brought away from his own deliberations.

The quill came to a pause against the parchment.

"A heavy heart does not see the beauty of the world, not even that which lies just beyond its own nose," he spoke quietly, regarding her with blue eyes alit with curious care. Rell returned his inquiry with a raise of her brow, and he shifted in his seat to face her. Her fingers stilled and clenched. The quill clacked against the marble as it was put aside, the red tome closed. "What troubles you so? Should your spirits not be lifted, soaring into the skies above, for you are to finally go home?"

With a smile, albeit tired and somewhat strained, Rell decided to stand. "It is hard to explain," she said, shoulders lifted in a half-shrug.

Hesitating, she stepped to the edge of the balcony, and her hand found the coolness of the balustrade anchoring to her thoughts. The sight before her went down steeply as she peered out over the stony shelf. Her lips pursed, furrowed, as she attempted to read her own muddled feelings and thoughts. Behind her, Bilbo patiently and quietly awaited her whirring thoughts to settle.

The grey clouds had faded into distant blues, and the far mountain peaks were tipped in gold and hues of fire; many great birds had taken flight in a partnered dance, accompanied by the wind's merry gusts as it decided the tune upon which they climbed. They seemed almost to be calling out to her. Free-moving and wild.

Her grip lessened against the stone, and she looked back to the Hobbit.

Rell swallowed tightly, hand brushing over her – no longer so injured – arm. Her breath had shortened, and her answer was hoarsely whispered; almost too low for him to hear her properly. "Perhaps it is shame that binds me here," she finally acknowledged, breaking the silence to look at him for many long moments. There was a brief desire to not resist the emotions that rose up in her chest, overwhelmingly so, beckoning for her to once more drown in the darkest parts of her mind. Their intent to embrace the ragged, hard-wrung pity and self-loathing that had festered and grown in her heart. "My choice caused so much harm. How can I ever face them?"

"How can you not?"

His question pulled her suddenly back; dark waters withdrawing, and Rell found herself once more standing on the shore of hope. Astounded by Bilbo's bluntness and the unfaltering surety in his voice; she blinked, incredulous, opening and closing her mouth at a loss for words. "What?" Rell stammered. Clearly, the Hobbit found her perplexity to give some amusement, for he quickly stifled a chuckle to, instead, pat the spot next to him on the bench.

With a few, brisk steps, Rell sat down once more; a breeze swept across them, plucking at her rigid back. "If you truly believe you have caused such harm to those you care about, should you not return? The first step in righting your wrongs, by all accounts, should be to apologise. One can only do such a thing when standing face to face!" The simplicity of his explanation, in all its straight-forward honesty, took her aback; and if she was without words before, she was then left utmost speechless.

At first her expression hardened, and she took a deep breath to argue; attempting to untangle the mess that was her thoughts.

There was something about Bilbo's adamancy, like a bolt of lightning from clear skies, that left her head lighter with slow-settling revelation. Forgiveness would not fall freely into upturned hands; it was to be earned. Suddenly, feeling immensely flustered, Rell had fallen into laughter as if there was nothing else to do. It bubbled out of her with such mirth and relief, with confusion and ebbing distress, that she struggled to contain herself.

For so long she laughed, and so heartily, it left her without breath. It echoed between the stones of the gully, ringing clear in her ears above the water. Struggling to contain herself, Rell gave a reply. "Truly, Master Baggins, you are the wisest of Hobbits!"

Bilbo beamed at her, chuckling along with her. "One does not live to the ripe old age of onehundred twenty-six without knowing a thing or two."

"It must indeed be so," she replied, fighting to regain her bearings as she appraised him quietly. For so very long, Rell had felt fear and doubts ripple through her, hesitant to do what was truly right. They were her kin – her family. Certainly, they, of all people, would forgive her for her shortcomings; for her deceit and betrayal, the lies and the hurt. Unwittingly, mayhap, yet the damage had been done. But it could be mended. The first step was hers to take, and hers alone. Rell looked up, just in time to watch a swallow, swift-flying, carve a path through the skies. She smiled.

A serene silence had then fallen upon them, drifting over them, so genuine and hopeful that Rell dared not break it.

Her heart felt so much lighter.

After many long moments, it was Bilbo who ended the quiet.

"Fate is like the current, sometimes wild and uncontrollable, other times slow and steady ... Yet always are we caught in its waves. Every choice and every action that you make, it shapes this river's pull on you. Sometimes–," he paused, taking her hand in his own pair, and smiled good-naturedly. Rell looked back down at him. The kindled gleam in his eyes seemed knowing. "Sometimes it may feel as if we are drowning, fighting against turbid waters or rough storms, but fate always brings us to where we are meant to be. Sooner or later, we all wash ashore."

Rell knelt before him, knee digging into the soft earth; leathers rustled, cape fluttering, as she held out her hands for him to take. Bilbo gripped them quickly, a smile lighting up his face; in farewell they faced each other, and with both gladness and sorrow the Ranger and the Hobbit were to part. He would remain in Rivendell, to live out his days in tranquillity and peace; and Rell would finally return home. And, with it, face the consequences of all her thoughtless choices and rash actions. There was a pause, a brief respite of quiet as the unlikely friends smiled at one another.

Morning, then noon, was fast waning, and she planned to start her journey while the sun was still high.

Many miles lay still between her and the place of her birth.

Now, after the conversation by the river rapids that had revealed much to her, Rell could feel a bubbling urgency to finally return home. It is time, she thought, gripping the smaller fingers within her own. She hoped Bilbo could see the emotion in her gaze, for it was difficult to put to words that would honour her heart. Her high opinion and the esteem, upon which she regarded her unusual companion, could not be expressed in full and with truth. "I do not know how to voice my admiration, nor my gratefulness, for the wisdom you have imparted to me. But carry it with me I shall."

The Hobbit gave a sprightly nod, patting her hand with kindness before he released his hold.

She leaned back on her haunches, allowing the grey cloak to settle around her crouched figure. "You best return to Rivendell in the coming months. I much wish to hear more – and, by then, I may have finished my next chapter! I expect you to speak your mind of it." A shimmer of mischief caught the blue of his eye. "Perhaps you can bring along that fellow of yours," he said the last part in a whisper, leaning close to her ear in feigned secrecy. "To liven up these old halls where my poems are not quite favoured."

Rell gave a laugh. "I shall try to bring Brenion, Master Hobbit."

"Good, the more the merrier! And if he is half as partial to my songs and stories as you, then he will be a most welcome guest."

And so they said their final farewells; in the shadows of willow and pine, under clear skies that left her journey free of trouble, Rell stood and bowed. "My blessings upon you, Bilbo Baggins." Both they smiled, before Rell turned to her steadfast companion and swiftly mounted. Luin stomped, a skittish dance from one hoof to another – the horse mirroring the restlessness of its rider, and not even the care and comfort of Elves in kingly stables could quench the call of the wilderness.

Rell settled into the saddle, hands gripping the reins with astonishing strength she knew not she had. Then, glancing to the Hobbit, she gave a nod.

Spurring her mount forward, she left the courtyard of marbles and vines, to follow the narrow bridge across the Bruinen until nothing could be seen behind her. As she rode from Rivendell the light was in her eyes, golden and bright; she followed the beaten way, along the hills of rocks and bramble, between sharp-edged cliffs until even they passed. Then, following the way south, it did not take long before the path led her up and down in a green country, of rolling fields and small swift streams that parted from the river.

On her left stood lofty peaks, shimmering in the haze as the jagged horns of the Misty Mountains broke through the blue. Thrust up into the sky through parting clouds, Caradhras, Celebdil, and Fanuidhol. They were far in the distance, and grew ever smaller in her sight as she rode further. There was a quiet around her, the tinkle of water and the breeze plucking through the grass her only company; it worried her not, for the land was safe to travel, but still she rode with swiftness. With eagerness and a pounding heart.

Only once did she rest for a brief space; for water and food, and a moment to stretch her stiffened limbs along the bank of the Bruinen.

The ground beneath her feet was soft with sand and they were surrounded by tall reeds and bending trees, as she crouched to fill her waterskin in the rapid stream. Spring was busy around her. Small woods blooming green, many kinds with names known and unknown to her, and small flowers were already opening in the turf. Luin stood by her side, eagerly drinking its share; deep and fresh, the surface of the Bruinen gleamed fitfully, and for a while still she would follow its way. But she lingered not for long, and Rell sound found the saddle once more; the day wore on, and when afternoon faded to early evening, she turned her back on the river and moved further inland.

A little way from the river, shadow began to rise as cliffs rose around the Ranger. The rocks were crowned with old cedars, overgrown with briar and trailing vines, drawing a veil over the dull grey. The small gully descended steadily, winding left, then right, until once more opening into a plain of rolling greens. The valley of her birth, the Angle was before her. Nestled between Loudwater and Hoarwell, the sanctuary of the Dúnedain met her return with a rush of wistful familiarity and longing. For a moment she paused, at the very edge of the dale to look far ahead.

Not once did she look back.

Rell steeled her heart, breathing deeply, before allowing Luin to trod ahead; the sun was slowly setting, and a mist was drawn up in the valley as gloom settled. Floating in, as wisps of white borne on the stiffening breeze of the North; a last remnant of Winter pulled in over bending hills. The distance was lost to a haze and a shimmer, and Rell could not see the plain laid out before her – but memories came to her, welcome images that she knew well. Of dotted woods and lakes, with roads skirting hills before passing from sight; paths choked in prickling shrubs and scrambling hedges wild and unkept. A smile came to her.

Evening followed her. The light of sun waned to that of dusk. There was a chill in the air and little cover, and Rell, shuddering, drew her cloak tight. Almost straight ahead, still far beyond, in the growing darkness were tiny fires; from that of a great burning glow of orange, flickering dots where her kin stood watch. As she gazed at it, she suddenly, truly understood. Almost with a shock. I am home.

With the last leg of her journey, Rell was without doubt or hesitation, and when she could clearly see the braziers there came a voice, carried to her through the dimness. It was a call of warning, for one who approached without message. "Halt! Who goes there?" The voice was of one familiar to her, and a blurred face came to her mind.

Rell advanced down the path, a thrumming in her chest and a smile on her lips. "It is I," she called back. "Avarell, returning once more. Has the light dwindled so that you do not recognise me?"

A figure came to meet her at the stone passage to the village, cloak drawn and with a long spear downturned in his hands; Rell dismounted swiftly, now face to face with the Ranger. She came to a halt before him. His grey eyed swept over her, lingering long on her face until he spoke once more. "So it is." He smiled, broad and with welcome, and it reminded her much of a younger man that shared many of his traits. They were much the same, if one had not been touched by age and hardships; streaks of grey and furrowing lines spoke of a longer, harder life. "My son was adamant you would soon be back with us."

He took the last few steps forward, a limp to his stride from an arrow many years prior, and Rell met his embrace. "I am back, Maldil," she muttered into his shoulder, feeling strong hands wrap around her back; for a long while he held her close, allowing her the chance to relish the feeling – to settle into the thought of being home. She stifled a sniffle. "And how I have missed it."

When he finally released her, he held her at arm's length and regarded her.

"I am glad to see you safe. Brenion told us some of your travels, and your hardships, and I know my wife will have a word or two of reprimand for you." Mayhap he saw the paling of her face, the sinking feeling of dread, for then he laughed. "All will be said with love and borne from concern! I have long since learned it is best to listen to her share of wisdom without retort. If one values their own hide, that is." Maldil gave her a gentle shake by the shoulders, then nudged her towards the passage between stone fences leading into the village. "She will surely have food ready for you."

Rell took Luin by the reins, guiding the horse down the dusty path with a glance backwards to the flames; Maldil stood watching her, until shadows took his face, and so he turned once more to his duty at the gate. He had been injured – in the very same ambush that claimed her own father – and the life of wandering the wild had been taken from him. Brenion had taken the mantle from him, the duty as the oldest child and only son; the thought had always resonated with her, for how it mirrored her own fate.

Each step she had taken, he had taken the same.

Darkness came down swiftly, and only a few lights twinkled within the homes she passed. Most were shuttered. The smell of smoke and fire was in the air, and above her misty white stars shimmered in and out of vision. The road swept round the corner, and Rell followed it. When Rell came to the right house, she hesitated outside in the gloom; there were sounds within, and for a moment she stood listening. A bout of clamour, the argument of tiny voices belonging, she knew, to a pair of unruly twins, until someone else cut through above the din. Then she turned, instead leading Luin through a gate into the adjacent courtyard.

It was but a small enclosure, and here she found another horse already waiting for them. The black filly barely looked up from its trough of oats as Rell approached, and Luin was likewise swift to ignore her ministrations when it came close enough to the food. She then worked quickly, removing the saddle and bridle; padding down the length of the great animal, until finally finding clever eyes meeting her own. "Eat to your heart's content." Rell pressed her forehead against the velvety muzzle. "You deserve it more than anyone ... Thank you."

Luin blew a breath of warmth into her face.

Knowing well the horse was settled well for the night, she picked up her few satchels and returned to the entrance to the home once more. The rowdy racket had quietened, likely stilled by the stern scolding of their mother – a woman as fierce as any warrior, if not more if truly vexed – and Rell could only hear small tinkerings through the wood. She squared her shoulders, well aware such a fate awaited her, and knocked. It would be well deserved.

There was a silence, a brief pause, but then came the scampering of feet. The door was pushed open, and the first of two identical faces peered out; the second joined immediately after, and both broke into wide grins when they saw her. "Rell!" Leaving her no time to reply, she was grabbed by the hands and pulled inside, tugged along with insistency; the two girls spoke too fast, with much excitement, and she barely understood half of their ramblings.

"Brenion said you were coming home–"

"–Did you see father–?"

"–And is it true you met the Elves?"

Rell indulged their unyielding march ahead, unable to reply to one question before the next was already asked, as they led her into the small, but homely living room. Lamp-light bathed the room in warmth, a dim glow; a pot bubbled away above the fire, the lid rumbling, and the air smelled of freshly baked bread. The constant, disjointed ramblings of the children had seemed to draw the attention of the mistress of the house; from another doorway she came, drying her hands in an apron, and eyes hard set in prepared disagreement. "What is all this fuss about, you two?"

But when she raised her gaze, eyes falling on Rell, she froze mid-step and yanked to a halt.

"Good evening, Bregnis," Rell said.

It was the only thing she managed to get past her lips. Anger, to some, was like the deep calm seas; hidden beneath a still surface, unbeknownst to those that sailed its waters. Other times, all knew well when a line had been crossed. Brenion's mother, a woman one seldom wished to displease, was the roaring tempest; of a hurricane, tearing up tree and root and all things in its path. That, is what met Rell – managing but half a smile of apology, the woman unleashed every ounce of fury she could muster upon Rell the moment words returned to her.

The twins had in an instant made themselves scarce.

Chapter Text

It had taken Brenion's return – standing in the doorway with an armful of firewood and a bucket of water, fetched from the village well – to calm his mother's unrelenting rebuke. And even then, it had taken a while and an effort. The words had been sharp, her disapproval so palpable it was almost tangible in the air, but Rell had remained quiet throughout it all. Allowing the admonishment to wash over her, obediently listening, silently hoping it would cleanse her of her own terrible guilt. For certainly she felt so – to the very marrow of her bones, and in the deep-beating part of her chest, tightly clutched in shame.

But when the woman's tone shifted, and a peace fell upon the gathered, Rell suddenly found a pair of arms, strength veiled beneath softness, wrapped around her frame. Bregnis pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. "I am so glad you are safe." Grey eyes met grey, as Rell was then held at arm's length. "We all are, I hope you know that."

Rell ducked her head, cheeks aflame as she mumbled a reply. "Yes." Her gaze flickered to Brenion; he stood, half-leaning against the doorframe with a smile and an air of self-righteousness, watching the entire spectacle as one would gawk at street jugglers performing tricks of great wonder and amusement. When he noticed her attention on him, his grin widened. Then, with a roll of his shoulders, he heaved his load higher and stepped forward.

"Let us cast aside this miserable gloom!" The bucket hit the hard surface of the table with a little too much force, sloshing water everywhere – for this he earned the stern glare of Bregnis, and a muttered command to clean it himself – yet he carried on unrelenting. Rell marvelled at his courage, foolish but brave nonetheless, when he merely rubbed at the puddle with his sleeve. "What is done is done, and that is much beyond the changing of any Mortal. She is safe, and she is home. All else matters little."

His mother shook her head, sighing. "I cannot believe I raised such a son."

"One wise beyond his years?"

Letting out a sharp, barking laugh, Bregnis shuffled Rell into a chair and then shooed Brenion away; swatting at him like a pesky fly, buzzing much too close for comfort. "Lazy! That is what you are! Now, go fetch your sisters from whichever strange spot they are hiding in, it is time to eat." While one left to find the twins, who had likely found the most peculiar place to avoid their mother's wrath; the other sat down on the small stool by the fireplace. The woman picked up a ladle, stirring thoughtfully in what smelled like stew. "You put a real fright in my heart, young lady, when Brenion told me all that had happened."

"Ah, well ... Yes," Rell stumbled for words. Her hands were fidgeting, clenching and unclenching in her lap, as her gaze was staring straight at the clay vase in the middle of the table; small red-berry branches and dried flowers of many colours, it held her eye for a moment longer. But then she looked away, instead finding Bregnis watching, awaiting a proper reply with a gentle smile. "I do – and yet, at the same time, not – regret my choices. To the day I die, I must live with my own decision."

A brief, sharp pain shot through her arm at the thought.

"As well as the consequences," Rell said.

With a solemn nod, and another smile, the older woman stood once more; bringing with her the pot to the table, a deep smell of rabbit and thyme filling the warm air, it was placed before Rell. "The Valar have a plan for us all, and sometimes we do not know the path before it is revealed in the very end. And take comfort in this, since comfort you seem to need; how shall we ever discover whether the time to act or not is upon us, if we do not act at all? You listened to your heart, and in that you can never find fault."

Rell paused, yet no answer came from her, for in that moment there was a noise from within the adjacent room; a child's laughter, and the sounds of scurrying feet accompanied by squealing. One twin came bolting through the door, closely followed by Brenion. The second girl was slung across his shoulder, handled like one would a sack of potatoes – though Rell knew the veiled care – and neither seemed too fussed.

"I caught this one crawling the shelves," Brenion laughed, shaking his sister up and down until she hung head downwards. Grey eyes twinkled, and her hands swished across the floor. "And I do not even want to know–," he pointed to the second girl, now seated courteously by the table; a smile of innocence wide across her face. "–where that one was hiding, but she nearly tripped me."

Bregnis seemed utterly unamused by the antics of her own children. "That is all good and well," she said, shooting first one, then the other, twin a hard stare. They kept giggling, albeit with a little more quiet. "Now, if you two squirrels want supper, sit. And sit properly!"

With the clanging of cutlery and plates, it was not long before they were all seated; on one side Rell found Brenion, halfway through a roll of bread long before the food had been served, and on her other the girls; Idril and Imrin, perfect reflections that made it hard, even for their own parents at times, to tell them apart. They were chattering excitedly, having once more returned to all their previously unanswered questions; questions that had been swept aside by their mother's angered outburst.

"Did you see the Elves?" One asked.

Imrin, Rell thought, regarding them quietly; there was a speck of silver in her eyes.

Accepting an offered bowl, steaming hot and filled almost to the brim, Rell answered. "I did. The Elves of Imladris, but those I have told you about before, yes?" The girls nodded. "Brenion and I – and Halbarad, too – traveled through the Golden Woods, where Spring is forever and the trees are silver and gold." Rell did not tell them why they had ventured through Lothlórien, or how long they had stayed. "Some trees are taller than the eye can see, so tall they may reach the very sky. Each night the canopy would twinkle and shine, like hundreds upon hundreds of stars."

It was not entirely the truth, yet both girls gaped in wonder at the Elves' magic. Brenion snorted into his bowl, muttering lowly about lanterns; his words were much disregarded. "And did you see the White Lady?" Idril chimed in, a more melodic tilt to her voice; one was like the quietly tinkling stream, the other the rapid river. And together they wielded a force rivaling the very ocean.

Rell shook her head. "I did not. Do you not imagine her much too important, and with far too many matters to handle, to take time for little, old me!"

Their disappointment lasted no more than a breath, and another question soon followed the last.

It was dark, and had been for a while, when they finished supper; the pot was empty, and they had shared buns with cherries and honey by the fire. Through a combined effort, and subsequent struggle, Brenion lost his to the twins. They drank tea made on nettles and cinnamon. Rell had told more of her journey; the people she had met, from brave children and riders in Rohan, to a true captain of Gondor under the eaves of Ithilien's trees. She spoke of tall peaks and deep snow, wild rivers and soaring eagles. Not once did she speak of the vileness she had encountered.

She sang the song of the Man in the Moon; three times over, until the two girls could recount it in turn.

But as evening waned to night, small heads and eyes had drooped lower and lower, until the twins could keep awake no more. Despite their best attempts.

Bregnis had tucked them in for sleep in one of the small alcoves, humming a song of warmth and black birds Rell knew well from her own childhood; a faint memory, one of very few she could still remember, of her mother's hand and voice. She had sat, and listened, with her eyes closed until long after the melody had dimmed to nothing. Recalling distant times that felt like they were not quite her own. I often dream of you, Mother, she thought, though I cannot remember your face.

Then, together with Brenion, she had gotten up.

There was nothing to see outside, and the night was airless and windless. Rell walked side by side with Brenion, and in his hand he carried a lantern to show the way ahead; it cast but a pale circle of light below their feet. But the walk did not take them far. She could smell the horses ahead in the dark, and the sounds of shifting and stamping could be heard long before they came to the stables. The two animals stood half-asleep, seemingly annoyed by the sudden company of their own riders; and there was little need for their visit.

Rell had wanted somebody to talk to, for an unease and disquiet had crept over her throughout the evening. Too many thoughts, and no answers. The pair leaned against the enclosure; Brenion hung over the fence, trying to get his horse's attention with soft calls and wriggling fingers. He was without luck. Rell, on the other hand, stood with her back against the wood and stared into the dim, clouded sky that seemed utterly dark and unending. The darkness seemed foreboding. "What time is it now?" She asked.

"Who knows," he replied, casting a glance to the skies. "All is night now. And will be for many hours more."

Rell could feel tears start in the corner of her eye, but she soon wiped them away with frustrated vigour.

Sensing eyes on her, she worked her lip between her teeth; swallowing bitterness and hopelessness, along with the brimming sadness. There was a darkness in her, despite the words and care given by others; how many had not already spoken words of forgiveness? Yet she could not cast it aside. It was part of her, as if her heart was dipped in acrid grief and tarnished, to never again be set right. She wished to speak – to cry, or scream, or shout until there were no more words – but the ability escaped her.

But while Rell was incapable of speech, Brenion was not. "I know you too well."

It took him only a few brisk steps before he was before her; and less to pull her into his arms. He gripped her tightly, holding on as if her life depended on it. And, right then and there, it felt as if it truly did. Gently, he rocked her back and forth as he had done many a time before with his sisters – when night-terrors, or distant thunder, or bedtime stories turned too real, had gripped their hearts with fear.

Rell's grip tightened against his shirt.

"There have been many evils in the Ages passed, and other evils there are yet to come; but what you have done was not one!" His voice was muffled through the tangles of her hair, and through the befuddled thoughts of her own mind. He seemed so far away. His hand combed faint traces over her head, and for a while after they stood without speaking.

The night was quiet; a faint wind made wood and fence creak, a witch's cackle, yet the air around them did not move. It was cold, and Rell could smell rain in the air. Or maybe snow. Winter had given way to Spring, yet it was till early, and the weather fought back with obstinacy. In the end, as it always did, the Sun would prevail – but for now, the chill held the lands of Rhudaur in an iron grip.

As her mind wandered, Brenion lessened the pull of his arms around her shoulders and took a step back. Rell looked up at him; he had grown taller since last, in the days before her first departure. His grey eyes shone, a silver line from the flickering light of the lantern. Then, suddenly, he blew a breath into her face; strands of hair danced across her forehead. "You put far too much importance upon yourself." At this, her brow furrowed; there was a familiar tone to his voice. One of mischief. "Do not let your head get too big for your hat."

She smiled and swatted her hand against his chest, muttering a reply. "I do not own a hat."

The pair grinned at one another. "I shall buy you one. One fitting your,–" He poked her brow. "–Massive head."

Strangely enough, Rell felt light at heart; and, as she mockingly laughed and hit him again, it seemed the dark shadow had passed. "Well, it had better be the biggest hat in town! Or it will not be good enough for me." Taking one step, and another, and a third away, she turned on her heel. Motioning above her head, she added loudly, "And it must have a very large feather!"

She could hear Brenion laugh, before he followed after her. "Raven or eagle?"

"Both?"

"Certainly, you shall be a fine lady then! Fairer than the land has ever seen."

They followed the path around the house, until they came once more to the door; yet they did not enter. Instead, the pair sat on the large, flat stepping-stone outside, where light came as tendrils through shuttered windows. Brenion placed the latern on a tuft of grass. The roof gave shelter, for the wind had come alive, and it came now colder and closer; sometimes loud and rowdy, other times low and sad in its call. A hurrying came to the clouds and fitful stars peaked out in-between. It seemed grey – and Rell became certain of rain.

Her shoulder bumped against Brenion's.

"Have you missed me?" She spoke into the dark night, watching her legs stretch into the gloom until even her own boots were hard to see.

"Unfortunately, yes, with all my arrows so far." With a hard glare sent his way, he became solemn and replied then with honesty. "The truth? Of course, I have. More than anyone. I wanted to ride after you the very moment I heard, and I would have ..." For a moment he paused, pulling his cloak around them both, and together they watched Anarríma twinkling just above the eastern horizon. "If not for Halbarad. He refused to have two reckless children alone in the wild. One was plenty enough to worry about."

Rell gave a tired smile at the thought. "I must have given you a fright," she said. "But I felt, really believed, I had to do it – that my uncle needed me with him. I will never know if my actions were just, or wise – no, wise they certainly were not, I know that now – but I try so hard to live with my own choices." Her fingers trailed down her arm, and she then mirrored his words from earlier; trying hard to believe them as they left her lips. "What is done is done."

A bright, jagged flash carved across the gap between sky and hill, and a rumble followed soon after. Thunder and rain. A storm was brewing in the horizon; and the wind would fast bring its gales upon the Angle. Their talk died down to a listening silence. But the pair remained on the stone, watching and waiting, until they could remain no longer. When the rumbling, louder than ever before, rolled in the ground and echoed between the buildings, Rell and Brenion retreated. The first cold pinpricks tapped lightly against her skin.

The sky groaned and opened up, the wind mingled with a sudden, constant, roar of rain. Stomping and shaking, heat met them when they escaped inside; they found the occupants had all turned to bed, leaving only a stillness and a fireplace left smoldering. Rell crouched down, poking through the embers, before turning her attention to the small alcove. A tiredness had snuck up on her; and rightfully so, for it was many hours after midnight.

She stretched and yawned.

The alcove was cramped but large enough for two – and warmer that way – so she quickly did as Brenion. Stepping out of her boots, and removing the sword and belt from her waist; she then tugged off her tunic and shirt, until she was left in a woolen shift, and crawled beneath the covers. It took a bit of poking to have him move over, though in the end she managed. The blankets were coarse, and heavy, and it was some minutes shifting and turning, until she felt comfortable. But it was a far better place to sleep than any in the wild; it was safe, protected, and as the storm grew and raged outside, dry.

And they had shared the bed many a time before.

There had been times when she was younger, when her uncle, and Halbarad too, had been away; when Rell was too young to stay alone. They had spent hours whispering beneath the covers, giggling and plotting, until Bregnis eventually caught them. Making up stories as shadowy flames danced across the walls, or when howling winds cried like hunting wolves in the night. He had comforted her when she missed her parents; whenever she had curled up and cried silently into the night, he had known.

He had always been there.

Staring up at the dark ceiling, lit by a low gloom of fire, Rell found his hand beneath the cover.

"I missed you, too," she whispered.

Lofty hills rolled up, rising from a sea of fresh green and yellow flowers, messengers at long last heralding the arrival of Spring. The cold Winter months had been harsh on many; even in the Angle, where the people were hardy and weathered, supplies had run scarce. It had seemed as though the cold had been colder, the snows rougher, more biting. More evil. The old folks spoke of malice known only through legends, for no one still alive had seen it for themselves – if one did not count the Elves, for they had lived through every Age, and seen all the wars others only knew as stories.

With the warmth came news from beyond the Mountains; snow melted to open the Redhorn Pass and the Gap of Rohan, and riders came and went to Rivendell bringing word of what happened beyond the borders of the watchful peace. It was no longer safe to traverse the Anduin, for its northern banks had been lost to Orcs; the Brown Lands infested with swarms of goblins and vile creatures, spewing from the mouth of Mordor. And even on the outskirts of home, from the Ettenmoors came trolls, venturing close. So close even, that a group of Rangers had fought them by the very East Road. Trouble brewed in the East, and more and more people seemed on the move; fleeing what was to come, travelling up the Greenway in search of peaceful lands.

It seemed the days grew darker, as the light grew brighter.

Each night Rell would listen to the reports that filed in, and each time her heart filled with another drop of dread; and by the morrow she would be out, with the first rays of Sun, doing what little she could to prepare for what was to come. Some could argue it was a waste of her skills, to herd the small pack of goats that provided meat and milk for the Angle's families, out on the grazing fields. But she enjoyed it. They would greet her every morning with soft cries of familiarity, munching at her boots and weaving between her legs.

They were eager to be out – and so was Rell.

It was peaceful, and gave room for healing thoughts and wondering plans.

It had not taken her long to find a favourite spot. Under a pair of ancient willow trees, overlooking a small oval lake – branches so long they brushed ripples across its surface. Half whispering. There were only small light green buds, not yet waking, though the silver-grey boughs provided enough cover. Reeds and grasses grew dense; and from within came soft bleating and a constant buzz of flies. The sunlight was mild, shifting through patches of shade, and the simple task gave her ample time to practice other things.

For Rell had brought her bow.

Or rather, a new bow – the old one still accompanied her uncle and Gollum, on their lonesome journey to Mirkwood through hostile lands. And for each arrow that sung a path through the air, a silent prayer hopefully reached the Valar. With each shot that missed, or hit its mark, she prayed for her chieftain's safety – that they would see each other again. Home and well.

Pale blue skies and puffy clouds drifted by above, and there were traces of warmth in the air. One day soon came to look much the same as the last; and for each that passed, she found her aim growing true. Surety and strength found a way back in her grip, and into her fingers, and what had once been second nature to her was slowly remembered. Rell was seldom interrupted in her practice; at times a solitary, adventurous kid would wander from the herd and, bleating and crying, require help to return – born in the late Autumn months, the small, mischievous goats were certainly a handful.

Though they had learned quick enough the comforts of their mothers, soon weaned and grazing alongside the rest.

It was on one such late afternoon, that Rell returned to her place of rest beneath the willows. In her hands she held a quiver, ten white-feathered arrows that had all hit their mark – a tree stump she had hauled across the field as a makeshift target. There was a bounce of pride in her step, for the arrows had been so close together, they could be pulled out with one hand.

Rell perched on a root, a leg on either side, with her back against the willow bole. Placing the bow and quiver within reach, she relaxed, leaning her head back and shutting her eyes closed. The grass stirred and rustled, a wind – and soon after, footsteps – brushing through it; someone was approaching. They seemed to move with cautious skill, tap by tap, and followed the bank of the lake. A small chip of rock was heard, with a plop sinking beneath the still surface, and a voice. "Can you not throw it further?"

Peering through half-lidded eyes, Rell saw Brenion approach. The twins stood bickering, pointing and taking turns to throw rocks into the water a distance further behind. He came to her by the tree, arms crossed, and taking what little sun there was from her. His face was cast in shadow, but a faint crease on his brow told her much.

Rell sat upright. "What has happened?"

Brenion shook his head, angling his gaze to the girls, before he sat beside her. He shrugged off a heavy satchel, and it hit the ground with a low thud. "More orcs, and goblins ..." He murmured, and she saw now how his eyes were filled with anger and disgust. Though he tried to hide it. If it was for her sake, or his sisters', Rell did not know. But she leaned forward, placing a hand on his shoulder to draw his gaze to her. There was a hard tint in his eye, and a grieved look of resolution. He spoke in a quiet voice once more. "Hatholdor came by the midday bell, bringing with him word. We are stretched thin–"

"You will join them," Rell said in finality. Then, with a soft smile of understanding, she added, "You have to, I know. It is pledged, and so therein lies your duty; I am not surprised, for all the tidings have been of attacks and strife." With a swift glance to Imrin and Idril – still quarrelling – she was thankful he had sought her out for counsel. "You are too good to leave our kin to fight alone, and we are bound to be called."

At her words, his lips pursed. "And you?"

"No." She stretched her injured hand before them both, flexing her fingers. Holding it still for a moment, it was not long before it began to tremble. Her fellow Rangers were called to duty, leaving her with the women and children. And rightfully so. "It is not yet my turn. But when the time comes, I will answer."

There was truth in her words, and while Rell knew she would, if asked, wield her sword and ride without doubt or fear into battle; she was not ready. The scars of her body worried her not – but the ones in her mind, and heart, ran deep. She refused to be a hindrance. Never would she allow herself to be the reason another Ranger lost his life. Brenion heaved a sigh of relief. "Good. I feared I would have to talk you out of it."

Rell snorted. "And you would have failed. Be glad I have learned some things."

Together they sat for a while in silence, watching as a whirlwind of activity happened further along the lakeside. The quarrelling had turned to a squabble, bordering a fight, but the onlookers were in no rush to stop the twins. It was a valuable lesson. Bruises or wounded pride would hurt far less than what could happen in a battle of life and death. "No, not like that, Imrin!" Brenion called, chuckling and halfway up from the root of the tree with a shake of his head. "Would you drag an orc around by the hair?"

It seemed his sister heeded his advice, and instead locked her arms around Idril.

The latter would have none of it, though, and before they could do much else but cry out together in surprise, both toppled into the lake. Luckily, the water was shallow. Two heads popped back up, spluttering, to the peels of laughter from their older brother; he cheered them on as they trudged back to shore, clothes drenched and hair dripping. They were not even on dry land, before he dove into a string of advice.

Rell, on the other hand, drew a hand across her eyes and stepped away in search of firewood.

And so it was, in the late afternoon, while the twins were drying off by the flames, borrowed cloaks tucked up above their ears, that Rell and Brenion sat side by side – for the last time in what would likely be many weeks, if not months. They watched distant hills cloaked in grey cloud, both, silently, wondering what the days ahead would bring. In the large satchel, previously discarded with matters of greater importance, they found bread and sausages, skins of milk and a handful of apples – quickly lost to the goats. From Bregnis, Brenion had explained.

As they sat around the fire, Rell told one of many stories learned from Bilbo during her stay in Rivendell. "Have you ever heard the story of the brave Hobbit, all alone facing the terrible might of a real dragon?"

"No," Idril gasped and was at once sitting closer; she adored any and all stories, often asking for them over and over until she knew them by heart. And then some.

"There are no dragons in the Shire," Imril huffed. There was an air of boastful knowledge about her – although she, too, seemed keenly interested.

Rell smiled, reaching out to brush hair from the girl's face. "That is true. You have listened well, Imril, but this was not in the Shire." Collecting ash from the fire, she tried to recall how the story had first been told; when Bilbo had paused and allowed anticipation to grow, when he had whispered or shouted; the moments of sadness, and how heroic deeds turned hopelessness to hope. She began drawing on the ground. "Our story begins many years ago, in a distant land far beyond the Misty Mountains and further still. Even beyond Mirkwood, what the Elves call Eryn Lasgalen. Here was a great Dwarven Kingdom, ruled by Thrór.

Lines spread in the ash, until they wove together and created a map of mountains and hills, forests and, in the end, a solitary peak. Erebor. "The Dwarves' wealth grew, until they had great piles and treasuries filled with gems, gold and silver, jewels beyond anything you can imagine. Their halls were so great you could get lost and never find your way out. But alas ... News of the riches within the Lonely Mountain spread, until they reached the ears of the greedist creature of all." Rell lowered her voice until it was a mere whisper. "The dragon Smaug."

And so the story continued.

It did not quite do Bilbo justice – but surely he had had time to practice and rehearse it many a time, and Rell had not. By the time she came to the end; reaching for her own bow, as Bard the Bowman had when he had faced the enraged serpent, she sent an arrow soaring across the lake. It disappeared somewhere within the tall reeds. "His aim was desperate, and with only one mark in mind. For the old thrush had told him of a scaleless spot just below the wing ... The only way to pierce the dragon's impenetrable hide. And the Bowman's aim was true!"

The malicious creature of old was slain, plummeting into the deep lake in a torrent of fire and water, and the Dwarves reclaimed a homeland. It ended in applause and a string of questions; the fate of the Hobbit and the company of Dwarves, of Thorin Oakenshield and the people of Dale. Saddened they were, upon learning the fate of the King under the Mountain. "So he never saw his kingdom restored?" Idril asked.

"No, he did not," Rell answered, pondering what to say next. "He rests now in the Halls of Mahal, cared for by Aulë until the Last Battle; or so the Dwarves believe, for what is true or not is hard to say. What I do know, though, is that he was a righteous and honourable King. He fought for his people, and died for them."

An hour later, the girls had dried, and together they gathered the goats with the ringing of a bell and clicking tongues. They walked back to the town, watching shadows grow longer before them. The blue sky had darkened, and night fell heavy over the land. The discussion of the Hobbit and the thirteen Dwarves continued throughout their journey, and Bilbo fast became a favourite character among the twins. Never before had they heard tales of brave Hobbits, let alone one to return home with bags of jewels and gold.

But in the meantime, Brenion and Rell walked some steps behind and their whispered talk fell on matters far more grim.

"I will ride with Hatholdor to the East Road," he said. "There are many people fleeing West, and bandits and other foul things follow close behind."

Her friend had been called away for duty, and Rell would miss him dearly. "I will follow, as soon as I am able."

And follow him she would.

For the call came.

Chapter Text

June, The Third Age, 3017

It had taken only a step back, the movement languid and easy, to dodge – and, subsequenty, grab – the wooden sword swung at her. Rell could have avoided the blow entirely; allowed it to swipe by her in a wild arch, and watched it lodge stuck in the dirt. But instead, she hardened her hold and yanked the blade towards her. Her sparring partner let out a grunt of effort, trying to keep the weapon from being snatched away from him, only to lose his footing.

She watched the boy fall flat on his face with a shake of her head.

"Had I been an Orc," she started, crouching before him. "My hands would be covered in mail, and I could just take your weapon from you. We fear the injury, and the pain, but they will not. You swing too heavily, and far too thoughtlessly." The boy looked up at her, and while his face was covered in dust and grime, the scowl of sullen discouragement was hard to miss. Rell smiled and turned the sword over in her hand; challenging him to pick it up. "We will never win with brute force alone. To fight is a battle in your mind – outsmart the enemy, and you will make it out alive."

After a moment of quiet deliberation, he sat up and took the offered weapon. He rubbed his nose. "You are too quick for me."

"Speed is my strength. Consider this, what is yours?" They stood once more, ten steps apart, weapons facing each other. "Now try again, Arun."

Rell moved first; not to attack, but slowly circling the boy. The sun was on her back, pale and harsh, and blinding, and when her position was right she took one step left, then another right. Back and forth, making sure to continuously be in motion. Angling her body one way, and then another, watching her opponent weighing his own next moves; searching for the right moment to attack. She could sense his hesitation, waves of uncertainty that came clear in his stance.

Barely discernable, she tilted the wooden sword sideways. A small opening above her shoulders, baring her neck.

A hidden invitation.

Arun saw it – keen eyes, Rell thought – and sprang forward with great determination and blade lifted. In a blink, the boy was once more laying on the ground, for his blow had been far too eager, aiming for her head, and had missed entirely. "Of you and me, who is the tallest?" She asked, turning to watch him fumbling regain his footing. "You aim for something you cannot reach – use your lesser height to your advantage!"

Three times more he swung at her, and all three times Rell allowed it.

Not once did she parry or block his swings. Instead, she kept circling around him; another attempt, and again she could watch the sword carve the air with a single sidestep of her own. There came the sound of chuckling from outside the sparring ring – four other boys of varying ages, from eight to twelve, all watching the spectacle with impish glee. They sat on the fence, legs dangling, and swords discarded. Though their laughter was entirely without evil; for each had they gone through the same, and each were dusty and bruised. Of all of them, Arun was the oldest.

Nonetheless, Rell shot a hard glare of reprimand towards them. At once, they quieted.

It was but the blink of an eye. Yet it was enough; Arun saw his chance. Where his blows earlier had aimed, repeatedly, after her head – and so her sword had mirrored his – he turned suddenly. With a swift spin on his heel and twist of his wrist, he slashed out for her legs. If not for her own instinct and watchfulness, his aim would have been true; and Rell nearly staggered when she stepped aside.

The sudden downcut was at once answered; firstly, by a firm rap across his exposed shoulders, making the boy, once more, hit the ground with a thud. His balance had been lost in the attack. But secondly, Rell spoke with praise. "Well done, Arun! That was a clever stroke." Encouraging claps and cheers came from the spectators, as Rell helped him upright. His face was bright red but brimming with pride. "Your feet should be further apart – pivot, as you deliver the blow, so that you do not leave yourself open in return."

Rell ruffled his dark hair.

"Tell me, then, what is your strength?"

He gave it a good thought before answering. Shuffling feet and furrowed brow. "I am smaller ... My eyes are good. My aim should be what others have trouble defending." He pointed to her legs with the sword. "Keep low, out of reach. And then, when the opportunity presents itself, strike?" With a hum of agreement, she nodded; he should plan to cripple and slow, to hinder the opponent. Rushing head first would merely loose him his life. "I should think and watch. And wait."

"Exactly. Make sure to keep that in your mind for the next time."

Then, she urged him to join his friends.

They had jumped the fence and came to meet him, patting his back and loudly, excitedly, speaking above one another. Rell watched them, a smile on her face, before turning to leave; it was time for a breather, and the midday sun was climbing high on a cloudless sky. There was a warmth in the air. The boys would likely spar for many more hours, practicing what they had been taught – and living out tales of knights and heroic deeds, stories they had been told by the fires of night. They would take turns, at times being a brave champion or vile beast, but each would go to sleep with heads filled with wonderous thoughts.

Rell left the wooden sword in the rack, side by side with many others of differing sizes.

She, too, had once played the same games; she knew well the taste of the dirt, and the sting of bruises, or aching arms and legs after a day of training. She remembered the feeling of invincibility, that the world was impossibly vast and filled with adventures; with sword and shield she would fight the evils of Middle-Earth. And now – with truth, and bitterness, and the face of reality – she missed those days. Long gone and passed into memory. No one stays a child forever, she thought, following a narrow alley between houses.

It was only a quick walk before she reached the well.

Here, Rell drew water and washed; her hands and face coated in dust, sweat, and grime, and she scrubbed vigorously until clean. She did not need to dry, for the day was warm and bright with sun. While Winter had been harsh, terribly so, Summer brought with it peaceful days and milder weathers. Perched on the stone edge, she took a moment to watch the village around her, and to rest; the day was certainly as fine as one could ask for, for there was not a wind blowing or a cloud in sight.

The paleness of her skin had turned sun-touched, and scars ran like white lines across her outstretched arms. They were only that – scars, and nothing more. With each arrow sprung from her bow, or swing of her sword, Rell thanked the Elves. She knew it would never truly be the same, for how could it? Yet the fears in her heart and mind had, day by day, weakened until they were but a whisper; in the early mornings her fingers were rigid, cold and hard to move. But throughout the day they would warm, bending, and followed her will.

And then, there were trembles still. Small, involuntary twitches, that came suddenly and uninvited; jolts of pain that would take her from her current work. Though they were only fleeting. Rell had learned to live with the pain, determined to drown it out until it was naught but brief flashes of discomfort. The peaceful days were a time of mending for Rell, and useful they had been.

She flexed her fingers and felt nothing.

Almost as good as it was before, she thought.

Her gaze followed the slow walk of two elderly women, bringing with them a basket of eggs; their faces were touched by age, but there was also something lurking beneath. It was a hardened look – and something she saw in all the people of the Angle. Terrible rumours, of strange things and dangerous creatures, reached them with each Ranger's return; legends of the dark past seemed slowly come alive, ominous and grim. It was all the village could talk about. War was coming. It was no longer speculation. It was truth.

All they could do was watch and wait, for an Enemy they knew was preparing, creeping out, in the shadow of Mordor.

And when the time was right, darkness would descent over Middle-Earth.

Rell kicked her feet across the ground, sending a single pebble flying, and pushed off against the well. We will be ready.

There were squeals of laughter and splashing, and sunlight winked on the rippling surface of the lake. Rell watched the girls from where she sat, beneath the trees where the ground was soft with moss and grass, and her feet dipped in the water; shade was cast by overhanging branches, fully sprug with vibrant greens and white flowers bloomed in myriads, and a sweet smell was dense in the air.

Summer was at its warmest, June had passed to late August, and the world around them had morphed to life; bulrushes and reeds grew dense around the shore, and glistening dragonflies buzzed in and out between the blades. A flock of white-feathered ducks had, upon their arrival, been ousted from rest, and with great wings flapping disappeared into a clear sky. Her toes picked languidly between smooth-edged stones in the shallows, her gaze following every small swirl and ripple brought to life. Cresting the bank, the water was almost entirely translucent but slowly dove into darker shades of blue and silver-grey.

The twins were swimming in the lake; skirts and shoes abandoned on the mossy rocks flanking the river. Misshapen roots wrestled with the earth, digging a way up to freedom, and Rell saw the first small strawberries peaking out between green. They were not ripe, more white than red; but even sour strawberries were a treat. She would have to remember to pick them later. A humming bee darted through the air.

Rell glanced to the pair, still at play and taking turns diving to the depths – no deeper than her own waist – and then her eyes turned to the horizon. The hill-tops were cloaked in a distant haze, golden, and dotted with scattered trees. A Summer storm had blown across the lands during the night; thunderous, then settling to a constant, sullen drizzle, but in its wake was now naught but endless skies and warm sun. It seemed they could stay outside without trouble for the entire day. Rell leaned back to rest in the tall patches of downy grass.

She watched the leaves, fluttering against the brightness, and it dazzled her.

The wind made the willow's gnarled fingers creak and sway, and it was not long before Rell was half in a dream. It came, familiar yet strange; unknown but dear to her. It was a dream that had visited the edges of her sleeping mind many a time before; a returning companion ever since her stay in Lothlórien's woods. When she had walked half between life and death. Touched by fever and sickness. Increasingly persistant. The vision was much the same as the times before, and it was hard to tell if it was the past, or a future not yet real; or something in-between. But each time something new was added; a little detail she had previously missed, or the time stretched a moment longer. Enough for her to learn something.

To see something she had not seen in the times before.

The grass was tall, almost as tall as she. Softly bending and dancing, an endless sea of golden waves that kept her blurring gaze transfixed. Her hands moved with a ghostly touch, brushing above the grass; her arm was scarred when moving one way, then suddenly whole and untouched when moving back. Heavy, then light. She was locked in place, unable to move if she so willed – but she did not, could not. For Rell was waiting. For something ... No, her mind told her, someone.

But who?

There was a thundering beat in her chest; it was her heart, beating away like a thousand horses running free through the glades and plains. They were the heralds of arrival – bringing with them the one she was waiting for. It was a rider. On a great horse he sat astride, and as it was the times before, his face was masked by shadow and cloak. He towered above her, daunting and imposing, yet there was a hidden tenderness ... Something kind. Beautiful beyond enduring. His name was known, but Rell could not speak it.

But the Rider spoke to her.

She heard his words, but remembered them not.

And as the times before, he reached out for her with his arms – and she stretched her own, marred and broken, to meet his.

Something warm, and wet, and red, drippled onto her skin. First one, then two and three, then many; uncountable, unstoppable; bleeding. Blood. Rell tried to speak, hands fumbling to reach the Rider's, but the dark spread and grew, until even the golden grass was overtaken. And she stumbled, swept by the torrent until she, too, was drowned in crimson. Down she went, until the dream was nothing more than deepest depths of despair.

With a gasp she woke.

The sky was blue, and the day was broad still. Something cold dripped onto her cheek, a chill touch that was soon followed by another. Her gaze settled, and the dream abated until it was but a small, gnawing whisper in the back of her mind. Looming over her was one of the twins, soaked and grinning, for her hand was outstretched above Rell's head. Droplets of water fell. "You fell asleep," Imril stated.

Slowly, as if her body was not yet quite her own, Rell sat up straight. Her fingers – warmed by her rest in the sunlight – brushed the water off her skin; she smiled, and swatted the girl away. "Go dry elsewhere, or I will throw you back into the lake, you sea witch!" Imril laughed and, jumping from stone to stone, went over to their small encampment; her sister was there already, spinning one way and another on bare feet. The cold had seeped into her, far too deep, and Rell scrubbed her face until it burned.

It felt strange to breathe, and it took Rell several moments before she joined them.

When she did, she showed the girls how to light a fire; what branches were best to burn – the wet ones by the lake would make too much smoke; and how to properly hold the flint and steel. They struggled, and argued, for a while, but soon enough a small flame bloomed to life. And so they settled down for a rest, to dry up before their walk back to the village.

Rell stared thoughtfully into the dancing light, mulling over the dream that seemed to haunt her.

There has to be a meaning. What was her mind trying to tell her? It felt as a warning, a premonition of something dangerous; but the Rider had never seemed evil to her. There were signs she could not read, could not understand, and it troubled her greatly. An entity that had grown increasingly powerful, until it could no longer be ignored. As if the secrets that came into her mind were kept there, hidden and veiled even to her. Rell sighed, bringing her chin to rest on folded knees. And mayhap, a dream is only a dream, and nothing more.

Idril plopped down next to her, cupped hands filled with strawberries. "I will trade you for a story," she said, holding them just beyond Rell's reach, when she attempted to steal a couple. "Something funny."

"I do believe I have told you all the stories I know, more than once."

The girl pursed her lips, until a look of stubbornness passed over her. "Then you can make one up."

With an eyebrow raised, Rell let out a dry laugh at the request; but with a bit of wriggling and bargaining – getting her hands on a handful berries – she gave it a good thought. "Very well! A funny story, you say? Then I shall try." She made herself comfortable, looking from one girl to the other, while slowly nodding. "I know your fondness of the Halflings, and so this happened many, many years ago in the Shire. Perhaps this tale is true, and perhaps it is not. You may be the judge of that." She popped a strawberry into her mouth, and found it more sour than expected. "The Shire is a beautiful and fruitful land, with many fields and pastures. Farms, cornlands and vinyards, and woods. The grass is green – the greenest I have ever seen.

"And the Hobbits know only peace and tranquil days. But on this day, a day very much the same as this, where the Sun was shining and no cloud was in sight ... There came from the field a shrill cry for aid. So terrible and loud it was, that all the other farmers rushes to see what the fuss was about. And truly it was a sight to behold. For all the cabbages were gone! Poof! As if stolen away in the night, there was nothing but holes in the ground."

"How can cabbages just vanish?" Imril asked.

"That is exactly what the Hobbits thought as well. Was it perhaps a thief? One of them Big Folks beyond the Brandywine River, come to take away all their hard work? They searched the village thin, every nook and cranny, but came up with nothing. Not a single cabbage leaf was found. And so, all the wondering farmers could then do, was settle for the night; dreaming of crops growing arms and legs, and hopping away under moonlight." Another strawberry, another moment to think. "By the morning light, the Hobbits woke to a surprise just as big as the one before. For this time all the carrots were gone.

Deep holes in the ground, and nothing more. For each day in that week, the bewildered and distraught Hobbits would rise with the Sun and see that another field had been emptied. Leeks, pumpkins, tomatoes, even the onions. Gone!" Rell poked into the dwindling fire, rekindling it until new flames licked against the firewood. There was a tint of grey in the Eastern horizon; it was later than she had first thought.

How long did I sleep?

"And what happened then?" Idril gave her several berries of her own.

"Oh yes. They knew there was a vegetable thief at large, but he only came at night. Finally, the Hobbits came up with a plan – to keep watch!"

Imril snorted. "Should they not have done so from the beginning, and not wait an entire week?"

"Well, perhaps." She shrugged. "Maybe they were too upset to think clearly, for we all know the fondness they have for food. But either way, it was then decided; the bravest – and tallest – of the farmers was set to watch the last field left untouched. The turnips. And there he sat, all night, watching and waiting. And listening ... For he did not see the thief, but hear him he did. It was a digging in the ground, smalls thumps and snuffling. One by one, the turnips vanished into the soil until there were none left. By morning, the fearless Hobbit – who, honestly, was quite shook and awfully pale – told the others of what he had seen."

"Was it a rabbit?"

Rell grinned. "It was indeed a rabbit."

"That is silly," Imril noted.

"No! It was not a silly rabbit." Her answer came almost offended. "It was Hopper, the Hoptastic; Bane of all farmers throughout the valleys. A vermin of mythical proportions that can consume entire fields in a single night. The giant pest had come to the Shire!" If she had expected much else, revealing the villain of the story, she was instead met with wild laughter from both girls. She smiled at the sight.

"That is silly!" Idril agreed.

"Not to the poor Hobbits! But luckily they lured him out with a big feast and celebration, where they then stroke a bargain with the monstrous creature. He would leave the Shire in peace, and instead he could torment the villagers of Bree-land, or anywhere else East of the mountains for all they cared. And so ends the story, truthful or not, for it is time for us to return home. Night is coming." Quickly chewing the last sour strawberries, Rell stood and stamped out the fire; then she found her sword and strapped it to her belt, the weight a comfort against the creeping dark.

"Maybe Hopper is out here, lurking, no longer with a taste for vegetables ..." Idril spoke in a secretive whisper, tip-toeing closer to her sister. "Perhaps he has now a taste for Man!"

Imril prompty punched her in the shoulder. "Then you will be eaten first."

"Because I am the sweetest?"

"No. I bet you taste like an onion."

Rell laughed at them both. "Enough, now." Slinging a satchel across her shoulder, she took a girl by each hand and started the walk back across the pasture. "We know he would eat you both in a mouthful, for one would never leave the other." They had plenty of time, and a good deal of light, and so were in no rush. Above them, grey crows dipped and soared on the winds; hoarse caws their company. They followed the straight way down the sloping hill, the falling night on their backs and the sunlit valley ahead.

When they had walked for no more than half a mile, Imril and Idril picked up a song – a concoction with the sole purpose of annoying their mother – and took turns making it worse throughout the rest of their journey. Of screaming cats and barking dogs. And Rell allowed the merriment; much more powerful, and far more welcome, than the ever-lurking whispers in her own mind. Something she each day tried to repress, to smother until it was truly time to act upon. Burdens and warnings. She knew the dream would reveal itself in time.

And finally, as the dogs and cats had gone to war, and made peace again, the village came ahead.

When they were close enough, the twins ran ahead. Their father stood watch by the stone passage, as he did most days with spear and shield, and he was quick to embrace them both. He was much bigger than them, and they seemed to vanish within his arms. It was not long before they chattered loudly, each sharing the happenings of the day; but as Rell approached, the Ranger's gaze lifted to meet hers. She came to a halt on the path. Mouth dry and heart hammering.

"There is a rider waiting for you," Maldil said. "And he brought a message."

Chapter Text

Her heart was in her throat, beating so forcefully she felt it pressing its way out; clawing and digging. The path ahead of her was falling steadily into grey, for night came over the eastern hills. Naught but a pale young moon followed her. It was hard to tell if she was running, or stumbling her way forward, as her mind whirled with anxious thoughts. Good, bad, horrible. Why was a rider there for her? Who? She thought. She felt drenched in shadow, cool and dark yet hopeful all the same.

Rell passed the house of Brenion and his family, saw the lights within, yet carried herself reluctantly forward. It was not before she came to the largest hut – where many moons ago words, scribbled on a piece of parchment, had set in motion a long and terrible journey – that Rell paused. The door loomed before her, only a step or two away from opening to whatever lurked beyond. A sudden unreasoning fear had taken hold of her; so tight she dared not breathe. All that came to her were thoughts more grievous than the last, of friends lost to the darkness ... Of her uncle ...

There was a scramble from within, soft voices.

A shadow passed across the thin slit of light from shuttered windows. Movement.

Then, the uncertain choice was made certain for her, as the door was suddenly yanked open. The man now before her was one of the older Rangers – tall, dark, and weathered, as they all were – and for a moment they watched each other. In a silence that only lasted the span of a breath. His eyes were flecked with grey, mirroring the streaks running like silvery veins though black hair; her father would have been his age. She blinked.

"Hello, Merethor," Rell said, when words had found her once more, and glanced warily behind him into the room.

He gave a gruff hum in reply, before stepping aside to allow her passage. Reluctantly, Rell followed and shrugged off her cloak; bundling the fabric in her arms, more to keep her fidgeting hands occupied than anything, she looked at the others present. The door clicked shut. There was a restlessness lurking in the pit of her stomach, driving her forward; somewhere, somehow, Rell knew fate had come to call. She had known since word of the rider reached her ... If not long before. She willed her fingers to still, but she could not shake the tautness of her shoulders.

There were four others in the room; all of them familiar to her. "Haruven, Delion," she greeted with a soft nod to the two by the fire. One stood leaning over the back of a chair, the other against the wall. Brothers they were. Her brow furrowed. But they patrol by the waters of Lond Daer ... She had seen neither of them in the last six, if not seven, years. Their faces were scarred and grim, set in folds of pondering concern.

The third man she knew better – Hatholdor, cousin of Brenion, and the one who had called her best friend from her side. Rell did not condemn his actions, despite the emptiness it had left in her heart; each followed a duty sworn in life and only broken in death, and he had done as tasked. He was but the messenger.

"I did not expect to see you returned so soon," she noted.

From his place by the table, he gave a subtle shrug but said nothing.

Her gaze wandered to the young boy by Hatholdor's side, as her feet led her forward, and bewilderment soon overtook the foreboding whispers of dread. He seemed entirely out of place, amidst the large Rangers shadowing his frame, so small it was almost pitiful. There was a ghostly paleness to his face, and he sat rigid in his seat. Rell gave a weary smile as their eyes met. Arun muttered a greeting below his breath, eyes darting to the table and his clasped fingers, so tightly coiled they were white-knuckled.

"Take a seat, Avarell," Merethor said from behind her. "There is much to say while the night is young, and much more to do before dawn breaks."

Without question, Rell found a place with a glance across her shoulder. A tiny voice in the back of her mind spoke of reassurance; Arun and she shared only distant relations, and they would not have been brought together to relay words of loss. They are unharmed ... Rell allowed a quiet breath to escape her. Though she did risk another glance at the boy, of equal measures curiosity and concern, and noticed then a sheathed sword resting against his legs. One she had not seen before. But then, why are we here?

Soon, all were they seated around the table.

"The map," Merethor said.

Hatholdor did as he was bid and unrolled a large parchment, smoothing it flat against the table. The map showed things Rell knew well; the mountain ranges of Ered Hithui and Ered Luin, encompassing the vast lands that she called home. What lay beyond, to the East and South, were not marked on the map beyond a scribbled note or solitary names. Before her stretched only the dwindled remains of Arnor, the kingdom of her ancestors long forgotten by the Men of the West; a realm of exile, and a realm she – and the Rangers around her – were tasked to protect.

Even if it would cost them their own lives. Her fingers trailed the frayed edge of the scroll.

But the oldest of their company gave her little time to pause, and instead he spoke again. "Our forces have been spread too thin, covering areas we do not have the strength to hold." At this, he nodded to the brothers. "Halbarad has called many of you and our kin back from their outposts. For so long we have kept the enemy at bay far from the people we protect, so that they would not see the horrors hidden in the shadow. But no more; it is a daunting task before us now, and could be argued that we invite evil to our midsts." His hand moved, following the East Road from Rivendell to the Grey Havens; his fingers spread, covering first the farmlands of the South Downs and then the Shire. "We cannot keep the watch over all of Arnor."

Staring at the map with a brow furrowed, it was a startling realisation that came to Rell, and she could not hold her tongue. "So we abandon the few who live beyond the larger settlements and villages?"

They had lost so many to defend those lands, and the few that remained to fight were set with an impossible charge; Rell understood that, certainly she did, but they could not flee from their duty. She would not believe it true.

They cannot !

Merethor regarded her with cool, grey eyes, as he considered her words, but it was the oldest brother – Delion – that spoke instead. He leaned forward, and only then did she notice his missing eye; it was a pit of darkness, hard-jagged scars running from forehead to his chin. An axe. He had once been fair. But while he appeared menacing, his words were kind and understanding. "There are no one left South of the Greenway; the lands are but dwindled wilderness and ruins speaking of long-forgotten greatness. What little else that may still hospitable have been claimed by Dunlendings and others; those we cannot call friends."

"Vigilance will now, more than ever, be our greatest ally." Merethor watched each of them in turn, gaze keen and back straight. The lines of his face were many, shadowed by the low light, but his eyes shone with veiled fire. His words brought a cheerless thrum of expectation to her ears, a jarring blur that drowned the surrounding world in silence. The time had come. How fast her heart was beating! "It is an hour of wolves and evil things, and the people we have long safeguarded stand wholly unprepared. The enemy will come to their doorstep. It is our duty, as it has been in ages before, to fight."

Rell had been called.

Her voice was without a tremble, and her hands still in her lap when she looked at the Ranger. "What is asked of us?"

He gave a swift nod. "We will ride together at first light to the Last Bridge, and there we will convene with another company coming from the North." His gaze flickered to meet hers, as if sensing the words were most precious to her. And, certainly, they were. "Halbarad travels with them." Joy flittered through her chest, good news following a seemingly endless string of ill; unpleasant thoughts turned aside, and only gladness remained. Thank the Valar, he lives still. "From him you will learn your assignments."

At this, her mind whirred and a thought came to her. The boy's presence finally made sense. "You do not mean to bring Arun with us, do you?"

When Rell turned to look at him, he refrained from meeting her gaze and was, instead, staring adamantly at the sword resting by his feet; if he was trying to avoid her look of concern, or lost to his own hidden thoughts, was hard to tell. She could see his jaw working, teeth clenching and unclenching in tandem with his fingers. "It was his choice. No one forced his hand," Hatholdor said, hooking an arm around the younger boy as he shook him with gentle reassurance. Rell narrowed her eyes at the prideful blush on the boy's face and the squaring of his shoulders. "He wishes to join the fight."

The danger he was willingly, blindly, walking into – albeit carried forward by a noble heart and the intention of doing good – could only lead to bitterness. If not for himself, then those left behind if he fell. Rell knew his mother; a kind and good-hearted woman never shy of a smile or a helping hand. He was her only son. She would be heartbroken. The eagerness to help, to be of use, was not a foreign notion to Rell; certainly, of everyone, she understood the feeling the most. She saw herself mirrored before her very eyes. But she had learned the painful truth firsthand. "He is only thirteen." Her tone was cold and tired.

"Fourteen by January," Arun piped up, though his attention remained firmly planted on his own feet.

"And, if I am not mistaken," Haruven spoke from further down the table. He leaned forward to look at her. "Were you, yourself, not younger than he, when you first followed your uncle into the wild?"

Rell rubbed at her neck, breathing long and heavily, before replying. "Each of you have years of wisdom over me, and have seen and done things that my mind cannot even fathom in my worst nightmares. And each of you hold my respect and admiration ... But in this matter I must speak my mind. I am scared for Arun, on his behalf, as someone ought to be. So speak I shall. He is too young – and so was I, Haruven." She then looked at Merethor. "You will not find a single child in this village, neither boy nor girl, who does not dream of riding out into the wilderness by the Rangers' side. Star on their chest and sword at their belt. But we all know this." She pointed to the shuttered windows, to the deep dark of night. "Out there? There are no great deeds like those you find in songs; there is only evil and death."

Dismal was the quiet that swept over the gathered, a silence in the wake of her outburst that left little room for words; it had come as a truth from her heart. Bleak and so terribly raw, and she sat with nothing but bitterness coating the insides of her mouth. Acrid, just as the comfortless revelation. Her gaze moved over the company; then Rell stood quickly and turned from the table, feeling shameful guilt press against her eyes.

She wrapped her arms around her chest, heart sinking. The time to decide was now, but the steps leading to a choice of bravery were not without difficulty; an unscalable wall seemed to loom before her vision, stretching into darkness and uncertainty. But she had to choose. "Forgive me," she mumbled, so quietly she feared they had not heard her. Then she turned to face them once more. "I spoke out of turn."

Merethor had walked closer, so quiet were his feet Rell had not noticed. His face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, but in his eyes she saw he was not unmoved. Clasping her shoulder, he said, "This worry is not yours alone. It is shared between each of us here tonight – youth is far too soon snuffed out by the hardships of adulthood. Perhaps more so for the children of the Dúnedain. But we live in a time of great peril and many terrors; and each must we rise to the challenge, or fall alone to the darkness."

For a while Rell did not answer. She strove with her own doubt and fears; passing through her mind, as she stood gazing to faraway things. "Who will ride with him?"

"I shall, along with Haruven," Delion answered. "And no harm shall come to him as long as we draw breath."

War will find us all in time ... The boy finally met her eyes, when again she looked up at him; his were golden, reflecting the flickering flames, and clear. It had not been pride, but resolution. Rell nodded slowly, a solemn understanding that the choice was not hers to make, and it never had been. It was Arun's. And in the deepest part of his heart, beyond anything others could reach, a truth spoke out to him – he was ready. "Then I will speak no more of this," Rell said. "And only help as I am able."

The company passed underneath a canopy of branches, woven in hearth-hues of red and orange; the woods grew dense, and the twisting animal-path they followed disappeared under the first leaves fallen. It was Summer still, but cooling winds from the eastern mountains brought an early battle to the glades along the Hoarwell. Their pace was swift but steady, and little was said between the riders. In single file they rode, and each were they left in deep thoughts or with sharp gazes turned to the forest.

They had left the Angle with the first pale light of morning.

Rell had watched from beneath her hood, quiet and unmoving in her saddle, as Arun bid his mother farewell. The woman had wept – and, despite his best efforts to hide it, so had he – and the pair embraced for many long moments. No one had rushed them, and they said nothing as he mounted to join the Rangers. The boy now rode two horses ahead of her, head bowed and crestfallen, following the older men without complaint. Her heart went out to him. A wind carried over the pebbled path, rousing leaves and branches in a rattling whisper, as Rell pulled Luin ahead.

Delion cast a glance her way, a silent question on his face at the sudden move; with a shrug and a pointed look at the boy, he cleared a way to allow her passage.

Ahead, Arun rode a young, skittish filly that let out a nervous breath as Rell came up beside him; the horse was his, and had been, since it was foaled. It was the way of the Rangers, to bond rider and mount from an early age – in loyalty and trust, until death took one, or both. Stretching, Rell reached out to stroke the soft, brown coat and murmured reassurrances. She could feel the boy's gaze on her, but she took another moment before she returned it with a steadfast calm. Puffy blotches dotted his face, and his eyes were red from hidden tears; she said nothing of it.

As it was, she said nothing at all.

Instead, she fell into pace by his side and turned her attention to the path ahead.

For many hours they rode on through the woodlands and scattered meadows, sometimes opening to muddy riverlands, where the ground turned wet and broad with sedges. Mists of morning gave way to warm, fresh winds and clear light. The sun filtered through the trees, kindling the world to gold and emerald green. There was a myriad of life in the blue-white sky; swallows darting about like black arrows, piping and whistling shrill tunes.

When something of interest caught her eye – be it the swift-fleeting blur of a red fox, or marks of paws in the soil along the river – she would turn to Arun, pointing and explaining. He was curious to learn, and eager to keep his mind from darker thoughts, and so they passed the journey so together. And the longer they spoke together, the less Rell saw the flickering shadow pass his gaze; he smiled and laughed, asking many questions about the plants and trees around them, wondering what could be eaten and what should not be touched.

Passing beneath the gnarled fingers of an ancient oak, Delion told them both a story of his youthful days. Together with his brother, they had been lost in a forest – Eryn Vorn, Haruven supplied from further down the line – during a terrible blizzard. So cold it had been, that they had near lost a toe or two. In order to last throughout the night, they had scraped bark off the dark trees and wrapped themselves as one would a cloak; then filled the gaps with moss and dirt. "I may never have seen one with my own two eyes, but I do believe we looked like Ents!"

"Let that be a lesson," his brother called to them. "Always bring dry wood!"

Delion had grinned. "We smelled for days after. But at least we were alive."

They carried on along the sloping path; and Rell shared her own meeting with the bitter cold. Her climb over Caradhras. She, too, had forgone firewood in her haste to cross the mountain, and the price had been paid. She recalled the blinding snow and the biting winds; the eerie howls of wolves and Orcs, that were nothing in the clear light of day. A tired mind playing tricks. It seemed as though they all had tales to share, of Winter's misery, and all appreciated the gleaming Sun, peaking through the trees, that little more in the time following.

They did not take rest throughout the day, not even when the setting sun torched the clouded horizon, and grey trickled over the lands.

They planned to reach the Last Bridge by early midday the following day, and so, despite the long hours of endless green and vigorous winds, they pressed on. No weariness came to their horses; they rode through slow dusk until night gathered about them. The forest gave way to scattered faces of rocks between tall pines, tumbled stones and rolling hills, carved in two by the wide river running steadily by their side. Along its banks came a place of overhanging boulders; a shelter well-known to the Rangers in the company.

It was the halfway-mark of their journey, and from there it would be an even northbound path ahead.

Merethor called for camp.

The six Rangers made quick work; the brothers soon disappeared into the gloom, one up and another down-stream to search the area – for both enemies and food. They would likely encounter nothing afoot, for they were miles from the nearest troll haunts and goblin dens. But there were also ripe Summer berries and mushrooms on the south-facing hillside; and those were most welcome. As Hatholdor and Arun worked the fire on the sandy shore, Rell lured the pack of horses with her to the river's slow-churning waters; they followed without complaint. She stood a while as they drank, with her back stretched and head rolled back, to stare up at the slowly emerging stars.

As the westerning Sun sank further beyond the rim of the hills, Anarríma showed twinkling in the sky. Further, skirting the edge of her sight, were faint glimmers of Wilwarin appearing with the deepening night; a butterfly spreading its wings over the dark canvas. A constant restlessness writhed in her mind, coiling and nagging; but Rell anchored her thoughts to the stars crowning the sky. It was hard to let go of her worries – they seemed to have festered, grown to be a part of her – but she knew doubts should have no place in her heart.

Hesitation could be a deadly companion.

She sighed.

Then, counting the horses, Rell stepped out of her boots and entered the low waters. It was cold, bitingly so, for the river flowed from the distant North; but it stopped her not. Smooth pebbles rolled beneath her feet, slippery, as she waded further out. Her hand brushed against the warm flank of one of the horses, steadying herself as the current lapped around her; Arun's bown filly had wandered off, seemingly with the aim to reach the other shore. Rell clicked her tongue at the horse. "Here, girl," she called. "I do not wish to swim out after you. It is far too cold and far too late for an adventure."

The horse carried on several more steps, disregarding the sounds from the Ranger following, then stopped suddenly; Rell paused, too, waiting expectantly.

As if deciding to return to the safety of the pack, the filly turned and trodded slowly back. With an exasperated roll of her eyes, Rell grabbed it by the reins to steer it in the right direction with a grumble. "Thank you." When she found herself back on dry land, feet cold and wet, and picking up her discarded boots, she shot a dark look at Luin; the horse nibbled the scattered tufts of grass with little care for its rider. "You best not learn from this."

The last shreds of day vanished in the gloom, and only the thin moon gave light to her. She looked back to the camp; the fire was building, and she could see silhouettes weave a way around the flickering flames. Counting their steeds one final time – all accounted for – she trudged back on bare feet. Merethor was at work heating water; thyme and sage, mushrooms a courtesy of a returned Haruven, and the last pickings of a chicken, used more for taste than filling. They would eat their fill in bread, fresh-baked from the Angle.

When Rell sat down on a tree stump, stretching her legs towards the flames to dry, she could feel his eyes on her.

She pointed to the boy and explained very little. "His horse."

It was some time longer before the last of their company came back to the camp, but soon after a quiet came over them. They ate in silence, hungry and weary; and when the pot turned up empty and the bread gone, they were quick to turn over for the night. Day would break soon enough, and they had to be on their way again. Arun asked to take the first watch.

So it was, that Rell settled into a comfortable spot in the sandy heaps, bundled into her cloak and weapons close at hand. The others did much the same, until they lay in a circle around the fire. The moon had climbed high, touching the reeds and bushes with silver; with each gust of wind they would sway, shadows in the folds of the land. She watched the sombre canopy of sky; star-flecked, cloudless. Then she closed her eyes, listening to the crackling logs and the still night. Breathing. Hatholdor snored someplace to her right.

Meanwhile, Arun had sat silent, hidden from their sight on a knoll. She had glanced to him before settling; sword laid upon his knees, fingers drumming silently against its hilt, as his gaze was turned to the open lands around them. Once in a while he wound shift, or move, or stand. Restless and touched by unease. Rell tried – truly, she did – to give him the moment to himself, and for herself to find sleep. But the soft sounds of sniffling, crying, drew her from her place of warmth. Careful not to wake her companions, she found her bearings in the dull-fading light and moved around the camp.

Sitting next to him, he did not look her way. Wandering fingers played with the pointed star at his cloak, idle movements he likely did without thought. "It is not too late to go home," she spoke softly.

"I have no wish to return." His words did not fall without bite, a hiss pressing through clenched teeth; yet Rell was little touched. She hummed in a thoughtful reply, saying no more, and watched instead the twilight world around them. There was nothing to be seen, but much to hear. The solitary cry from somewhere within the trees made him jump. His eyes flickered to her.

Rell smiled, touched by fond remembrance of her uncle many years ago, and pointed to the pines beyond the river. "A screech owl – and our friend in the night." There was a question on his face, and she spoke again. "You and I see very little in this darkness, so tell me this; if you were to run from, or search for, enemies, how would you go about it?" She tapped her ear with a finger. "We listen. And we follow the animals around us. There would be no owl in those trees, were the woods filled with Orcs or trolls. Do the beasts and birds flee ... then so should you."

"What then, if I hear nothing?"

It proved difficult to keep the smile on her lips, but for him she tried. Rell looked at the sheathed blade in his lap. "Then you have that."

And may it prove enough.

The air was heavy with the scent of unfamiliar spices, low fires, and flickering, black iron lanterns burning along the street. But lurking underneath the many smells of market goods, there was an ever-present whiff of rot and filth and mildew. Moonlight painted the arches, narrow alleys, and looming walls shades of silver and grey, as people drifted to and fro. Some were likely headed home to a warm hearth and even warmer beds, but others were only just beginning the night. The faint patches of day were but thin lines in a distant sky. Big men with red, or brown, or black beards, wild and unkept, and weathered skin; they came in from the lowlands surrounding the hill of Bree, trading livestock, pelts, wheat and barley, or firewood from the dense forests.

But there were also merchants afoot. With oiled and braided hair, draped in finery and silk. They moved with an air of importance, and an expectancy that all others would move from their path. At times one could spot the odd Dwarf or small Hobbit, their business their own, but not an unusual sight in the village. It was their home, as much as it was the Big Folks'. There were even a few broad-shouldered men, carrying with them long spears and hidden daggers – sellswords, she knew them to be.

Their purpose in the village of Bree caused quite the worry and whispers amongst the inhabitants, for they belonged to a world much further East and South; beyond the Mountains where such work was of use to some. Yet they paid for their meals and bedding, and so nothing was said or done besides the roadside gossip. But in the eyes of those that searched for hidden dangers, their presence spoke of ill news. And, finally, there, amonst the strange mesh of Bree-land's people, was Rell.

She slipped unseen between them all.

The cobbled road was uneven; muddy and soft in places, sloping gently toward the main way. It had rained earlier, and she saw flickers of her own reflection mirrored in the puddles. She walked with her head bent, and hood drawn, listening and watching – but never seen. No one spared a second glance on a wanderer of the wild. And with her frayed and grimy, often foul, appearance she made sure to keep, there was no allure; despite being a woman unaccompanied.

It suited her perfectly well.

She was clad in black and grey from head to toe; trousers and tunic a coarse wool; sturdy leather boots, and the familiar cloak drawn tight around her shoulders. Fastened there, gleaming every so often when it caught the glare of fire, was the star of the Dúnedain. A new had been cast for her in the days before she left the Angle. It gave her strength. A constant reminder close to her heart.

Of her purpose and her duty.

Pulled behind her, Luin trodded along with a clip-clop of hooves and jangling harness. She had just then returned from a patrol of the Greenway. Nothing had been out of the ordinary; she had encountered no creatures of evil, and had instead spent the moments of peaceful quiet to set up snares and traps in the scattered woodlands. And so, next to her bow and sword, hung three boney rabbits, as well as a small doe slung across the saddle. They could be sold for a few coins, or traded for trinkets or items of need – Rell could do without the peddling, but it gave opportunities to listen and exchange bits of information. Some, perhaps, that could even prove useful.

Dodging around a wobbling pair of drunks, slurring snippets of song, Rell turned to the main road. Someplace to her right came a burst of giggles, followed by a string of sweet nothings and flirtatious murmers, and it caught her gaze for a moment. It was not only the men out, making a living or trading stories in the early hours of twilight. The painted women were hard at work, earning a living in a way Rell found hard to judge, but easy to pity.

Life was certainly difficult.

In more ways than one.

In her first weeks in Bree, it had not been uncommon for Rell to be mistaken for the other women; that her services could be provided – as long as the right amount of gold passed hands. A young woman travelling alone, with naught but a horse and scarcely any belongings to her name? She had looked the easiest of targets. Some still tested their luck, but they were fewer and farther between. Her disregard of clean clothes and baths, if one did not count the odd dip in a cold river-stream, had given her vision a fair amount of repugnance.

Whenever that had not been enough to turn impassioned, often drunk, men from her, Rell had been keen to hand out bruises and broken noses.

She was quickly left alone.

The main road connected the West and South gates, skirting around the hill upon which Bree had been built, meeting in the middle of the village where it then opened up to a market square. Here, most were closing shop for the night. The crowds were swiftly thinning, leaving only the weaving dance of pickpockets and darker types wandering about. The last tunes and hubbub of day were fading fast. Though Rell did manage to haggle herself to a fair price for the deer and rabbits, despite the gruffness and muttered bite of the seller; and, weighing the coins in her hand – five small silvers of little worth – enough for a hearty meal at the inn.

She made The Prancing Pony her next destination.

Rell took the eastern way, walking next to her great horse to keep an eye on her belongings. Coins had moved hands – and many an eye had seen it. But her gaze was hard, and her sword close for use. She was left unbothered on her path. Shadows went ahead of shadows. Puddles of murky water pooled at her feet, finding ways to gather on the sloping path; the cobbled stones slippery, and there was a clammy cool in the air boding another downpour. But it did not take long to reach her destination, and Rell was entirely dry when she stood outside the building.

Three stories tall with many windows glowing amber-gold with warmth; yellow eyes in the deepened dark. She could see shapes and movement from within, and there was a thrum of many voices wafting through the open door. A bit of shouting; ruckus came before laughter. Following the half-timbered wall around the side of the inn, Rell passed through a green-painted arch to where she knew the stables to be. Here, she untied her satchels and weapons – some to leave with Luin, and others to bring inside – and was quickly met by the ostler; a small Hobbit of no more than three feet, who greeted her with cordial care, albeit – quietly – warily.

Rangers – stragglers as they were – were seldom looked upon with kindness.

But his handling of Luin spoke lengths of good-heartedness and a gentle spirit, for the horse followed along patiently. If not, the steed would have stood its ground, and no amount of toil or tugging could have moved it even a bit for the rest of the night. But there was fresh hay, and oats and apples, and so the Hobbit could walk ahead without affront. The sight, nonetheless, looked entirely amusing to her.

Underneath the creaking sign of a rearing pony, Rell stepped inside just as a chorus of merry voices came to an end, and there was a burst of clapping, thumping feet and the meetings of tankards. There were people before her, and for a while she stood waiting – and watching. Rell drew her cloak tighter. Most tables were full, with the Common folks, and Dwarves, and a few Hobbits alike; and there was a constant bustling and clatter, loud noises and too many things all at once. A haze was in the air, and a smell of many pipeweeds mingled all into one. A large man, red faced and balding, carved his way through the throng of people and spoke first to one, then another, before vanishing through a door.

The pair before her moved aside, following another Hobbit down the long hallway to someplace else, and Rell stepped to the counter. Again, she waited.

A brief moment later, the man was out again and stood before her. "Good evening, miss," he said. "What may you be wanting?"

Rell clinked through her small pouch of coins. Then, putting two silvers between them both, she replied. "Stabling for my horse and a meal for the night – for however much this will give me." And so it was, that Rell was shown to the common-room; a blazing fire gave light to the room, high-piled logs, but there was also a veil of smoke thick in the air. It obscured much of her vision, leaving the people vague and hazy. Her eyes were soon itching. Benches and tables took up every available space and corner of the room.

Most were occupied.

Her eyes scanned the gathered, searching without purpose – certain she would know once she saw it, anything, of interest – and felt curious glances or dark gazes returning her attention. Rell stepped further into the room, making her way by a collection of Dwarves; they huddled together, surveying her with untrusting stares, but spared her no words. There were many known to Bree-land, yet also strangers from foreign lands, and they seemed ill-favoured and grim. It was close to such a group, that Rell found an open spot in a shadowed corner; back to the wall, sword hidden beneath her travel-stained cloak, and face to the room.

Food arrived soon after.

Steaming bone broth, with carrots and leeks and mushrooms; freshly baked bread and a spread of butter; a mug of herbal tea. Rell had declined the offered ale, even though the pay had been enough to fill a small tankard. It dulled the senses, and she wanted to keep her wits sharpened at all times – especially when she travelled alone. The accompanying nausea she could, likely, do without as well; alone and disoriented would only invite trouble.

The drink never sat well with her.

For a while she merely ate, enjoying a warm meal on an empty stomach, and listened to the people around her.

They were speaking of distant events, some known and others unknown to her; of grim omens and the growing troubles and looming dangers in the South. The constant stream of travellers searching for lands of peace. There was talk of a horse-thief, some idle gossip of who marrying whom, and other discussions that did not catch her ears for long. For some months now, she had wandered amongst the Small and Big Folks, hearing the rumours coming from beyond the mountains both East and West, and from the cities of Men in faraway lands. Rell watched the Greenway, as she had been tasked; hunted wolves and other beasts rarely afoot, unnoticed and in the shadows.

Yet nothing truly evil ever showed itself.

Each night she would fall asleep under an open sky, with the stars and the wind her company, thankful that she had yet to encounter enemies. It was a comforting thought; each uneventful day told her much. The evil happenings beyond the Misty Mountains had not yet reached the old lands of Arnor, and there was still some semblance of tranquility.

It was an easy duty.

But it was also a lonely one.

Following the Rangers' meeting by the Last Bridge, and after a fond reunion with Halbarad, they were each given a task. Some rode off together, in pairs or larger groups, while others continued the journey in solitude. Rell had been given the lowlands around Bree, the stretch of road running South until skirting the Barrow-downs; and no further. When mists swathed the earth, and an unnatural chill came to the air, she knew to turn back. Only once had she seen the standing stones on green mounds. There were stories of dead bones and evil spirits; it was a space no living creature crossed.

It took only a day's ride to cover her area, and if not for Luin, her only company was that of crows and ravens; beady-eyed and cawing, watching her from stunted, dead trees. They seemed as if waiting. For more than a week she met no other on her path; the last had been a lonesome rider, a merchant lost on his way through the mists. Beyond that, Rell was alone. Her trips into Bree, peddling her wares from the wild, were strangely welcome – to hear spoken words, or laughter, and see the faces of people renewed her will to walk hilly lands beyond.

Her eyes flickered over the tables, lost in her own thoughts. It was not the rocks and trees, or the open glades or the cairns and burial-mounds of those long dead, she protected.

It is the living.

When she was almost done with the soup, soaking up the last with the crumbs of her bread, Rell heard a whispered voice; words that spoke of something else, something new. She swallowed the last of her meal, glancing sideways. The mean-looking pair a table over were hunched, heads close together in a low, secretive talk. Their faces were veiled in shadow, but their eyes were hard and shining. "–they give us no work to live by," one said, and there was anger in his tone. He took a swing of his tankard, white foam dripping from an unkept beard. "Yet sneer when we have no money to pay with!"

"They flaunt their gold and expect nothing will ever happen," the other spat, voice slurred with drink.

Rell shifted, listening, and felt little warmth at what she heard. Bree-land could not keep up with the constant intake of refugees and strangers from afar, some seeking shelter, and others a new place to live and work; discontentment and grievances grew, for always did people wish for better things – even if they rightfully belonged to someone else. Many with wealth to their name had lost their livelihood, or even lives, on the road to and fro Eriador, and in the dark alleys where little light could shine.

Finishing her tea, she slipped quietly from her seat and followed the wall; aside from the flutter of her cloak, she was but a shadow moving.

She wanted to see their faces clearly.

Rell came to an open window, where cooling gusts took battle against the heat, and she leaned against the sill. Concealed in the dim tavern light; a guest merely stealing a breath of fresh air. Then she risked a glance from beneath her hood. They were dark of hair, grim-faced and weathered; spears leaned against the table, and she saw the cold flash of steel hidden in belt and boot. One was large, a hulking mass; the other much leaner – but much viler. Their clothes were rugged and frayed, but each wore rings of gold and gems. Their work was clear to her. She would remember them.

But as she looked again, her gaze met the burly one head on. A grin split his face into a line of yellowed teeth. "The little bird is listening," he told his companion.

The other man turned, squint-faced and leering; he wriggled a finger at her, beckoning her closer. "Come here, girl." Her nose twitched and her shoulders squared, but there was no fear in her steps as she walked up to their table. Only veiled anger. She could take them both – and a part of her hoped it would come to a fight. Her booted steps fell hard against the floorboards. When she stood before the pair, he spoke again with a wickedness. His words were a mockery. "Always waiting, and watching, like a sparrow hunting for crumbs by the Lords' table. Shall we feed you?"

She eyed them. "I see no lords here, only petty thieves thinking themselves high and mighty."

Their gazes darkened, yet neither made a notion to move. The thin man leaned back in his chair. Fingers twitching, hoving just a little bit closer to hidden daggers; Rell would be faster. "Say that again and see what will happen." It was a promise, warning of painful and terrible things if she did not keep her tongue. She held up her hands and stepped away, not yet turning her back on them but circling towards the entrance. Perhaps it was a threat to most – to Rell it was not. It was an invitation she would happily accept.

"It is not I with a noose around my neck." She inclined her head. "I shall see you again."

Moments later, Rell stepped into the cold Winter and felt icy droplets against her face. The rain had started coming down. Pulling her cloak closer, she did not return to the stables; instead, she took a turn left and followed the road at a slowed pace. Only a few were out, rushing from one place to another; heads bowed and hoods drawn. They spared her no thought. But she would not yet return to her camp outside of Bree, for there was still work to be done for the night. She listened keenly.

Two pairs of feet had followed her outside.

They kept their distance, biding their time until she would be alone.

Her heart beat loudly, thrumming for a fight. The road veered, following the dike, and nothing but a frayed silence was in the air. It was easy for her to keep tabs of her pursuers – and there was only one now. He was whistling. When finally there came an opening between two houses, leading off and down the hill, into a narrow passage of deep darkness, Rell took it. Her steps echoed, resounded tenfold, against the enclosing walls. So close it was, that she could touch both sides at once if she so wished. The man behind her followed.

Ten steps.

Then twenty.

He stopped.

Rell did the same. Only a thin sliver came from a wan moon, and her other senses took over; it smelled of damp rot, and the constant dull pitter-patter of rain blanketed the world around her. Everything beyond the alley disappeared in the darkness. She brushed aside her cloak, baring the sword at her belt yet drew it not, as she turned to face the man. It was the larger of the two; so hulking he was, that she could not see the road behind him. There was little else visible, besides the grin on his face – had the light been better, then certainly he would not have been in such a mood.

The man came closer, at a pace that seemed almost leisurely, until he was so close Rell could smell him. He stank; of stale ale and filth, rusted iron. Blood that was not his own. There was a gleam of dull metal, of a blade tucked into his sleeve. When he was within distance of her unseen sword, she finally spoke. Her pursuer came to a halt. "Where is your friend?"

He smiled wider, showing yellowed teeth. Try me, the smile said, please.

"You got a name?" Rell asked.

More teeth.

"Any idea when he will be back?"

Teeth, again.

"Should I be talking slower?"

He scowled.

Darkness closed in tighter around them, seeping out of overhangs and barred doorways. A cart creaked by someplace behind them on the main road. "I shall make this simple for you – for the both of you," she added. "Turn yourselves in to the gate-wardens, confess to your crimes, whatever they may be ... Or be dragged there by me." Rell shifted, so quietly he could neither see nor hear her move; one foot behind the other, adjusting her weight for a blow soon to come. Keeping her face blank in the dull moonlight. For the briefest of moments, a wind blew, and her sword flickered and disappeared once more from view.

Cold rain trickled down her skin, and her hair clung to her face, obscuring her vision in dark tendrils.

The large frame shook in laughter, soon booming between the walls of the alley. The steel in his hand flashed. "I have a better plan." His voice slurred. One hand moved to his groin, and the other raised his weapon until it was level with her head. The tip of the dagger hovered into her sight, sharp and shaky. His breath stank as his grin widened. She exhaled slowly. "I would say an apology is in order–"

Yet Rell was already turning aside, stepping away, as the tip of a spear lashed out from behind her. It swept past her face. There came a grunt of surprise from the second man, when he, instead, carved the air in a wide arch and not her; he had snuck up on them, using the night as his cover. But Rell was no fool. She had heard the sound of shuffling feet and the muffled breathing. She had smelled him. And now he came tumbling past her.

He was given no chance to regain his footing – she turned on him at once, grabbing hold of the spearshaft and then pulling down hard.

Her knee connected with his face in a splatter of warm blood, likely shattering his nose, and in the same move her fingers dug into his hair. She yanked him up, twisting with all her strength; then slammed him into the wall. His body was limp even before he hit the ground. The other – taken by surprise and hardly clearheaded as it was – was only halfway through his own thought of attack. The dagger raised, but he was still standing in the same place as she had left him. Flabbergasted.

So Rell moved first.

She closed in fast, rushing to put herself inside the span of his attack. Ducking down, the small blade soared over her; cutting through nothing, and he was left defenseless against the collision. Stumbling over his own feet, he hit the muddy ground so hard his teeth rattled. So loud it was, that even she could hear it. After that, he seemed little inclined to get up again.

"Stay," she ordered.

Rell stepped on his foot, adding pressure until he released the dagger.

Kicking it away, Rell walked around him so both men were in her sight; the other appeared entirely senseless, but one could never be too sure.

Her attention came to the whimperings by her boot. She crouched. "Do not move if you wish to keep your head." Above her, the moonlight flickered and swayed with each passing cloud of dreary grey, and her shadow spread wide. Her cloak billowed, rippled in the wind. Had he not seen her sword before, he did now. Very clearly. Rummaging through the folds and hidden gaps of his clothes, Rell searched for items of interest; a small, rusted blade, a pouch of clinking coins of both cobber and silver, and a thin chain of solid gold. "There are many ways to make a living," she muttered, leaving her findings – except the knife – for the wardens to handle. "This? This was a poor choice."

He did not reply. Rell poked at him – knocked out, she mused.

The downpour fell harder, pitting against the roofs and stones, drowning the sounds around her to a deafening quiet. Rell brushed hair from her face, then tugged the hood over her head. A quiet shuffle, movement from the corner of her vision, made her look away from the larger body. It seemed her second adversary had regained consciousness; fingers scraping a way up the wall, searching for hold, the man struggled upright. He stood swaying for a moment, uncertain and disoriented, but then his dark eyes snapped to her. His body turned rigid.

Rell clicked her tongue beneath her breath. "You," she said, slowly standing. "Do not move."

Whether she had expected much, or anything else than what then happened, she was left with little time to react. The man scrambled along the alley, heedless of the Ranger's exasperation, for his wild gaze was trained entirely on the roads beyond; even when Rell took up persuit. "Get away from me, you wretched creature!" He screeched, voice slurred by the blood gushing steadily from his broken nose; another dagger was pulled, clutched tight to his chest when he soon understood the hopelessness of escape.

And in that moment he was the most dangerous to her, for the desperate animal had the worst bite. The earlier fight had been easily won, when they were blind with confidence; but this before her now? It was a threat. A wild animal with nothing to lose – and everything to win. And he looked entirely feral; wild hair and wilder eyes, beads of sweat and blood dripping off his face; a constant stream of words spat at her.

She walked no further. Instead, she raised her hands before herself; she wielded no weapon, for the sword had yet to leave her belt, and for a moment she stood unarmed before him. "I hope to bring you to the wardens alive, so that you may pay in a manner most suited the crimes. But," she added, a flash of warning in her eyes. "I have every right by the laws of this land, to cut you down where you stand. I give this choice to you. Your fate is your own."

How Rell had hoped to avoid bloodshed; mayhap their vile deeds were born from hopeless misery, from poverty or hunger. Only the Valar knew what led a person to their path in life. Rell wished not to play executioner.

But as it was, unfortunately – you have made your choice, then – the man saw not her actions for what they were; he saw weakness, and not mercy. With a snarl he lunged at her, with the sole purpose of gutting her with the thin blade. A silver flash of steel. A single cut. That was all it would take for her to watch the man; watch as the last flickers of life kicked and twitched from his body, until he turned deadly still on the ground. The light in his eyes would fade. He would be dead, by her hand. She chose the path of grace.

Rell diverted her sword in the nick of time, turning the blunt side to meet his blow. The small dagger missed its mark.

Another step forward, a twist of her wrist, and she tore a deep gash into his leg. He would live; but he would not flee.

He collapsed to the ground in a terrible scream, clutching at the wound. A sluggish stream of blood pressed a way between his fingers, red on pale white, as he writhed and cursed. Watching him with little affection, Rell cleared her sword in her cloak, then walked over to collect her captive. Through the haze of terror and pain, she saw also turmoil in his gaze. To fight, or escape, or surrender.

She sat down on his back, knees digging into the deep squelch of water and sludge on either side, and found his discarded weapon. "Try anything with me, and I will cut off the one part of you that you cherish the most." He tried to shake her off, to run away, but she grabbed him by the collar and pushed him face down into the mud. Gurgling and spluttering, the man struggled harder; Rell turned his own knife to him, and pressed down harder. "Try with anyone else, then know that I will gut you like the pig you are. Understood?"

There was a whimper.

She grabbed a handful of hair and yanked the man's head back in a hard jerk, baring his throat to the blade. She pressed it close, so close he could feel its cold steel. He was held suspended for a while, wide eyes transfixed on the sliver of metal just beyond his vision; but then Rell released her grip, and he sagged down into the mud once more. "Understood?" Rell repeated, and this time he nodded furiously – or as much as possible, with her pressure squishing his face into the dirt. "Good. Now, I will carry neither you nor your friend over there; so crawling or walking, you will be the gate-wardens' issue within this hour, or no one's issue at all."

With the Winter storm bearing down harder over the sleepy village, where most lights had dimmed and night found most, Rell trudged through the streets; ahead of her went the two men, hobbling and clutching at each other, both so unsteady it was hard to tell who helped who. Neither could likely walk without the other. And while they walked toward whichever punishment they then deserved, she cursed her own thoughts. Some part of her had wanted a fight; to be of use beyond the repetitious patrols of colourless lands, where the hunt only brought critters and empty snares.

They came to the West gate, soon met by latern light and the bleary-eyed gatekeeper. He appared to have been sleeping, rather than working his post; but Rell did not complain.

A fair bit of expaining later, she could hand over her two captives – to the stocks or the gallows, that was for others to decide – and she could return to The Prancing Pony. The thrum and nerves of the fight had were fast abating, leaving her cold and shivering; she packed her belongings and saddled Luin as quickly as she could. Sleep called to her. Rell thanked the Hobbit and bid him a fair night, before she made her way beneath the archway and into the streets beyond.

The cobbled roads were empty, and so she took to riding.

Soon, the gate stood closed behind her; a single lonesome eye of flame seen, telling her the gatekeeper watched her until that, too, disappeared in the all-consuming dark. Rell followed only the path for a short distance. When she was out of sight, she then veered off, scrambling down a grass-strewn slope into thick trees below. The woods stood clustered along the great East Road, and proved excellent cover for the solitary traveller; with tangled thickets and deep hedges, cut through by an unnoticeable animal trail.

Rell dismounted and led Luin forward by hand. The path ran down the hill into a deeply dug bed of fern and wilted heather, sides overhung with brambles and moss. Twisted elms and oaks gave cover from the ceaseless rain, and even the air was still and stuffy. Only the tallest branches rattled in a high wind. It was her camp – and had been for more than a month. Undisturbed and secluded.

She unpacked, got a fire burning, and turned in for the night.

No dreams came to her that night; only a single wish.

Let tomorrow be without adventure.

Chapter Text

July, The Third Age, 3017

Under warm winds and clear skies, Éomer had spent his time in open fields of tall, green grass; he had partaken in the foaling – as he did each year that came and went – alongside herdsmen and riders, alike. Many of the Rohirrim's own great steeds had sired foals. Under the strict directions of the Master of Horses; each with a purpose, to carry on the legacy of strength and speed. Even his very own, Firefoot, would soon have a couple of colts and fillies in the stables donning mirrors of his pearl coat.

He watched gentle spirits born with the blooming of springtime blossoms; subtle chestnut dapple, inky black, or snow-peaked grey. Clever eyes and gangly limbs. The first hit the ground in early May, many more following soon after. It was not long before they ran through valley groves and shadowed meadows by their mothers' flanks. In early mornings they were ghostly shapes, dim and formless in the haze, accompanied by the rolling thunder of hooves; by night mere shadows weaving through the deepening dark.

They were as free as the land.

With the twinkling stars their company, the Rohirrim found each night sleep beneath the canopy of sky and cloud; accompanied by rich smells of roasted mutton, baked vegetables and potatoes, and fresh bread; warmed by high-piled fires. The tall peaks of the White Mountains peering down over them as silent guardians and watchers, sheer cliffs and tumbling greens falling into the open lands of Rohan. It was in those moments, when all seemed as if touched by tranquility and peace, that darker thoughts always seemed to return to him. When sleep invaded his insistent mind, and the sun vanished beyond the rim of the world. Warning him of darker days to come.

As light dwindled on such a Summer's day, in turn, Éomer's worries grew. Captured by memories that were once fond. He would recall a time – when life was still without sorrow, touched only by the wild dreams of a young boy – under the very same starry sky. Side by side with his father, Éomer had followed the herds across the plains; ridden so fast, so recklessly, that the wind was mere howls in his ears rivaling peals of laughter. Seeing a world of bright colours, of wonders and marvels. He had felt invincible. He had been as free as the horses they had followed.

But he was a child no longer.

Now, when youthful days soon passed to remembrance, and a life had become entwined with duty, Éomer found himself but an unwitting part of a greater plan. A pawn in the hands of both good and evil. Soon – far too soon – the young foals would be tamed, brought to obey the commands of riders; fitted for war. As the thought passed his inner eye, he could hear the stamping beyond the gloom of night; skittish and playful all the same. Many would die in the months and years to come, horses and riders alike.

Their lives would be short.

Messengers from Gondor brought tidings of ill. From Khand and beyond the Sea of Rhûn, armies of Easterlings flocked to the calling of Mordor. Foul beasts bred in myriads under the shadow of Mount Doom, and only the strength of the South-Kingdom held them still at bay; in the lands of Ithilien and from the ruins of Osgiliath. But step by step, the bravery of Men faltered. Strange, terrible, it was to wait and yet do nothing. To await the blaring horns of rallying armies and orders of war; words that would never come, for they had to come from a king striken with sickness.

A malady of the mind held claim to the King of Rohan.

Éomer looked above the flames, over the bowed heads of his men. Listless he felt, and he stared long without seeing what lay beyond. For how long, he could not recollect. But then, suddenly, something came to his gaze; silver-pale, a shape hardly visible caught in the flickering light of fire, a solitary figure stood. Dark, black eyes lifted and peered straight back at him. The horse seemed as if floating in the gloom. Unbroken, he watched as if enthralled for many long and breathless moments. It shimmered like moonlight caught in deep pools, ethereal and otherworldly; shadows woven into life.

It was but a glimpse of something.

As sudden as it had arrived, it was gone once more.

He came to sit straight, cloak and pelts rustling, as he rubbed bleakness from his eyes. Is this a dream in waking? Before him was naught but the dullness of night, no matter how hard he gazed into the twilight void; a quiet wind came blowing, rousing the grass in an ominous whisper. Ash danced. Éomer shifted to his feet, fastening his sword-belt and found the heaviness of Gúthwinë. Then, he stepped around the fire and the sleeping, bundled forms that surrounded it. His departure caught the ever-watching eyes of Éothain. The man never slept before his Marshal.

"My lord–"

Éomer motioned for his squire to remain. "I will not be far," he replied, turning to the open field beyond their campsite. "But I ask a moment alone with my thoughts."

Feeling the quiet discontent, and ever-present worry in the gaze of his friend, Éomer drew his cloak tight around his shoulders. The ground beneath his feet was soft with moss. The orange glow of the fire lit his path ahead, but it was not long before only the stars and crescent moon were his company; lonely company it was, perhaps, but his mind was far and elsewhere. Searching through the night for another fleeting glimpse. A flicker of what he thought he had seen. Night-shadows and darkness, hollow and immense; a vastness that seemed without form.

Yet Éomer had seen it. Mayhap the wildest imaginings, equeal parts spun from actual dread and wonderous hope, there was a drumming in his chest. His heart pounding in anticipation – it had been but a shimmer of silver in the night. He put his hand to his chest. This is truly a night of memories, he thought, following the gentle slope uphill. He climbed steadily upwards, led by a chill wind blowing against his back, as his mind came to stories told under endless skies and stars. His father's voice. Words telling tales of great marvels, under the cover of wolf-pelts, until rest came to them.

And there, in the cracks between waking and sleep ...

Flickering flames and dark silhouettes were behind him, when Éomer stepped to the crest of the hill; high and flat-topped, and before him stretched the plains of Rohan. The White Mountains ahead, dipped in gloom, and distant. Lit only by a veiled moon, touching low on the horizon. For a while he stood, silently watching. Scattered trees, the deadly silence of a bird of prey swooping down into the canopy. His mind reeled in disarrayed thoughts.

A twinkling caught his eyes, just below the mound upon which he stood. There, then gone. Appearing as a flicker once more ahead; again, and again, it came and went, but each time further and further from his place on the hill. He understood. Éomer followed, making his way down in the darkness with cautious steps; leaving the encampment and the protection of his guards, yet there was no hesitation in his heart. He was beckoned forward.

It was no choice to him; a hand not his own guided his steps.

He adhered to the path of the dancing silver, always too far to see clearly, though always within the edge of sight. Walking around a handful stunted trees, he found thickets growing dense, bushes of many herbs and hidden stones; lily-flowers asleep, white heads nodding in the deep grass; more trees grew ahead of him, birch and bay, shadowed boles and reaching branches. For a moment he looked back, searching for the hue of flames. There was a glow in the distant sky, skirting the top of a hill.

How far he had walked.

Then, Éomer turned his mind back to the path ahead of him, and so stepped into the thicket. Mild moonbeams found flittering ways through the cover, silver light that did little to aid his searching feet. Darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. And so he used his hands, holding on to rough boughs and cool boles, always gazing searchingly ahead. A little way further, and suddenly he was met with a chill splash; encircled by dark-leaved poplars and a deep bed of fern, a mirror-still lake spread before him. He recoiled, for he had plunged straight into its waters.

Yet not a ripple broke the surface.

Learning forward, Éomer gazed into the waters and saw only a deep nothingness; no moon nor stars reflected, no hues of blue night-skies, only a yawning empty. And himself. It was as if some sorcery bid him forward, to reach out his hands – and he did. Breaking through the stillness of the lake, he felt neither coldness nor warmth, as if only touching air. Nothing stirred. What place have I been led to? He marvelled, searching his heart for trepidation. Yet he found only certainty. A clarity he could not understand, yet seemed to linger over him.

A glimmer at first, at the edge of his sight, on the distant bank made him find his height once more. Then, growing to a dazzling shimmer, an ethereal formlessness taking shape; the horse heeded him not. Instead, it drank from the waters; so long, it felt to Éomer an eternity passed. But all he could do – and wished to do – was watch. Under the light of moon, the coat shimmered silver, yet its hooves were shod in gold.

The spirit, for surely it was not a creature of Éomer's world, drank until it was full.

He stood in wonder, waiting for the horse to move as if his fate was bound to it; he knew it – in both name and purpose – yet dared speak it not. No man, woman, nor child of the Rohirrim did not know the steed before him. The wind blew then, suddenly harsh and cold, from someplace beyond the Eastern hills. Violently, it swept through the glade; rousing silver-cloaked poplars in a hissing dance, until even the still lake rippled to life. The mirrored moon flickered, then died within the fretful waves, and the creature's peace was broken.

Its great head rose, black eyes peering up to meet his own; slowly, it blinked, infinitely more clever than any horse of Man, and it seemed as if speaking to him. "Nahar," Éomer whispered, perhaps so softly the words never left his lips. Kindled within some part of his restless heart. "Show me my path. Show me where to tread in this world of evil fates."

The howling wind swelled, now churning, tearing into him; biting to reach his bones. The horse made no answer.

"What says your Master, he of wisdom, of wrath,–" Éomer's cloak billowed, trapping him within, as the pool of dark waters turned brighter with the weakening of night. His call was taken from him, breath stolen by the growing wind; it was a storm from the East that would leave nothing standing. "What must I–?"

The horse blinked once, slowly and carefully, then turned away from the lake.

It left Éomer fighting alone against the winds, untouched, silver coat shifting to clear white; golden hooves making a path through tall grass bound the straight way West. Then it vanished, like a chill mist touched by the morning's light; as if it had never been. He sank to his knees, unable to withstand the force pressing against him – stronger and stronger it was, until he could do nothing more than surrender.

In the far distance, a solitary horn rang out; clearing and louder than even the howling winds.

He woke.

As sudden as he had fallen asleep, wakefulness found him once more; the lands remained grey, skies touched by fretful clouds and tall, snow-capped mountains. The howling bites of the wind were gone – had never been – for Éomer lay wrapped in cloak by the burnt-out fire of the camp. He breathed, deeply and unsettled. Disturbed by the visions of night. How real they had felt; so much so that even now, realising they had been but tricks of his own mind, they were hard to shake.

Éomer slowly came to sit. Around him, the world stirred steadily to life. Tendrils of gold and red broke through the bleak, hoary horizon as the sun rose for another day. A faint trail of mist blurred his vision, yet seemed to steadily lift. Blearily, he blinked, listening then to a wind now only a breeze. It murmured and whispered, dancing a way through grass and field; a peaceful kin of the tormentor in his mind. He struck his knuckles in his eyes; pressing hard, fighting to settle his restless thoughts. To anchor them in reality. Not in dreams ...

"My lord," a voice spoke from above.

With a long-drawn breath, Éomer pried his hands away and looked up. Éothain stood, seemingly uncertain, holding a wide, crudely carved bowl; he placed it before the Marshal, who found it filled with fresh water. "Thank you, my friend," he smiled wearily. He laved his fingers first, watched the faint tremble he could not still, then submerged fully beyond his wrists. It was cold. The other man sat down on the soft ground, quietly waiting.

Droplets ran the length of his arms, soaking into the wool of his sleeves, as Éomer withdrew once more. Then, he plunged his head into the chill water, setting his skin ablaze in pinpricks, splashing both his neck and ears. When he emerged not long after, there was clarity in his mind; another day before him. His shoulders squared and the twitching stilled. The strength of his will hardened. While the steed had said nothing, done little, it had shown him the path – untouched and windless it had been.

West.

The hunting-horn of the Vala, Béma; he, who pursued monsters and evil creatures throughout the lands, had called to Éomer in his sleep. Or, at least, so the stories were told – he recalled his father's voice, spinning great tales of myths and legends, and how one should always listen. A horse of silver and gold, a symbol of hope for those lost to the darkness. And truly ... Éomer felt lost, trapped in his own mind of wretched misery and helplessness. He wiped the water from his face, feeling a soft caress of sun trailing slowly, but surely up his spine. It spilled over the rolling hills, across leagues upon leagues of grass; a world vivid with greens and browns and blues, battling away the broad swath of mist until it was but a faint haze.

Éomer rose and paced the length of the stone-encircled fire. He fell to silent brooding. There were perils ahead, where mistrust and lurking doubt were his unshakable companions. "Bring me parchment and ink," he said, turning around to face Éothain. "Have messengers prepared to depart at once, with haste and in secrecy. We shall wait for war no longer."

Éothain bowed fleetly, before turning to follow his Lord's orders.

It was not long thereafter, when Éomer sat hunkered down over three scrolls, laid flat across his thigh; now finishing the second of two that had been written in haste. With swift-scratched marks of the quill, they were to be brought to Helm's Deep – to his true ally, a solitary watch guarding the way into Rohan from the West – and to Meduseld. When the king would call no council, heed no warnings, the duty then fell to his Marshals. This mantle I shall not forsake, he thought, coiling the parchment into a tight roll.

Secured with his seal, Éomer hesitated but for a moment.

He handed the scrolls to his squire with a word of command. "One for Théodred, the other for the King. And the King only – I will not have my words gone through that serpent's fingers." He could read curiousness in the echoed gaze, and spoke again. "We will return to Edoras, with men enough to secure the road; but without delay, for I believe now, and not later, is the time for action. I have asked the Second Marshal to convene with us there. We may have no real proof of Saruman's dealings, but he shall have my silence no longer."

Then, in pensive thought, he watched; eyes veiled and following the messages delived to riders. The fastest of their group, sure-footed and uncatchable. And unquestionably loyal.

His word would be delivered.

But what would then come of them? What fate – for himself and others – had been put into motion with this dream of strange prophecy? A life; a long life or a short life, the road he was now walking was not alone, for many followed in his wake. His words could mean death for many. He would die by the blade; on the battlefield by sword or axe, or with a throat slit in the dark of night; as much was clear to him. There was no doubt to his own end ... It was only a matter of when. Under the cloudless, light-blue sky, an unseen future painted in uncertainty unravelled before him.

Abruptly, Éomer flattened the last parchment and gripped the quill once more. This, the third letter, took longer to write.

His precious sister was wise – molded by hardships and steadfast sensibilities – until her gaze was left sharp, and her wits sharper. His words were penned with care. Éowyn seemed always capable of reading between the lines, to find whichever truth was hidden in his heart; despite his best efforts to shield her from the war-torn world, and the plight of their people. You deserve better, he thought.

The letter spoke of reassurances. Of the quiet Summer of the East-mark, the foaling; the new and old since her last stay in Aldburg soon three years ago. His fingers uncurled and curled around the willow quill, its tip perched above his last words. A single blotch of black ink. Éomer sighed. The smell of grass and horse was heavy in the air. He wrote of his return to Edoras. With such easy indifference – a mere gathering of missed kin – he feared it too conspicuous, for, certainly, his visit was anything but.

Éomer gave it no more thought, knowing well little else could be said.

And so it was, as he made preparations for the road, that two riders vanished beyond the sun-touched fields West-bound. One for Edoras, and another for Helm's Deep. With a pensive look he watched them depart, for with them they carried tidings of breaking peace. Despite long hours of sleep, he felt haggard. A soft breeze tugged at his cloak, cool and fresh with dew, and Éomer shook himself from thoughts.

Open-eyed I must walk. He tightened his sword-belt, felt the rattling of metal and steel; a weight heavy in burden. With courage, even if there is but a small hope for ourselves. Duty demanded such of him, to face perils where both conviction and despair were akin. He shifted his cloak into place and turned to Éothain. The man had been swift at work, and behind him were his riders at the ready; twenty strong, astride great horses clad in leather and mail. Helping hands with the new foals, but, more than anything, keen eyes and guards of the Marshal.

Spears shimmered in the morning's light.

"We ride now," he said, finding at first his voice thin; almost lost to the air. Then, clearing his throat, new strength rose in him, and his voice rang out much clearer. "We shall ride to Aldburg, to resupply provisions and armour – but know that the road will lead further. There will be little time with your families, and take solace in what brief moment you may have, for I call upon you now; your duty to your King takes us West. Fears and dangers lurk on this path, where once there was peace, and do not heedlessly believe these lands our own." Each knew better then; it had taken but two arrows to paint Rohan's rolling plains in shades of hostility.

Éomer accepted his helmet.

Vigilance or death, he thought.

The stay in Aldburg was short-lived.

In a flurry of commotion, mostly overseen by the strict watch of Éomer's squire barking orders, they departed once more. From the wooden gates, flanked by green pennants battling the wind, they rode two-and-two in a line unbroken; following the dust road with trampling hooves, and heavy hearts. Flat lands surrounding them, Éomer turned his mind to deeper thoughts; he hoped that, with his cousin's help, together they could reason with the ailing King.

For certainly, Théoden, Lord of Rohan, was not well. While in Edoras, Éomer intended to better keep an eye on the decaying health of his liege, as well as the slithering snake of a counsellor. The bitter truth had come to him during the last stay under Meduseld's golden roof. Wormtongue was an enemy of Rohan – somehow, for reasons unknown to all but the serpent's black heart, the man had betrayed his country. His king. Leaked poison into the veins of a noble lord, leaving him blind and deaf to the plight of his people.

They followed a broad swath of open ground, where long ago thickets of oak and walnut had been cut down; it was the main road for the riders of the Rohirrim, as well as traders and merchants, to pass between Aldburg and Edoras. It was a longer way, bringing them many miles around the swiftest, narrower paths, but it meant traveling in safety. The wildwood could here never creep back, for each sapling was churned by wagon-wheels and hooves at each emergence of Spring-bloom.

Way-stones carved with runes came and went quickly, for the riders took no rest during the day.

The meandering road was sprawled with smaller towns and settlements; farmsteads and holdfasts walled in wood, nested between crested hills and deep valleys. The ground was flat and stretching endlessly. Only shallow streams and narrow rivers broke the dusty path, every so often, and supplied water for both horse and rider at midday, when the sun was at its highest.

But in the falling dusk, he could see dark trees looming beyond the stretch of open. And here they made camp, a distance to the thinned forest; picking firewoods, lighting orange eyes in the night, as sleep found them soon on a bed of soft grass. Yet no rest came to Éomer. He sat hunkered over, while his thoughts went out far and wide; listening to the scuffling of his men. The dream had stayed long with him, struggling to find reason within the visions; whether it be a gleam of hope or rueful desperation. Éomer drew a deep breath.

He felt too worn out to feel much, beyond a creeping uneasiness not quite turned to fear. Whispering along the ground flowed a cold air. In the upper skies blew drab clouds, trailing away eastward, and it was not long before the chill turned stifling. Rain followed soon after. Yet he did nothing against the sudden downpour, allowing instead the battering droplets to trail numbing lines down his face.

His devotion and affection for his King – unwavering in his allegiance – was an obstacle to the White Wizard. Éomer understood as much. Until his dying day, with sword and shield, he would keep by his troth. Tilting his head backwards, he stared long into the deep gloom of night; sky and cloud meshed into one, and not a star in sight. Deceitful sickness had, perhaps, claimed the mind of his uncle; but Éomer recalled the twinkle of wisdom in his eyes, the strength of his hands. The devotion in Théoden's heart.

There is still hope, he decided. So long as we are willing to fight for it.

They were not yet lost in ruin.

So it was, as if the Valar themselves had listened keenly to his steadfast dedication, and with far-seeing eyes found a way ahead. The dense cloud-cover broke in a wild wind, for the briefest of moments, to leave a solitary light glistening high above. The rainful air was full of a mingled scent; something that carried him back to brighter days. He knew then, that despite the darkness of night, Summer was still in bloom all around them. Encircled in flowers and life, not yet – and perhaps never – smothered by the world's evils.

Dark thoughts found easy paths to the heart in dark days, but by his will they would not fester.

Throughout the night, the rain dwindled, turned south over distant, unseen, mountains, and left a gap of moonlight through shredded clouds. It brought some comfort to the sleeping forms of his men, bundled silhouettes that welcomed any short moment of respite. The fires had been doused, leaving damp ash and smoke; Éomer rekindled the one closest to him, diligent work until flames crackled to life in soggy wood.

There, by the struggling fire, he sat for many long and quiet hours. Waiting for dawn. He watched the change of guard, the shifting winds; the cold and wet turning of the light. It was to distant bird-song that sunrise came over eastern hills, but a crack of red over a shadowed horizon. The time to depart came swift. And the day's journey went well, and two days went quickly by; for they rode at speed only known to Rohan's horses, and they lingered not in fair woodlands or open fields.

At length they came to Edoras; it was then drawing towards evening, and the gloom of the hill lay dark on the road. The golden hall seemed as if lit by fire.

They passed beneath the shadow of the gate and found the town silent. But Éomer rode steadily ahead, following the familiar path between thatched houses; climbing the road until he came to the steep stone-stairs leading to the keep. Grey clouds from the West appeared laden with rain, once more, hurrying by in a darkening sky; yet still, the roof seemed burning in his eyes. His heart sank a little.

He dismounted Firefoot, handing both reins and helmet to an approaching servant, and turned his gaze to the rising steps.

Long before he reached the terrace, the seated guards had risen. One man stepped forward to meet the Marshal. Green-cloaked and clad in mail, yet his sword hung untouched at his side. Éomer smiled a thin smile, though not without warmth. He knew well the Doorward. "I greet you, Éomer, Marshal of the Mark," he spoke, voice loud and clear. "We received your message yesterday, and have been expecting you ever since."

"And I greet you, Háma," he replied.

The guards opened the doors by command of the Ward; on large, creaking hinges, to the dim hall within. From within he could hear mumured voices, jumbled and indistinct. "The court awaits your arrival," Háma said, stepping aside to allow the Marshal passage first. Éomer's eyes flickered briefly to the man, sharp and understanding; their gazes held for a moment. Éomer fixed his cloak and sword. The court.

Éomer entered.

Not the King.

Chapter Text

The light was dull – nothing more than a gloomy drab, for the great hearths were but dying smolders in the King's hall, and only a thin streak of midday sunlight followed his shadow inside. Éomer stood, touched by a flicker of disquietude; apprehension of what awaited him within. His booted steps rang hollow as he began his walk. Once, twice. The large doors closed behind him, a jarring, thudding sound that stole escape from his grasp. Thrice. An animal caught in a trap, or so he felt. He could feel naught but hostility in Meduseld.

He did not look back.

He refused to do so.

Instead, Éomer steeled his gaze and fixed it squarely upon the dais ahead. Beneath the carven roof, with banners of white horses and golden threads, a throne stood empty. It seemed, despite messengers of his arrival, his welcome would be with little warmth or familiarity. His hand swept across his shoulders, brushing aside his green cloak; chainmail and sword gleaming red in the sconce-light. He was not without weapons.

The very air seemed suspended; brown, and black, and grey, and entirely steeped in shadows. A great gloom and stillness, yet he sensed the flicker of movement, of shapes. Somewhere, on both his left and right, watching and waiting. With a sinking heart, Éomer made his way to his king's rightful place. From the gloom came a man – another man, for he was nothing akin to his uncle. Vehement fury curdled in Éomer's mind. "From your charge in the Eastfold you have ridden." The words echoed between the pillars, a voice carried above the silence. Dripping with venom. "Have you so forsaken your duty?" Spoken in a serpent's tongue; with such haughty condescension it took all of Éomer's will not to answer without thought.

Not before he stood by the steps leading up to the dais, and the spindly, pale-faced man loomed within arm's reach, did Éomer halt. His fingers itched to grab the king's counselor by the scruff of his fur-lined cloak, to drag him from a hall he was utterly unworthy of residing in. The sound he would make, thrown from the stone steps ... His fingers clenched – and just as soon, unclenched – for Gríma's dark eyes found the movement at once. An eerie, thrilled glint was in the man's gaze.

"Is it I, or you, Wormtongue, that carries the mantle of Marshal?" Éomer replied.

A scoff carved ashen skin to a grimace. "It is of little matter, when your absence leaves our eastern borders wholly unprotected–"

Éomer waited to hear no more, but spoke instead again; voice sharp with command. He made certain each and every hidden shape, lurking within the shadows, heard him as clear as daylight. No crevice of the hall would go deaf to his warning. "You have your words, and the ear of some, but I stand before a counselor of the court, not the King. And I stand here as Marshal of the Riddermark." The withered man scowled, and long fingers curled around the black cloak. Drawing it close. "While my uncle may be absent from his own house, Meduseld is not without its honour and courtesy. Or do you dare stand here before me, you of lower rank, to cast shame upon the Golden Hall?"

When and how his hand found the familiar weight of steel, Éomer could not tell; Gúthwinë rattled in his belt, and he shifted the sword into clearer view. The threat was made clear. Hushed, murmured voices wove beneath the quiet, reaching his ears from the grey gloom that surrounded the throne. His gaze remained on the man before him, steady and clear. His loyalty to his King would never sway, never break to the words of a lesser man.

Éomer knew he played a dangerous game.

Outnumbered, standing alone – a solitary rock against the sweeping tides, fighting against drowning – but for this he was willing to lay down even his own life. "Remove yourself from my sight, worm, and pray to the great Béma I will not make good of this slight. Find the King, if you so insist, and speak your poison, but I shall only ever answer to my lord." He turned on his heel, in a flutter of dancing green, and spoke his final words. "And know this! It will never be you."

He could hear the faint hiss; the sharp inhale through clenched teeth, of words swallowed. It was soon followed by the scurrying of feet and rustling clothes. It appeared Gríma fled the hall, in all likelihood to whisper words of untruth in his uncle's mind. It was a bitter victory, bleeding painfully so in Éomer's heart – only sowing malice and growing animosity against him, marking him in the eyes of those seeking power within court. He was a threat.

Enemies had already come close, when arrows had found their mark. Too close. His shoulder ached at the thought, a sudden and sharp pain that found him once more; it would not be the last attempt at his life. Éomer felt a soft breeze as the doors opened, and a clear view of the lands spread before him. From deep shadows into light.

When he emerged the doorwarden stepped up, helmet at his side, and with a quiet, unreadable look to his face. He bowed to Éomer. "My lord."

"Háma," he said, acknowledging the soldier with a brief nod. He could sense hesitation, a firmness set in the lines of warden's face, and so delayed his descent down the long-winding steps of the hill. He could hear the chuckling stream, making its way downward through the rocky crevices; it came sluggish and chattering. The pair stood alone on the ledge, high above the town. "Éothain told me of your wife giving birth last winter – to a son. My well wishes follow you and your family. I hope they are both good at health?"

"Yes, thank you, my lord. It is our first, and certainly I feel like a fish out of water. But my wife is both an admirable woman and an excellent mother." The man had a faint smile on his lips, thoughts likely flickering to his family; and so, also, away from whichever topic had brought him before the marshal. "She leaves no room for worry!"

Éomer clasped his hands behind his back, listening, as his eyes were looking for nothing over the thatched roofs of Edoras. Many soft lights glowed in many windows, and from open doors poured firelight. But there was no laughter, no sounds of music or song. Somewhere, beyond the rim of the world, the sun was setting to the rough barking of a hound. The first touch of night came to the East, and soon shadows would cast even his own home in deep dusk.

The air was still heavy and warm; hills painted red in the sunset's glow, shadows skirting the distant cliff-lands beyond treeless plains. It seemed a quiet, peaceful evening was ahead of them. It was a silent horizon. "I am glad. Perhaps, if there is a moment of peace to find, I may pay your family a visit. If your wife will have me as guest?"

Háma spluttered and bowed, again. "We would be honoured, my lord!" But then his eyes flickered.

"Speak your mind, Háma, and dread not my reply," Éomer said lightly. He glanced to the man. "I know your heart, and your loyalty, and I fear not your words – though you hesitate to speak them."

There came a moment of surprise, of startlement, and the Ward cleared his throat in a cough. The waning sun gave light and offered each a careful inspection of the other's face. Háma's furrowed, then slackened, as he revealed his words tentatively. "Perhaps I speak out of turn and without permission, and if so, I ask for my lord's forgiveness. But your audience with the court was entirely brief." Éomer scoffed at the thought; Gríma Wormtongue could hardly pass for a court.

A serpent's nest, perhaps.

He quickly motioned for the man to continue, a brisk wave of his hand as he, himself, remained quiet. "I fear the truth has been withheld from you, my lord." An uneasy look came to the soldier. "The King's throne has stood empty long before your arrival – for nigh three weeks, he has not left his chambers for any matter." A terrible coldness, dreadful and harsh with dawning truth, overtook Éomer. His uncle ... The King. He had imagined much and many things; poisoned lies, deceitful words, creating strife and distrust in kin. Masking the drums of war and the march of enemies as naught but falsehoods; mere attempts at the crown.

He would not have been surprised if Wormtongue had turned the King against him; perhaps he had even anticipated it, hence his message to his cousin at Helm's Deep. While his own words could fall on deaf ears, no force in Meduseld could withstand the prince of Rohan if he so wished to speak. Deceit would not trounce a father's love for his own child. But this ...

"He has been bedridden with an unknown ailment. Little more is shared or known between the watch, and even less is it spoken of."

Éomer pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing and brow furrowed. Far too many thoughts and speculations intertwined, too loud; his rampant feelings smothering logic. Everything seemed entirely bleak. Impossible to make sense of, until the jumbled mess became overpowering. An uncontrollable rage swept aside all else, and in that very moment Éomer was ready to draw his sword clean from its sheath – not one would stand between him and his king. The worm would lose its noxious head to the edge of Gúthwinë.

A hand clasped his arm.

Éomer recoiled as if burned. Háma withdrew, quick to speak. "Though it is known, that the Lady Éowyn has not strayed from the King's side throughout it all. Albeit, I do not believe word of your arrival has yet reached her." Turning his gaze to the beyond, aware of every whispered sound carried on the breeze; creaking shutters and hammer-fall, soft thuds of booted steps skirting the keep; Éomer saw deep shadows that mantled the eastern hills and treetops. A mist was in the air. So clear his vision was, yet so utterly steeped in despair he felt in his mind.

It was if he had been taken by blindness, and – likewise, or so it seemed – was his sister; kept in the dark of the ongoings of Meduseld.

Remembering then the silver steed, and now, where all appeared as if in vain, he thanked Béma for His blessing. For the wisdom bestowed upon him in dream. Hope stirred in his heart – for the Vala had led Éomer there in time. The King lives still. Èomer's position was that of peril, alone in the growing night, and so near this vast, intangible menace felt. Then he turned to Háma, a look of approval clear on his face. "Indeed it seems that Meduseld is wisely guarded, by men of honour and loyalty! You are a good man, Háma, captain of the King's Guard. May your heart be steadfast in your post."

Éomer shifted on his feet, shoulders squared. Anger flickered, coiled and writhed uncomfortably in his chest, but he swallowed it. Drowned it in forced clarity. While hope died in him, or seemed to die, his face grew hard, grim; responsibility was on him, a mantle he would not forsake. He brought his eyes back to the stone stairs.

He bid Háma farewell, and began the descent. Each step more bitter than the one before, yet the hostility he had felt – a constant, smothering veil that lingered over the Hall – lessened. The thought of an unseen, dreadful malice, waiting, brooding in its Tower to the west remained with him. He could feel Saruman's invisible grip tightening. Piercing eyes that saw all, knew all, controlled all.

When he finally came to the foot of the hill, Éomer brushed aside his thoughts, as he was there met by a familiar figure. Éothain. The marshal's face deceived little of his mind, nor of what had just transpired, and the squire instead fell into step by his side. Éomer guessed, or knew, that the man had waited; steadfast and ready if his lord so called for it. For this loyalty, he felt immeasurable gratitude. They spoke no words as they continued their walk, leaving the hill and its keep behind in the last light of day.

The shadow of early night followed them through the town.

The air was thick with the smells of life; smoke and dust, of hearty foods and simmering pots. Overhead, the sky was then a deep blue, with only the slightest smudge of orange left to the west. Rain seemed to be on the wind. But if it would reach them or not was another matter. Fickle gales of Summer were swift to change. The open path led the straight way away from the Golden Hall, to the gates and open plains beyond; the path ran wide, for it was often visited by riders and messengers bringing tidings from distant lands. And, beyond the gates, the small company of riders brought with him from Aldburg, were likely busy at work making camp. There was plenty of room, both beds and stables, to host the men – yet Éomer found safety outside, and not within, the fences of Edoras. The guards were his own, men both loyal and familiar, and he knew the heart of each.

He could feel exhaustion pull at him, heavy in both feet and mind. But Éomer took another, more indirect way and turned from the path.

It would give him a brief moment of space to think, and plot. To observe the ongoings around them. And, more than anything, to make use of one of his most valuable assets. With so few afoot, he looked to Éothain. "Did you come across anything during your wait?" Éomer asked. His squire had a masterful tendency to pick up rumours and strings of news, in a way one would not image a man of his size. He listened, and saw much; with an easy, almost flippant air, he could weasel information out of even the most untrusting guard or street-vendor. A skill that had certainly come into use the last couple of years. His eyes were as sharp as his sword.

His gaze flicked past Éomer's shoulder, accustomed to watch for both big and small marks surrounding them. As of late, it seemed, there were always eyes watching. From the sounds of it, someone followed behind them. Éothain shifted, a strained smile – more scoff than mirth – and nodded. "They were there long before your arrival," he said quietly, gloved hand brushing against his beard; the movement of his lips hidden beneath. The pair made a turn, yet made no attempt to gain even a handful paces. It would matter little. "At first I counted four. But there are six of them, each a pair following the ones before."

"Weapons?" Éomer inquired.

Éothain shook his head. "None, or they are well-concealed. They are but flies on the wall, my lord, pickets on the watch ... Though I do advise acting with caution."

So, it seemed, the men following were merely people trading in whispers on behalf of someone else – someone with coins to trade, for it was a bold move to stalk a Marshal of the Riddermark. Even the smallest threat to him would, by law, be permitted to be met with unsheathed blades. Yet they were without intentions to delve into open conflict. For now; the thought was discouraging and heavy-hearted, but at least showed him some hope. The enemy was not entirely in control.

A rapid chirping broke his ponderings, and he stole a glance to a starling hopping about on the ground beside them. It flittered between the walls of two houses, down a narrow alleyway, and the soft thrills dimmed with it. Another darted through the air out of nowhere, landing in the thatched roof; beady, black eyes looking one way, then another, head tilting. Rustling. It seemed, while the town was doused in soundless wait – a calm before the undeniable storm of war – the birds were touched with little concerns.

He took a breath, turning another corner in their zig-zagging path through the town; to leave the starlings to their own musings, and allowed their peace to follow.

Daylight had faded almost entirely. It would not be long before night was fully upon them. His ears attentive, picking up each and every little sound; his own footsteps, a slow, repetitive thud over the dusty ground; the soft murmur of winds through the rafters, the rattling clack of shutters. Voices, low and steady somewhere ahead. The easiest way to tell when something was going down on the street, was to watch those who lived there; they never ran or shouted, or made a fuss. Instead, they would just slowly fade and vanish. A survival instinct. And right then, that instinct was hard at work.

They passed many dark doors.

He could feel tension build through his spine, fingers flexing and hovering by his sword.

The path ahead was empty of any normal evening-traffic. No carts or horses, no children running around in play, despite the Summer's heat lingering in the air. Unspoken, Éothain quickened his pace; so subtle the change was, it appeared undetectable, normal. But they both knew better. Éomer saw three men lounging at the corner across the dusty street, still some distance away, taking turns tossing coins against the wall. All of them were looking far too conspicuously – for they looked not even once, as he and Éothain approached.

"They are the ones from before. And two more down the path we just came from," Éothain said, voice low but even. "They slipped into a couple of doorways when I spotted them."

Éomer's footfalls fell a little heavier than needed, chainmail clanking and glistening in the dimming light. A caustic smile formed on his face. "Flattering in a disturbing sort of way, is it not?" Chilling, more like it. The hired eyes were subtle, playing it safe, but obviously there to keep track of his movements in town; they were a silent warning, a sword hovering inches from his neck. It could fall at any moment, a reminded of an ever-present, looming threat shadowing his every move. How they had seeped into the very heart of Rohan, a stone's throw from the King's hall ... A pustulent wound not even a blade could cut out.

Edoras had grown quieter; ahead on the road, the houses were steeped in grey dusk, and the sky had taken hues of formlessness. In the gloom, passing in but a brief moment, Éomer considered the sanest cause of action. It would be of little good to cause a ruckus – even if his hands itched for a fight, to release the coiling anger he felt within. Unseemly, for one of his rank to stir up such trouble. Already he could hear the disdainful derision from Wormtongue. Peace breaker, uncouth, and unworthy to carry the mantle of responsibility. Such words would be whispered in the ear of his king, sowing further seeds of distrust. His loyalty tainted and warped into belligerence.

No. He would endure, bite his tongue and suffer the shameful choice of cowardice.

The fight would come another day.

There was worth in waiting, in biding his time until the hour of wisdom. He would choke down his own selfish pride. Éomer turned from the men and continued, unfaltering, albeit a struggle to keep his pace from quickening. They would not have such triumph. He ignored the prickling unease beneath his skin; reminding himself that while each step was bitter, it was also wise. He grit his teeth.

When at last they were no longer within hearing, he spoke once more. "Let us make for camp. I have learnt enough."

They moved left, through a narrow alley leading the pair back to the main road. It seemed a sky thick with ascending stars came to the lands, beneath the awnings and roofs; a ragged patchwork of shade and firelight, shadows and colours through which they walked. As the way broadened, it, too, seemed as if life had returned to the town. One man came weaving and stumbling like a drunk, while another pair – husband and wife they seemed – passed by, dragging between them a creaking cart of stacked sacks and cabbages.

Their faces were new. The tautness in his body lessened, draining from him with such haste it left him feeling empty. Almost. A grizzled, grey-haired man hobbled by, an old soldier's limp to his steps; Éomer watched him, even acknowledged the nod of greeting, yet still his eyes sought signs of hidden weapons. There would be no bloodshed within the walls of Edoras – it would be enormous vanity or folly, to strike him down then; proof that his words of strife and betrayal were not outragious lies of warmongering. Not even Saruman had such power; not yet, at least.

The wizard still worked from within the shadows. Éomer's face grew harder as a thought settled. And so shall we. "I expect these watchers to be handled, in a manner both soundless and unnoticed. Let them disappear from Edoras little by little." He met Éothain's gaze. His squire understood; their days would be numbered, and each new morning would hold little hope. They would come to regret their choice in masters.

He spoke the order without hesitation, though his heart did falter; a nagging doubt, but the firmness of his mind was unchangeable, and it would not be waylaid by the scruples of his righteousness. They came to the gate, fast closed and flanked by guards. If the sacrifice was his own honour, to ensure the safety of his people? Then so shall it be.

Heavy bars were lifted and the doors swung open around them. Wind was on his face.

At once they stepped through, finding the plains touched by night and the road dark. Bare and bleak. But not far from the ramparts, nestled beneath the steep rock-hill, stood white tents faintly lit by torches and fires. Silence crept after Éomer, when they followed the descending road. For a moment he paused, seeking a final glance behind. His heart stirred as he looked upon the Golden Hall, high on the ridge beyond the fences. Despite the gloaming sun leaving naught but crumbling trails of red, it seemed as if on fire. On the wind came otherworldly whispers, mocking voices of distant foes. Éomer raised his chin, steadfast and resolute.

Then he turned.

The chirping of crickets in the tall grass, not yet finding peace as warmth gave way for colder airs, accompanied their walk down the rutted path. At the foot of the hill Éomer came to the mounds of his ancestors; where here countless white flowers bloomed, mirroring the stars in the high sky. Dead kings of old rested there. Slumbering and at peace ... He felt laden with sadness.

Éomer crouched by one such grave.

Lowering his face, kneeling as the flat of his hands sank into the soft grass, he remained silent for a while. What was once fair, remained now in darkness. He could sense Éothain waiting. "For every hour that passes, I feel hope lessen." His fingers combed through each blade of grass, as soft as the wind that tugged at his cloak. "Tell me, my friend, do you believe my choice to be right? Or should I let those, who wish harm upon me, go freely?"

Boots came to his vision, as Éothain hunched down beside him. "There is an encroaching darkness upon these lands, and all but a few seem blind to it," he said. "I know you fear the choices you make, my lord, but there is no man I would rather follow; when all is entirely hopeless, when the enemies are at our gate, I will stand with you until the very end. Fate has called us to act, and so we must."

Éomer reached out, clasping his squire's shoulder. In the face of those that followed him, he could not falter. His smile was weary, yet smile he did.

"When dawn comes, and it will come again; when light touches the land, and gold spills over the mountains, we shall know our deeds were just. Some things are only real if one believes in them, even if it comes with a cost. I believe there is still hope. Hope in our people, in our King; that one day Rohan is rid of all its enemies, and we have found peace." Éomer rose and pulled with him Éothain. "Come, let us wait for the morrow, and perhaps then thoughts will become all the clearer."

He would let the dead rest, for little would he find for himself before the end; down into the chill, grey mists of chilling dew, a pale ribbon without light that followed the winding road. And they halted no more, not until the white tents were on every side, and men at the watch came to greet them. Swift they had been at work, and there was now only the quiet of sleep upon his men. Dulled flames; soft stamping of hoofs, nickering; snoring. Éomer was led to a tent in the middle of the encampment, where then – after words of command – was bid farewell by the guard.

Éomer entered, and Éothain followed inside.

Tallow candles burned in a clay pot, allowing a little light to guide his steps. There was not many things to be found within; they had ridden fast, and so travelled light. But exhaustion was his companion, and by then he needed little more than sleep. He unbuckled the sword-belt, laid Gúthwinë carefully on the cot, and leaned over so Éothain could pull the hauberk over his head. Straightening once more, a remarkable sense of lightness came to him; the weight of the chainmail had been an accustomed feeling he was suddenly without. "I will manage the rest," he said. "Go take sleep, my friend."

Finding himself alone in the tent, he sat down and pulled off the muddied boots, and he considered lying down at once. Just for a moment. To let darkness sweep him away, an irresistible wave to wipe away every uncertainty, every worry ... In the grey hours before deep night, before the sun rose and duty came to him again; to find peace before the plunge.

Éomer rubbed at his face, as if to scrub fatigue from his mind.

There was a letter of urgency to be written. Words to hasten Théodred's ride to Edoras, to help with the ailing King and the serpent's court. The traitorous men that walked the streets of the city; Isengard and Saruman, scrambled thoughts of armies and loyalty, deceit and despair. Right and wrong. His duty and his heart. His fingers dug harder into his skin, until light danced against his eyelids; breathing heavy and mind reeling. He had not cried since the death of his parents, but he felt like it then. Harsh, stinging, threatening to fall.

Voices sounded from outside. Familiar yet impossible.

Éomer looked up, just in time for the tent flaps to brush aside and close again.

"You are here," the voice sounded breathless, trembling and hopeful. In the dim candlelight, his sister stood before him.

"Éowyn?"

Chapter Text

A strangled gasp escaped his lips, the breath catching in his throat as if an invisible hand had clasped it shut. His mind, still a battlefield of endless concerns, struggled to reconcile the phantom of his grief with the vibrant, unexpected presence before him. Éowyn. Here. It cannot be. In his tent, amidst the quiet settling of camp. The smell of leather and wood-smoke. She looked thinner than he remembered. It felt like a mirage conjured from his exhaustion, a fragile vision that the dimming light of night might soon dissolve.

It felt as if a burden to speak, to find words to voice his marvel; Éomer pushed himself up from the cot.

"Éowyn," he murmured once more, as if speaking her name would make her real. His voice raspy with fatigue. He lifted a leaden hand, wanting to touch her – to find proof that standing before him was not but a cruel trick of his mind. To ground himself in the reality of her presence. Her own hand quickly met his, for she had stepped forward, her fingers cool against his skin; a fleeting respite from his gnawing worries flickered within him, a small measure of solace. The tightness of his shoulders, the dull ache at his temples, eased ever so slightly. "How did this come to be?"

Her smile was one of knowing cunning, a glint to her eye, as Éomer led her further into the tent. He left the starlit night outside. "Do you not believe word travels fast within Meduseld? That I would not hear of your arrival?" Her smile tightened. As if it was her own, Éowyn found his cot – a simple straw-stuffed pallet with a rough blanket – and sat down, in a flurry of elegant silks and gossamer; yet he remained standing, his brow furrowed, the weight of his concerns anchoring him to the spot. He had hoped, yet never believed, to see his sister without a struggle – that she would have been kept from him, only for her to find him in the deepest of night.

"But the King," he began, his voice low. "With his state, with Wormtongue–" The name itself tasted foul on his tongue. "Háma told me all he could; that you were kept in the dark of my arrival."

"Wormtongue believes the King his puppet, and in his arrogance, he underestimates those who truly care for our uncle." A shadow crossed her face, a hint of the grim reality she navigated. "There are ways, Éomer. Ways known to loyal hearts and quick minds. And sometimes," she added, her gaze meeting his with a spark of that peculiar mischief. "A little cunning can open paths where walls seem to stand. They may believe me blind, occupied only with the duties of the household. But loyalty still whispers within those walls; and news, whether welcome or ill, has a way of finding those who have ears to hear."

A slow smile spread across Éomer's face, and he found once more strength to move; to tear himself away from the despair that kept his feet frozen. He looked at his sister, there seated with such quiet dignity, and a surge of pride warmed him. "Truly," he said, a touch of wonder in his voice. He had indeed underestimated the depths of her strength. Here sat a woman who possessed not only grace, but a sharp intellect and a spirit that refused to be broken or misled. "Gone is the child I remember; she who relied on her brother for every small adventure, her eyes brimming with tears if I left her behind."

A fierce protectiveness still stirred within him, but it was now mingled with a burgeoning respect for the quiet war she was waging within the gilded cage of Meduseld. He had come to Edoras burdened by worry for both his king and his sister, yet in her unexpected presence, a fragile seed of hope began to sprout. His sister was not without claws. There was command in her voice, and stubborn hope in her heart.

Éowyn huffed, while allowing him a place next to her on the cot.

There was a tinge of red to her cheeks, a playfulness not yet completely lost to the passing of time. Éomer's gaze lingered on her a moment longer, noting the subtle set of her jaw, the unwavering steadiness in her eyes. The years alone within the Golden Hall, far from dimming her spirit as he had feared – even if she had wandered long in the chill dark – seemed to have forged within her a quiet resilience. A steely core beneath the silken surface. The easy laughter of her youth had passed, smothered, wilted, and suffered over the years; leaving him stricken with guilt each time the thought came to him. Yet it had been replaced by a deeper knowing, a wisdom etched by the burdens she carried. "I only cried once."

"Once each week, if my memory serves," Éomer countered gently.

Laughter tinged with indignation rose from her. Éomer did nothing to block the punch, squarely hitting his shoulder, her eyes still alight with amusement despite the mock outrage. The proud woman, from one moment poised by noble grace and touched by duty, was a girl again. His spirited sister. "I was seven!" She defended. A hint of lingering childhood mischief was in her eyes, as Éowyn followed through with a playful shove; Éomer budged only a little, resulting in another well-aimed elbow to the ribs. Her gaze softened into a fond exasperation as he doubled over.

Through coughing – for her aim had landed true – he managed a wry smile. "And eight, and nine ..."

He nimbly avoided the subsequent hits.

"Mercy, woman. I yield." Her gaze spoke of warning, yet her hands stilled. "Indeed," Éomer chuckled, rubbing his forming bruises with mock severity. "And so it seems, your aim has improved markedly since then. Tell me, Éowyn, do you assault unsuspecting guards at every turn? If not for my wounded pride, I would show each of them these marks you have left a Marshal of the Riddermark."

"A few bruises might serve to keep you alert, brother, and deserved I must say they are. Besides, the road ahead will be fraught with more than playful jabs, I fear." Her tone shifted subtly, the underlying concern for their shared plight surfacing once more. In but an instant his heart sank, each and all of his fears trickling back in; dripping, bleeding drop by drop, until it filled him completely. "Jesting aside ... I came because time is precious, and the King–" She swallowed, voice trailing off. The unspoken weight of their uncle's condition hanging heavy in the small tent.

Her gaze turned down, to her then clenched fingers.

Their reunion, though a marvelous moment of grace, was but a brief, fleeting glimpse of the Sun in a dark world, encroached by shadows of war and death.

Éomer's own smile faded, the playful banter abruptly extinguished by the stark reminder of their true purpose. The weight of the duty, the mantle befalling the House of Eorl. "Tell me," he urged softly, his gaze fixed on hers. He nudged her hands apart, each paired with his own, while his eyes sought hers for truth. "what is the latest from Edoras? Is his state much worsened?" The question hung in the air, heavy with dread. Is there still hope? Are we not yet too late? "Has the poison of Isengard taken deeper root? Tell me all, sister. Spare me no harsh truth, for we must know the measure of the peril that faces our King and our people."

Gone was the merriment; and gone were the children – the boy and the girl, that they once had been, and the years of shared childhood. The bond forged in heartbreak and loss, strengthened, unbreakable in all the memories born between them. A distant memory in the face of the grim tidings that now threatened to engulf them. Éowyn's breath hitched, her gaze still fixed on their intertwined hands. She was crying. Silently, restrained, as if each tear cut her deep, digging away at the walls around her that kept her standing.

The warmth of his touch, a simple comfort in the suffocating dread, did little to thaw the icy grip that tightened. Éomer could feel her fingers dig into his, precariously, desperately struggling for control. She finally lifted her eyes, and Éomer saw reflected there the very shadows he had feared had consumed her – a weariness that spoke not just of sleepless nights, but of battles fought in silence, of hope relentlessly chipped away. Into a million pieces his heart then shattered.

At once he pulled her closer, attempting to shield her from the storm raging within her.

He would be her haven.

Éomer held her tight, feeling the tremor that ran through her slender frame. For a long moment, he simply held her; letting the unspoken grief flow between them, a shared burden in the night. He would shoulder it all – he would take it all in, make it his, and his alone. "You are safe, Éowyn. You will be safe, I swear this to you." His voice, though thick with emotion, held a firm resolve. "Tell me everything," he murmured into her hair, his grip never faltering. "Let this burden fall from you, sister. You do not have to bear any of this alone any longer."

He would be her shield, her strength, a bulwark against all that threatened to swallow them whole. Whatever news she carried, they would face it together, as they had faced every hardship since childhood. The past echoed in his mind; he had held her like this before. Éomer remembered the small, fragile weight of her in his arms when their father had fallen, the silence in the halls of Aldburg broken only by their mother's soft, bewildered sobs. Then he, merely a child himself, had felt the mantle of responsibility settle upon his young shoulders. A protectiveness born of grief and loss.

Later, when the light had faded from Théodwyn's eyes, a slow, agonizing dimming that had stolen their mother from them; taken the last warmth from their home, it was to his embrace that Éowyn had turned. Her small hands clutching on to him, as if he could somehow ward off the inevitable. Each time, he had offered what little comfort he could, a silent promise of unwavering support in a world that had dealt them such cruel blows. Now, years later, the small girl who had clung to him in sorrow was a woman, bearing burdens he could only begin to imagine. But his instinct remained the same; to stand against the darkness that threatened to consume them both, just as he had always tried to do.

"Please," he implored. "I am here now."

Éowyn inhaled, hard and jagged; many times over, until her breathing calmed and the trembles abated. A shudder ran through Éomer as he watched her struggle for composure, the raw grief mirroring the silent tears; tears he then knew she had shed many times before, alone and surrounded. Gently, she withdrew from his embrace. Her eyes were red, but dry, as if she had nothing more to give.

"He fades, Éomer," she said, her voice barely audible above the soft rustle of the tent canvas. There was a wind outside, the only witness to words spoken into the silent night. "Each day, the whispers coil tighter around his mind, and the King ... the light in his eyes wane further. He speaks less of Rohan, less of his riders, less of us. It is as if a great fog has descended, and he drifts further and further from the shores of our world. I fear," her voice broke at first. Then her gaze hardened, and true hatred came to her. "I fear that soon, only the serpent's voice will echo in the Golden Hall."

The look in his sister's eyes was familiar to him. The raw hate, the cold fury; born of helplessness.

"Then we are not too late," he stated, his voice low and firm, cutting through the stillness. "While a flicker of that light remains, while a breath still stirs within him, hope is not yet lost. We must not lose to despair, for despair is the weapon of our enemies." Faced with the frailty of Éowyn, he found his own courage; if he fell, so would she. He saw her lingering fear, the toll her brave journey and grim tidings had taken. He pressed his lips to her brow. "Rest now, for on this night I will not stray from your side. No harm will find you, not while breath remains in me."

Éomer held her gaze, letting his resolve and his promise sink deep within her.

A silent understanding passed between them, a fragile bridge of hope built in the heart of despair. He saw the faintest flicker of reassurance in her eyes, a momentary easing of the tension that had gripped her.

Then, with a sigh and a weary nod, Éowyn slowly shifted on the narrow cot, turning onto her side. The coarse blanket, so different from the silks she wore, was pulled up to her chin. Her eyes, though still shadowed with worry, fluttered closed, the exhaustion finally overwhelming her. When has she last slept ...? Her breathing, first shallow and uneven, gradually deepened, a fragile sign of sleep beginning to take hold in the quiet tent.

His hand combed gently through her golden hair, touched by the faint scent of lavender clinging to her silks, mirroring the slow rhythm of her breath. He lingered there, on the edge of the cot, for many long moments; watching and waiting, making certain no nightmares would find her. The weight of his promise almost tangible, until at length he turned his attention to the task at hand. He moved quietly, always attentive to not startle Éowyn from sleep; it did not take long for him to find parchment and ink, and so, lighting candles to keep him company, he wrote with haste.

The quill scratched furiously across the parchment, sharp, a frantic dance in the dim candlelight. Éomer's brow was furrowed, his hand moving with a desperate urgency. Each word was chosen with the weight of Rohan's fate, each stroke of the quill a plea against the creeping shadow. Théodred must understand. He must see the truth in my words. He wrote of the King's fading light, of the serpent's insidious grip upon the Golden Hall, and of the loyal hearts that still beat with defiance. The ink bled slightly into the hurried script, mirroring the urgency that pulsed through his veins; the inkwell precariously balanced on the edge of his makeshift desk.

He needed Théodred with them, and urged him to ride with all the haste of Béma.

It would be his plea into the night – a beacon cast out into the darkness, seeking aid against the spreading ill.

To my Cousin, Théodred, son of Théoden King,

Urgent tidings compel this hasty missive, tidings that chill the very marrow and demand swift action. The shadow that has long lingered upon the borders of our land now coils within the Golden Hall itself. This I have seen with my own eyes, and heard from those most dear and true to me. Our King, Théoden, lies weakened, his spirit clouded by a subtle poison. Whispers fill the halls, not of counsel and wisdom, but of self-interest and deceit.

A serpent's tongue has charmed his ear, turning him from loyal voices and sound judgment. I fear that the very heart of Rohan is being poisoned from within, and the strength of the Riddermark wanes not from open battle, but from a creeping sickness of the will from within.

Therefore, I implore you, cousin, gather what strength you can muster with all haste. Ride swift to Edoras with speed, bringing with you those men whose loyalty to the King and the House of Eorl is beyond question. We must stand as a bulwark against this inner threat before it consumes all. Delay could prove fatal, and the fate of Rohan hangs in the balance. Come swiftly, Théodred, for the hour is late, if not already too late, and only through unity can we hope to restore the light to our King and stability to our realm.

May your ride be swift and your loyalty unwavering.

Éomer, Marshal of the Riddermark.

With impatience he waited for the ink to dry, stark against the pale hide upon which the words had been written. He hoped the prince was on his way already, having understood the direness with his first letter. But even then ... Had he conveyed his urgency. This second letter, penned in the dead of night, carried a sharper edge of desperation. He rolled up the parchment, finding a tremble to his hands, and sealed it quickly with the sigil of the Marshal. The small, official mark felt inadequate against the enormity of the crisis, a fragile seal on a plea that carried the weight of a kingdom.

Now, all that remained was to entrust it to a swift rider and pray that Théodred would heed the call – that he would reach them before the light in Edoras flickered and died entirely. For with their King, hope would die. He cast a swift glance back to Éowyn, fast asleep still beneath the blanket; shadows danced across her face. He would not let the darkness consume her, nor their King, nor their land. His resolve hardened like steel in the forge.

He pushed aside the tent-flap and stepped into the night. The camp lay hushed under the vast, dark expanse of sky. Shimmering stars peered down indifferently, watching and seeing all that happened in Middle-Earth, but was little touched by it. High above, unmistakable in its majesty, shone Sigelwara, the Swordsman of the Sky, its keen blade arcing across the darkness. A celestial warrior forever vigilant.

Only crackling embers in abandoned pits gave yellow eyes to the night.

Tents stood as dark, slumbering shapes in the gloom. Ever so often he could hear rippling sounds as wind moved through the encampment, carrying with it the faint, grassy smell of the open fields. Yet his men stirred not. They slept unaware, soundly. Will they even wake to the kingdom still theirs? There were sentries about, footsteps muffled by the soft earth; his own tent glowed a faint, purposeful light, a solitary beacon in the sleeping camp. While his riders dreamed of home and hearth, Éomer found no rest.

"Éothain!" Éomer's voice, though hushed so as not to disturb Éowyn's fragile sleep, held a sharp urgency.

The young squire, ever attentive, appeared almost instantly from within the shadows. The man would find no sleep before his Marshal. "My Lord?"

"Saddle swift horses, two of the swiftest in the camp. I need men to ride with a sealed message. Choose only those you trust implicitly, who understands the weight of haste and discretion." He held out the freshly sealed parchment. "This is for Théodred, the King's son. Instruct the riders to spare no effort in reaching him, to convey the urgency of my words above all else. Tell them that the fate of Rohan may hang upon their speed."

Éomer's gaze was intense, conveying the gravity of the task without needing to utter it aloud.

"Go now, Éothain, and choose well. So that even the wind itself must envy their swiftness."

The man's face was serious, understanding on the command, and with a sharp nod he left Éomer. Back into the shadows between the tents, until even the footsteps disappeared to silence. For a while longer stood Éomer outside, allowing the wind to pick at his clothes; for the cool air to settle on his skin. A sigh escaped him, almost as if tension seeped out of him involuntarily. The wheels had been set in motion. Casting one last, long glance to the endlessly deep skies above – perhaps seeking a sign, though knowing not where to look – he found no solace, but only coldness.

In the eyes of the stars, they were insignificant.

He turned back to the tent. To the warmth of candlelight, beckoning him. Inside, he found Éowyn still asleep; she had moved, long hair spilling across the roughspun blanket like liquid gold. Her breathing remained soft and even, a fragile melody in the quiet space. He moved quietly, his weariness a dull ache in his bones, and settled onto ground by her cot, his gaze fixed on her peaceful face.

He settled, legs drawn up and forearms resting on his knees. Shadows flickered and danced across the walls of the tent, and steadily his gaze, first sharp and watchful, softened. Éowyn's quiet presence gave him peace. The light blurred at the edges of his vision. The lull of her breathing. There would come no harm to her that night. His head nodded, a small, involuntary movement. His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, the tension of his vigil slowly leaching away. The weight of his eyelids became too great to bear, and they drifted closed, not in restful surrender, but in weary resignation. His posture remained, legs drawn up, a silent testament to his will.

Sleep, a fragile truce in the face of looming darkness, finally claimed him.

The air in Edoras hung thick with suspicion, a miasma more suffocating than any winter's fog. Throughout the following days, Éomer moved through the familiar halls as if a stranger – felt himself an unwelcome outsider – a shadow lurking at the edges of his uncle's increasingly erratic court. He watched as madness seemed to take root with each passing day. He watched, and he waited, and he prayed for Théodred's arrival. What had once been a place of his childhood, of laughter and play; now even the very walls seemed as if holding their breath. Heavy with unspoken anxieties.

Four days had passed since his arrival in Edoras and the making of camp, yet no word had come from beyond the fields; and, worse yet, no audience with the King was granted. Each day Théoden remained unseen, confined to his chambers under Wormtongue's watchful eye; and with each sunrise a knot of dread tightened in Éomer's chest. The sickness was presented to him as a mere ailment of age and weariness of the body. Painted a picture of a frail and declining old man.

He longed for the sound of approaching hooves; for the watch on the battlement to shout words of approach. He would imagine the scene at the gate ... Surprised, but hopeful faces of the King's guard as Théodred's banner was unfurled, the clatter of arms. How oppression and silence would be replaced with a cry of welcome, a cry that would ripple through the halls. A hope that help had finally come.

But the silence persisted.

A heavy blanket smothering his hope, leaving him to watch and wait as the shadows lengthened within the Golden Hall. But walk the halls he would. He stalked them, each footfall a deliberate stride, echoing with a silent promise of vengeance. His presence became a tangible defiance, a stark reminder to the slithering shadows and those who whispered poison in the King's ear, that the blood of Eorl still flowed strong. That loyalty had not been entirely leached from the Golden Hall. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, would sweep across the faces of the courtiers, a silent challenge to their veiled manipulations.

He moved like a predator in its domain, a stark warning that the kingdom was not yet wholly consumed; protectors still walked its halls, their eyes open, their resolve unyielding. He was a living embodiment of resistance, a shadow countering the encroaching darkness. He would become a promise of the storm to come, if harm befell his King or his sister. All would come to learn – he would not stand idle while treachery festered.

Yet while Éomer painted himself a vengeful spirit, Grima Wormtongue, a sleek, dark presence, moved like a viper through the King's chambers. His whispered counsel poisoning Théoden's mind, and the venom trickled steadily, but surely down throughout court. Against those who held his true well-being at heart. Seldom their paths crossed – unsurprisingly, for Éomer knew his every move was watched – but at times he would enter the Hall of Meduseld and find the serpent almost coiled near the throne.

Wormtongue's dark eyes would always flicker towards him with a cold triumph, a silent assertion of believed, growing dominion. In those moments, the air would thicken with a palpable tension, the whispers of the courtiers dying away as if a sudden chill had swept through the hall. Though always would Éomer meet Wormtongue's gaze with a steady, unwavering intensity, a silent promise of the reckoning to come. He was the living embodiment, a stark reminder that even in the heart of the poisoned court, defiance still breathed.

The unspoken chasm between Éomer and the majority of the court widened with each passing day. He had never been a man for the dealings of court; his own in Aldburg had been a few, good and trusted men. Their counsel was direct and honest. In the King's court it was a constant, veiled battle; of unspoken rivalries and rustling secrets. Those who curried favor with Wormtongue avoided his gaze entirely, their conversations ceasing mid-sentence if he approached.

Éomer could watch their eyes flicking nervously towards the King's advisor before they offered a hasty, mumbled excuse and retreated. Even those of more neutral stance – the cautious observers waiting to see which way the wind would blow – kept a polite but firm distance, unwilling to risk Wormtongue's displeasure. They would not risk to be seen in close conversation with the increasingly isolated Marshal.

He saw and felt his circle of trusted companions dwindle to a precious few. Éowyn moved through court as if she commanded its very ebb and flow; her bearing that of regal grace and subtle resolve. Her eyes, though sometimes shadowed with worry, held a spark of warning to all in her path. She was nothing but ice and steel. And while Éomer was the obvious sword and shield of their lineage, a warrior through and through, his sister possessed a far more insidious weapon; words, wielded with the keen intellect that lay behind them. In the King's increasing absence, it was she who held the fractured court together, her quiet authority a fragile bulwark against the web of Wormtongue's deceit.

The guards, whose loyalty ran deeper than Wormtongue's sweetened promises, offered silent acknowledgments of their unwavering support. And Háma, the doorwarden, remained a steadfast beacon of truth, his brief reports on the King's declining state delivered with a grim honesty. These few were the flickering embers of loyalty in a hall growing ever colder, the only voices that spoke with genuine concern amidst the chorus of sycophancy. But they were few, and for each passing day Éomer could feel the shift in power.

There was a tension in the air. Éomer himself moved with a barely leashed intensity, his very presence a palpable challenge to the suffocating atmosphere. He wanted to fight. To remove the root of all the evils, to behead the snake and be done with it. It was a coiled spring stretched taut within the suffocating atmosphere of Edoras.

And on the fifth day, it finally snapped.

It began subtly, as so many of Wormtongue's manipulations did. Éowyn, her bearing as sharp and cold as winter frost, had been addressing a group of hesitant counselors, her words a carefully measured appeal for unity in the face of the King's withdrawal. Merely listening, Éomer had stood, leaning against the closest pillar; from there he had a clear view of the hall, a place where he could observe everything and everyone.

From his vantage point, Éomer watched his sister command the attention of the wavering men. Her voice, though measured, carried a resonance that echoed through the tense hall, a stark contrast to the hushed whispers that had become the court's common tongue. He noted the subtle shifts in their expressions – a flicker of understanding in one, a furrow of doubt in another. His gaze then drifted to the shadows near the dais, where Wormtongue stood like a dark sentinel beside the King's empty throne, his sleek form radiating an almost palpable sense of control. Éomer's hand instinctively drifted towards the familiar weight of his sword hilt, a silent promise in the suffocating air. He was a wolf amongst sheep, a warrior in a den of vipers, and his position by the pillar offered both observation and a clear path should he need to intercede.

In that moment Wormtongue chose to interject, for he had clearly listened to every word spoken until then. His voice came as a silken drawl that dripped with false concern.

"My lady Éowyn," he purred, his gaze lingering on her for a beat too long, a flicker of that unsettling greed Éomer had witnessed before. It had become increasingly blatant in his dark eyes. A shudder of rage wove up through his fingers, twitching through every muscle until it came, whispering in his mind. "Your devotion to the King is admirable, truly. But perhaps in his delicate state, such ... strenuous discussions might prove unsettling. His peace, after all, is our paramount concern before all else. These wars you speak of are far away, beyond our borders. Are we not at peace?"

Éowyn's spine stiffened, her gaze turning to him, glacial. "The King's peace is best served by the truth, Grima," she stated, her voice low and steady. Each word a shard of clear distaste. "Not by the velvet lies that lull him into further weakness."

Wormtongue chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that grated on Éomer's nerves. "Such harsh words, my lady. Surely a woman of your gentle spirit does not truly believe such things, nor should she be so inclined to meddle in such matters, that she may not fully comprehend? War is, after all, a man's burden. My lady should not concern her fair self with such grim realities – if they could even be called such." His eyes flickered back to her, a possessive gleam that made Éomer's hand instinctively clench. Gúthwinë seemed to cry out for blood, to be drawn from his belt. To keep the man from even looking his sister's way again.

Before Éowyn could respond, Éomer stepped forward, his presence a sudden, solid barrier between her and the serpent. "Her spirit is as strong as the steel of Rohan, Wormtongue," he stated, his voice a low growl that brooked no argument. "And her words carry more truth than all the honeyed poison you spill in the King's ear."

The counselor's smile vanished, his eyes narrowing into slits of cold fury. "Marshal," he hissed, his usual mask of civility gone, revealing the venom beneath. "You would do well to remember your place. The King's advisor speaks with the King's authority."

"An authority built on untruth," Éomer countered, his gaze never leaving Wormtongue's. "And one that I, and many others in this hall, see for what it is."

The air crackled with open hostility. The surrounding courtiers, who had been silent observers, now shifted uneasily, their fear palpable. Éowyn placed a hand on Éomer's arm, a subtle warning, but her own eyes held a fierce pride. It would be wrong to spill blood in the King's hall, and so, despite the itch of his fingers against the hilt of his sword, he stood his ground.

Wormtongue's gaze flickered to Éowyn, a flash of wounded possessiveness warring with his anger. He seemed torn between choices; to rise to the Marshal's bait and risk direct confrontation, or to regain control through his usual, subtle manipulations. With an effort, he turned from Éomer, and his eyes sought Éowyn's once more. "It is for your own good, my lady," he said, his voice regaining a semblance of its oily smoothness, though the underlying threat remained. "The Marshal's rashness will only bring further unrest. Such ..." He paused, as if tasting the word on his tongue. "Unladylike displays of aggression are unbecoming, and will serve only to distress the King further. He would be wise to learn."

Éomer's grip tightened. "There is nothing for me to learn from your words, snake. But know this. Touch her again with your words in that manner, serpent," he warned, his voice dangerously low. "And you will find that the rashness of the Marshal is the least of your concerns."

The standoff hung heavy in the air, the unspoken threat of violence palpable. It was Éowyn who finally broke the tension, her voice ringing with a clear authority that surprised even Éomer. "Enough," she commanded, her gaze sweeping across both men. "The King's welfare is our focus. Let us not descend into petty squabbles that serve only to further divide this hall." She looked directly at Wormtongue, her eyes like chips of ice. "Remember your place, Grima. You are an advisor, not a master."

Wormtongue, momentarily taken aback by her sharp rebuke, swallowed his anger, a thin smile returning to his lips. "Of course, my lady. Your wisdom is ever apparent." But the venom in his eyes, as they flickered back to Éomer, remained unmistakable. The clash had been brief, but the lines had been drawn, the simmering animosity now brought into the open, with Éowyn standing defiantly between the wolf and the serpent.

It seemed little more was left to be said, and Grima Wormtongue – pride wounded and openly challenged – fled the throne room with a swift, silent fury that promised vengeance. His dark eyes, as they flickered one last time to Éomer, were a dark vow. Their defiance would not go unpunished. There was no sound as all watched his retreat; mingled relief, apprehension, fear, perhaps even a flicker of blossoming hope in some.

A few of the more courageous or perhaps more desperate members of court began to murmur amongst themselves, their hushed tones suggesting a shift in the previously stifling atmosphere. As if invisible chains had been broken. Éowyn, seemingly sensing this subtle change, held the gazes of the gathered for a long moment before finally speaking, her voice clear and strong. It carried far into the hall.

"The King's illness weighs heavily upon us all," she stated, her words cutting through the lingering tension. The murmurs stilled to listen. "But division amongst ourselves will serve only our enemies. We must stand united in our concern for my uncle and for the future of Rohan. Let no more poison be spoken in this hall!"

Her words hung in the air, a direct challenge to the lingering influence of Wormtongue. The reaction was varied. Some offered solemn nods of agreement, while others remained silent, their loyalties still uncertain. A few slinkered away into the shadows. But the open defiance against Wormtongue, led by Éomer and upheld by Éowyn's strength, had undeniably shifted something within the court. The serpent had shown its fangs and been met with steel, and the courtiers now had a clearer measure of the resistance that remained within the Golden Hall.

The fragile hope that had flickered in Éomer's chest began to burn a little brighter. He took Éowyn by the arm, and guided her gently from the hall. Her fingers, lingering in his, trembled; her words had been steel, but she was but mortal. Of flesh and blood, and her defiance had likely come at a cost. What the price would be, they were yet to discover, and the weight of that unknown pressed down on Éomer, as it clearly did on his sister. He squeezed her hand with reassurance, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "Just ask, and you may use my blade next time."

The silence that followed the descendants of Eorl from the hall, was no longer one of fear, but one of contemplation. A pregnant pause before the next move in this dangerous game. A faint, wary smile touched Éowyn's lips at his offer. "Perhaps," she murmured back, her voice barely audible. "But words can sometimes cut deeper, brother."

"But steel still remain for those who do not heed words."

As they continued their silent withdrawal from the hall, the fragile hope in his chest was tempered by a gnawing unease. The door opened around them, and a clear, almost blinding sun met them beyond. They had won a small victory, a moment of open defiance, but the war for the heart of Rohan was far from over, and the serpent still lurked within the Golden Hall, its venomous influence far-reaching.

Éomer grew accustomed to the light, and before them stretched the familiar green fields of the Riddermark, seemingly peaceful under the clear sky. A lone raven circled high above, its harsh croak cutting through the air like a discordant note in a hopeful melody.

They had challenged the enemy.

Chapter Text

The dark bird seemed as if to follow the siblings' descent down the winding path, its shadow a fleeting caress across the edge of his vision. Though reason told him it was no more than a scavenger seeking scraps in the streets of Edoras, a deeper unease stirred within. His mind, poisoned by the constant threat, whispered of other possibilities. Saruman's web of spies stretched far, commanding not only treacherous men but beasts and birds as well. Its presence felt less like chance, and more like a haunting, mocking watch.

It was an omen – and something he wished to pluck from the very sky; to silence its mocking flight. Yet he knew they walked not alone, for each step and movement on their part was followed by those unseen. To betray his inner turmoil, to offer Wormtongue even the slightest hint of his loathing, would be to grant the viper a venomous victory. He would bear this torment. And the bird would live another day.

Instead, he walked with purpose; allowed the shadowy threat to follow in the wake of their small victory. He would long savour the look on the counselor's face; the pallid skin stretched taut in a sneer, the raw bitterness and undisguised hatred. Like a cur whipped and howling, Wormtongue had fled the Hall. Éomer would carry this blooming light with him. A solitary snowdrop pushing through the frozen earth of Winter, a testament to a hope refusing to be extinguished; he realized then that his thoughts had consumed him, for they had reached the end of the stone steps.

Meduseld loomed up behind them, an ominous sentinel on the top of the hill; watching, waiting for their next move.

Éowyn seemed to have taken it upon her herself to lead them deeper into town.

Éothain's quiet return was marked by the rustle of his armour – fabrics, leathers, and mail – as he positioned himself behind his Lord. The man walked a respectful distance away the siblings, a guardian ever within reach should trouble stir, his presence a comfort that required no words. Even so, Éomer still looked back, seeking the soldier's eyes; it was but a passing nod, a silent confirmation they were then unthreatened and without enemies, for Éomer to release the knotted tension of his shoulders.

The signs of daily life became apparent around them, as they followed the open street away from the court.

Small workshops with open fronts displayed the tools and wares of their trade; a blacksmith's glowing forge, fire pulsing with orange light; stretched hides and wares of the leatherworkers. Makeshift stalls lined some of the wider parts, displaying vegetables, roughspun cloth, and simple pottery. A low hum of everyday conversation, snippets of greetings, the calls of vendors hawking their wares, accompanied their path. The dust of the street, the earthen scent of lifestock; the tang of tanned leathers.

Unlike the guarded expressions of court – where friend and foe were near indistinguishable – the faces of the people here were open, etched with the honest lines of hard work, bearing both sun and the kingdom's worries, yet offering only welcome in their gazes. It was a world of honest labor and simple lives, a world that Éomer was sworn to protect, and a world that was also vulnerable to the poison seeping from the Golden Hall. It was a constant reminder of what was at stake.

Children darted across the street, three boys with makeshift swords and shields; their game momentarily paused as the Lord and Lady passed.

They gawked, their wide eyes following the sweep of Éomer's tall figure to Gúthwinë sheathed in his belt. One, bolder than the rest, even lowered his wooden sword in a clumsy salute; he was quickly tugged back by his more bashful companions, muttering words of both awe and reproach. A flicker of a smile touched Éowyn's lips in response, a softening to her weary, guarded features. Éomer, though his thoughts remained heavy, offered a curt nod, a silent acknowledgment of their innocent respect.

It seemed enough, for the children – now red-faced and giggling – scampered back to their game, their wooden swords clashing once more in the dusty street. The brief interruption already spinning new tales, new heroes and characters, into the fabric of their imaginary battle. Éomer and Éowyn continued along the bustling street, their steps slow and leisurely; they were not in a hurry, refused to be, for Edoras was their home. They would not be driven from its heart by the shadow that clung to the Golden Hall, nor would they yield their right to walk its well-worn paths.

Éomer's gaze moved from one scene to another, not without veiled interest. A group of men, their tunics stained with honest toil, gathered outside a small, rough-hewn tavern, their laughter booming out into the street. A dog barked excitedly at a passing cart laden with barrels, its wooden wheels creaking on the uneven cobblestones; all were they people of Rohan, all were they under the protection of his oath. Yet he could not keep the dark thoughts at bay. The slithering touch, the whispers of betrayal. Were they loyal to Théoden, to Rohan, or had the subtle poison already seeped into their hearts as it had the King's? The memory of trust shattered, of words twisted, left a bitter taste in his mind.

He knew Wormtongue's influence stretched far beyond the Golden Hall – that unseen eyes watched from shadowed windows; and seemingly loyal men might be his unwitting or willing instruments, reporting every word, every glance exchanged. Edoras, once a comforting embrace, now felt like a cage woven with threads of deceit. Éomer saw the faces of the townsfolk, their concerns seemingly focused on the mundane tasks of their day. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing the darkness that threatened to engulf his mind; painting untruths in every smile they passed.

Truly, the enemy's hold over Rohan had tightened.

The betrayal had burrowed deep, poisoning not just the King, but Éomer's own perception of his people. In those very moments, he could not help but hate himself more than anything. Sharper even than his anger towards Wormtongue, the feeling came to him unbidden. To doubt these honest faces, to suspect the very people he was sworn to protect with his own life! It felt like a profound failure, a stain upon his honor as Marshal. Has the serpent's venom found me, too ...? Was his own heart twisting with suspicion and mistrust? The thought was a cold dread, a fear that the darkness was not just around them, but within him as well.

Éowyn seemed as if to sense his growing turmoil, the inner struggles of his heart and mind, and with a gentle touch laid her hand upon his arm. Her fingers became a sudden anchor against the rising tide of his despair. Éomer blinked, suddenly drawn from the trap laid by his own deceitful thoughts. He looked up to meet her studying gaze; there, he saw not pity, but rather the quiet understanding reflected in clear, sun-flecked eyes. She tucked at his arm.

"Listen," she said, tilting her head slightly, attention drifting to the heart of the town. "Can you hear the music?"

Without waiting for his answer, Éowyn took command and steered them both, with firm but gentle pressure on his arm, towards the sound. Éomer, still caught in the undertow of his own thoughts, allowed himself to be led. The faint, lilting notes of a pipe, interwoven by the steady beat of a drum, grew clearer as they moved through the narrowed streets. It was a simple tune, yet there was a resilience in its rhythm, a spark of joy that seemed to push back against the stifling unease in the air.

They walked in shadow, flanked by houses and fences. The scent of wood-smoke came upon them, stronger there, mingled with the fragrance of herbs drying on window ledges; a faint sweetness of blooming flowers in small, enclosed gardens. The uneven cobblestones underfoot were worn smooth by generations of footsteps, each stone seemed to whisper tales of the lives lived and long-gone. He could feel Éothain move in closer – each doorway a path to enemies – yet Éowyn carried on, her steps steady and gaze fixed on something ahead.

She feared nothing.

As they met the end of the alley, the source of the music came into view. Many people were about in the market square; a small group of townsfolk had gathered around two minstrels – a young man, nimble fingers dancing over a wooden pipe; and an older woman keeping time on a small, hand-held drum. Their clothes were colourful but tattered, and they seemed to have travelled far to reach Edoras. A few children were skipping in a circle, their laughter following the bright notes of the tune, as they moved about – spinning recklessly more than dancing. Some of the gathered tapped their feet or swayed gently, their faces momentarily lifted, the concerns of a daily life briefly forgotten.

Éowyn pulled him closer and stopped to listen, a mile to her lips that Éomer could not help but mirror.

For a time, they simply stood there, two figures amidst the ordinary folk of Edoras. He allowed the music to wash over him, to find tranquility as sunlight bathed his face – a tangible warmth spreading across his skin, the bright rays catching the silver threads woven into the fabric of his tunic. The weight that had been pressing down on Éomer was momentarily lifted, replaced by a fragile sense of connection to his people; each and every heart connected, touched by the music of the free. To the enduring spirit of the Riddermark that thrived even in the smothering shadow of deceit.

It had been a long while since he had felt such a lightness, even if it was but a borrowed one.

He could feel Éowyn's fingers lightly tapping across his skin, in tune with the minstrels, and he turned his face to watch her. Her expression had softened; her hair caught the sun, each strand seeming to shimmer with an inner light, a hue as if spun from pure gold. The Golden Lady of Rohan – she embodied the very spirit of hope and resilience, so bright she was that even the townsfolk took heed of their presence. Subtle glances were cast their way, a flickering of reverence in their eyes.

Éomer quietly assessed the situation; whether the glances held genuine respect, idle curiosity, or something more concerning. He searched for a spark of recognition that might lead to unwanted attention, or even a hint of suspicion fueled by the greed for gold. The afternoon sun, moments ago a comforting warmth, now felt like a harsh, exposing glare, illuminating their presence for any watchful eyes. The laughter of the children, once a joyful sound, now carried an edge of recklessness, a potential cover for whispered exchanges he could not quite decipher. Even the simple melody of the minstrels seemed to waver in his ears. Each note came as a potential signal, a coded message passed between unseen hands.

He could feel the bird circling above his head.

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the square, carrying with it a swirl of dust and a fleeting scent of something acrid ... Something unnatural, that prickled at his nostrils. It mirrored the unease festering within him. With growing unrest, and the attention of the gathered, he firmly led Éowyn away from the song; she was about to linger, but the tautness of his grip and the darkening look in his eyes did not escape her. She yielded to his silent pull, quick to find her bearings with an, almost imperceptible, sigh. The innocent laughter of children followed them across the square.

Though a glimpse of disappointment crossed Éowyn's face – and a stab of guilt settled in the pit of his stomach. She spoke again, as they found a quieter place at the edge of the market square. "Then at least," she began. Her gaze was firmly on him for a long, insistent moment, before sweeping over the assembled stalls. "Let us find something to banish those gloomy thoughts of yours, brother. Good things can often serve as a better distraction than even the finest of melodies."

Her rueful look had not gone unnoticed by Éomer.

He had seen the gentle downturn of her lips and the wistfulness in her eyes, as she glanced back towards the fading music. A pang of brotherly affection, a desire to ease the tension that clung to her as much as it did to him, stirred within him. He knew her spirit chafed under the constraints of the court; the ever-present Wormtongue, lingering just out of sight, as if he were a second shadow to her own. This small act of defiance, this desire for a moment of normalcy amidst the brewing storm, was something he could – and would – grant her.

Motioning for her to lead the way, Éomer followed as Éowyn turned toward the row of sturdy wooden stalls that lined the edge of the square.

One offered neatly stacked piles of spun cloth in earthy tones, and embroidered patterns of leaves; another glinted with the simple beauty of hand-wrought iron tools, while a third overflowed with baskets of fragrant herbs and dried flowers. The air around them buzzed with the low hum of conversations. Each passed by, catching his attention, snippets and fragments of things that held little importance. Yet listen he did. Behind them trailed Éothain, his booted steps a constant reminder of hidden threats. Soft creaks of leather and the faint chink of his mail.

The square, while lively with townsfolk going about their own business, was touched by a subdued air. The usual throng of traders from distant lands was noticeably thinner. The bartering between traders was quieter, the laughter less boisterous than Éomer remembered from brighter times. Most stalls displayed crafts of the Rohirrim – sturdy leather goods, hand-carved wood, more often than not with motifs of horses, cloths and fabrics, and woven baskets – alongside the bounty of a plentiful Summer from the surrounding fields. Heaped baskets overflowed with earthy root vegetables; knobbly carrots still clinging to clumps of dark soil, smooth-skinned turnips with their pale white and purple crowns, tied together in rough twine; and sturdy potatoes bearing the faint scent of the earth from which they were recently taken.

Exotic scents of spices from Gondorian traders, as well as finely wrought jewelry from the Dwarven kingdoms were largely absent, a subtle testament to the growing unease and the shadow of war stretching from the East. They walked by one stall, then the next, lingering briefly when Éowyn's interest was caught. First by a length of undyed wool, its texture rough yet promisingly warm, and then a collection of hand-carved wooden birds, their simple forms imbued with a surprising sense of life. Blackbirds and magpies, their painted eyes bright and watchful, and a single, elegant heron carved from a wood much darker and smoother than the others. Éowyn's fingers traced the delicate curve of its beak, a thoughtful expression on her face.

There was a silent contemplation in her eyes, and he wondered what lay beyond the distant gaze.

A fleeting image, strong and free – like a bird taking flight – crossed his mind. He cleared his throat softly, as if to speak, and she turned. A faint smile returned to her lips as she noticed a stall with brightly coloured toys. There were many wooden figures; horses with impossibly long manes, oxen pulling tiny carts, warriors brandishing swords. She moved to a set of carved animals – a lumbering bear, a sleek wolf, and a graceful deer. A fleeting smile touched her lips as she turned a stout pony over in her hands, an echo of childhood joys in her eyes.

A breeze ruffled through the crowd.

"Do you remember those clumsy wooden horses Father carved for us?" Éowyn said softly, her fingers tracing the rough-painted mane of the small, red pony. "Mine always seemed to lose a leg, and yours ... Yours had one eye painted much larger than the other, did it not?"

A rare smile touched Éomer, a genuine warmth spreading through him. "Indeed. It looked incredibly surprised by the world." He laughed at the memory. "I named him Swiftwind, in the hopes that his lopsided gaze would not hinder his imaginary speed. And you, if I recall, insisted on dressing yours in scraps of silk from Mother's sewing box – without her permission. It looked more like a startled butterfly than a warhorse!"

Éowyn laughed with him, a light, melodic sound that cut through the murmur of the marketplace.

"Well, they were noble steeds in our eyes! We rode them into countless battles in the gardens, did we not? You were always the brave captain, and I the fierce shieldmaiden at your side." For a fleeting instant, standing amidst the simple toys of the market, they were no longer Lord and Lady, burdened by the weight of Rohan – of their people, their King, a future holding both life and death – but just a brother and sister, reminiscing about the innocent adventures of their childhood.

"And do you recall how fiercely we argued over who got to ride the stallion with the slightly less wobbly legs? Such grand battles over such simple things," Éomer remarked, picking up a toy horse. "And yet," he turned the small figure in his calloused hand, "Those clumsy steeds carried us to victory against any foe." A moment of uncomplicated joy, a brief return to a time before shadows and betrayals had darkened their world, settled around them.

She held the pony a few moments longer, the red paint shining brightly in the afternoon sun; but flickering clouds broke the vibrant splash, and the ghosts of childhood delights vanished with the light. Éowyn sighed softly, returning the toy to its rightful place amongst its carven companions. "The day grows on," she muttered, a hint of practicality returning to her voice; a focus to her gaze as she surveyed the nearby stalls with a more discerning eye. "Perhaps we should look for other wares of better use. We have not played with toys for many a year now."

Éomer silently agreed, though his thoughts lingered not on what they passed next; rather on the quiet sadness he had glimpsed in Éowyn's eyes, so quickly masked once more.

A yearning for a life unburdened.

Their slow progress was suddenly interrupted by a small commotion. A child, a boy with hair the color of ripe wheat and eyes wide with focused intent, darted from behind a towering stack of woven baskets. His attention was entirely consumed by a rolling wooden hoop, wobbling before him uncontrolled, its erratic path leading the child directly into Éomer's unyielding path.

A surprised yelp escaped the boy as he collided with unexpected solidity. He stumbled back, his small hands flailing wildly, missing purchase and hitting the rough cobblestones with a dull thud. The wooden hoop clattered to the ground some distance ahead, its rolling spent. A wave of mortification washed over the child's face, his brow furrowing as a tremor ran through the small body. It was but the blink of an eye, the shock giving way to a sharp intake of breath, and then came the tears. They welled up in his wide eyes and spilled down his dusty cheeks. A small, choked sob escaped him, drawing the immediate attention of those nearby.

Before Éomer could react, a woman hurried forward, her face flushed with a mixture of concern and embarrassment. She appeared torn between her crying son, and the Marshal of the Riddermark; amongst the traders and common folks, he was entirely out of place, his bearing and the quality of his attire setting him apart like a hawk amongst sparrows.

"Oh, I am so sorry, my Lord!" She exclaimed, her apologies tumbling out in a rushed stream as she reached for her son. "He gets so caught up in his games–..."

Éowyn, ever possessing a gentle grace, knelt down beside the boy before his mother could reach him. Her hand, light as a feather, rested on his shoulder. "There, there," she murmured, her voice soothing, her smile reassuring. "No need to fret, little one. My brother can quite well handle a small bump. Are you unharmed?" She gently checked his hands and knees for any scrapes, tutting when she found a small graze bleeding on his palm.

The boy, initially wide-eyed with fear, seemed to melt under the warmth of her attention. He sniffled, quick to wipe his runny nose with the edge of a sleeve; then he offered a shy grin, pointing to his escaped hoop. Éowyn retrieved it, handing it back to him with another kind smile. The child, his momentary distress – and scrapes, later recalled as badges of honor in his daring assault on a Marshal of the Riddermark – forgotten, grinned again and, with a quick hug for his mother, scampered off once more. The wooden hoop clattered merrily on the cobblestones as he rejoined his game.

Éomer, who had remained a silent, imposing figure throughout the small commotion, offered the flustered mother a reassuring nod. His expression, though stern by nature, held no hint of annoyance. "No harm was done, good woman," he said, his voice without any trace of reprimand. "The boy has the spirit of a young colt. It is easily forgiven – if truly there is any need for forgiveness at all. See? He is already back to playing. Let it be." His words, though few, carried the weight of his authority and dismissed any lingering worry; the relieved woman allowed herself to finally release a shaky breath, to focus on her now happily playing son.

"Thank you, my Lord – My Lady, too, for your kindness." The child's mother, her fleeting moment of panic now replaced by a fond exasperation, offered them both a grateful nod, a small curtsy accompanying her thanks. Then she was gone once more, her hurried steps aimed at the small, fleeting figure of her son who had already put the recent tumble behind him. He was long gone, weaving through the legs of the market-goers with renewed enthusiasm. Éomer watched them leave, a flicker of something akin to admiration in his eyes. Such was the resilience of the young; with each fall to stand once more.

The gentle hubbub of the marketplace seemed to reassert itself.

The murmur of bartering voices, the occasional burst of laughter, and the calls of vendors hawking their wares filled the air once more. Éomer and Éowyn resumed their unhurried stroll, brushing shoulders occasionally as they navigated the thinning crowd. A comfortable silence settled between them. Éowyn's eyes drifted over displays of colorful fabrics and fragrant herbs, her expression thoughtful but not yet fixated. But it did not last long.

Éowyn paused before a stall that displayed an assortment of practical wares; sturdy belts, leather pouches, and a collection of knives laid out on a worn piece of felt. Her gaze, however, was drawn to one in particular. It was not the largest or the most ornate, but its simplicity held a certain appeal to the watchful eye. The blade was of good steel, its surface bearing the faint, uneven marks of a blacksmith's handiwork, a sharp point that spoke of use rather than decoration. The hilt was crafted from a single piece of smooth wood, likely beech or ash.

The vendor was quick to notice their attention on his wares. The blade fit snugly in his gruff hand as he demonstrated its balance.

"Good steel, my Lady," he said, his voice rough but not unkind. He held the knife out, the afternoon sun catching the unpolished surface of the blade. "Forged in my own workshop, just outside the town. It'll hold an edge better than any fancy trinket would've." His eyes, shrewd and knowing, flickered between Éowyn and Éomer, perhaps sensing things unseen. "A useful tool in uncertain times."

Éowyn's fingers reached out slowly. She did not take the knife, but her gaze traced the lines of the steel, from the sturdy bolster where it met the wood to the keen tip. "It feels ... honest?" Her voice was a whisper, more to herself than for others to hear, barely reaching above the murmur of the market. "Not made for show, but for true purpose." She looked up at the vendor, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes – and Éomer saw each miniscule movement of her brow, the almost imperceptible tightening of her lips, and the brief stillness in her gaze before it flickered away.

A hint of longing, perhaps, or a consideration of a path untrodden. For a moment, it seemed as though she might inquire further, might even take the knife in her own hand. But then, an almost imperceptible shift occurred in her expression, as if shutters had abruptly fallen, barring any further glimpse into her thoughts. She shielded herself, even from her brother's keen eyes. Her gaze became more distant, her posture subtly straightening.

"Thank you," she said, her tone polite but final, her attention already drifting away from the stall. "I believe we have seen enough here." Her words signaled a clear end to their time of leisure, a quiet decision that Éomer, despite his inability to decipher her brief flicker of interest, readily understood. The walk through the marketplace, it seemed, had run its course.

Éomer offered the vendor a curt nod and a brief farewell. "Good day to you." His hand instinctively reaching for the small pouch at his belt; he passed a few silver coins onto the worn felt beside the remaining knives and tools. "For your time," he said, his voice low, leaving no argument about the worth of their look. He then turned, his gaze meeting Éowyn's, a silent question in his eyes – ready to follow her lead wherever she wished to go next.

His sister said nothing, but there was a quiet battle brewing in her grey-shadowed eyes. He waited, allowing her to gather her thoughts, his own regard steady and unwavering, a silent offer of support if she chose to voice the turmoil he sensed within her. Then, Éowyn nodded; both to herself and him, and stepped away from the line of stalls. Her steps were decisive, though not hurried, and Éomer came after.

His unspoken concern followed, while he remained a pace behind; a silent guardian, ready to intervene if the quiet battle within her should ever threaten to spill outwards.

As they began to move further away, soon coming to the streets that would lead them from the vendors, Éomer subtly inclined his head towards Éothain. The man had been keeping a discreet distance. He lowered his voice, speaking just loud enough for his loyal guard to hear amidst the market's murmur. "Éothain," he murmured, his tone carrying a quiet command that brooked no question, "Once we have cleared the square, return. Purchase everything that caught her eye, everything we have paused to consider. The length of undyed wool by the weaver's stall, the carved heron with the outstretched wings, and those small wooden horses near the toymaker's corner."

A ghost of a smile played on Éothain's lips, a flicker of amusement in his eyes at his Lord's uncharacteristic sentimentality. But his expression remained impassive. He offered a curt nod, a silent acknowledgment of the task. Éomer then turned his attention back to Éowyn, a small, almost imperceptible satisfaction settling within him. Éothain, highly amused but ever the disciplined soldier, fell back a few paces, ready to execute his Lord's unspoken wish without a single word.

Éomer paused his squire with another, sudden thought.

"And the blade." His voice low and urgent, his gaze flickering back towards the stall they had just left. "The simple knife with the wooden hilt. Purchase that as well. See it is well-wrapped." This last addition was spoken with a degree of quiet intensity, a subtle emphasis that even Éothain, despite his amusement, registered held great importance. The man's lips twitched almost imperceptibly again, a hint of deeper understanding now mingling with his amusement.

He gave another, even more discreet nod, before continuing to drift back towards the bustling marketplace.

Soon, Éothain had disappeared into the lingering bustle, his tall figure blending surprisingly quickly with the crowd. Éomer watched him go for a brief moment. He then turned his full attention back to Éowyn, who had stubbornly continued to walk with that same resolute pace, her gaze still fixed on the path ahead. He wondered if she had noticed his brief exchange with Éothain, if any flicker of intuition had alerted her to his small act of brotherly care.

Swiftly, he caught up to her, his longer strides easily closing the distance.

"Éowyn," Éomer said, his voice a touch softer now that they were away from the people's watchful eyes, the noise of the market fading behind them. He walked ahead of her, then turned to face her directly, his gaze earnest. "The air in the town feels heavy still, does it not? Would you do me the honour of breaking bread with my riders and I? I have been away for so long, I cannot bear to part from you just yet." She paused in her stride, her own grey eyes meeting his, a flicker of something akin to surprise – perhaps even a touch of warmth – softening their guardedness. "The skies are without cloud tonight, and the stars are clearer away from the torchlight. A simple meal, but good company, I imagine."

He waited, his expression hopeful, offering a moment of respite away from the lingering shadows of Edoras.

A faint, almost wistful smile touched the corners of her mouth. "Yes, brother. I would be honoured."

Chapter Text

The world became quiet around them, fading with each step taking them further from the market. The road dipped into deeper shadows, greying forms and dwindling sun companions through the streets of Edoras. The only sounds were those they made themselves. The constant swish of Éowyn's dress, the rattling of his sword at his belt. Through the gates they walked, leaving behind watchful eyes and whispered strife – into another world entirely. The air, which in Edoras had been thick with hushed anxieties and the scent of human toil, was here crisp and clean.

On the breeze was carried damp soil and distant pines; open fields and endless skies.

The sloping path wound steadily downhill, past green mounds and white flowers; they walked in quiet reverence and memory of Kings long passed. Each hill claiming myths and legends of their own, tales old and familiar. Éomer found the dark slopes a chill reminder, a shameful thought lurking in the back of his mind. He pictured the ancient barrows, resting under the vast sky, and a bitter ache seized him. What would the Kings of old, men of stone will and sharp blades, say of their line now? Théoden, once a lion, reduced to a puppet by a viper's whispered venom. The proud strength of Rohan, once unbending against any foe, torn from within by a vile poison ... To imagine not war, but insidious deceit to be the bane of their long line. From within. Broken.

The thought was a deep, searing wound to his spirit, a testament to the depth of their current shame.

It was a bitter stab. Éomer averted his gaze from the sight and, with it, the lingering weight of the dead kings' judgment.

Soon, the mounds stood deadly silent behind them.

As Éomer and Éowyn approached, the camp – a scattering of low-slung tents and flickering pinpricks of firelight, taking shape in the setting sun – soon encompassed the pair. Around them came a vibrant tapestry of men and horses. Low hums of conversation wove between white fabrics, punctuated by the occasional snort of a horse or the clatter of metals. The tents were pitched in orderly rows, canvas sides taut against the gentle wind, and the tethered steeds stood patiently, heads weighed down by drowsiness, their breath misting in the cool airs.

Their stride softened, leaving the hard-packed road to find soft grass and upturned earth.

A deeper calm settled over Éomer. Each sound, each cadence of the camp, spun a familiar melody; a steadfast rhythm that had echoed through generations of Riders. From childhood to adulthood, this tune had followed him always. This was how it was, the steady hum of a loyal host and honest hearts, and in that unyielding familiarity, Éomer knew himself safe among allies for the night.

The tension in his shoulders eased.

This was his kin, his chosen family, forged not by blood alone, but by shared hardship and unwavering loyalty. He moved with a quiet authority that needed no words, his eyes sweeping over the camp, assessing, approving. The men, though engaged in their own conversations, sensed his presence. Heads turned as the siblings passed tent by tent, and a respectful silence rippled outwards from his approach. It was the same silence that followed his vengeful steps through Meduseld, yet so entirely different. It was not born of fear or cowardice, but of profound respect for the one they had sworn to serve. Some nodded, some offered a quiet greeting, and a few rose to their feet, their expressions open and welcoming.

At times Éomer would halt, to exchange brief words with a soldier; an old wound that had troubled a man during the last spring thaw; asking after the mending of a spear-shaft; or whether the new foal was settling. He knew many of his men by name, and more than just their battle prowess; he knew their families, their homes, the small joys and sorrows that made up their lives beyond the shield-wall. In the last years, there had been little time for peace – to find comfort in the homely hearths of Aldburg, and that pulled at the hearts of his men, just as they pulled at his own. Each were they soldiers, men of war, but each were they also sons, husbands, and fathers, with lives and loves awaiting their return beyond the endless plains.

They dreamed of peace.

Yet peace was far beyond reach.

The central area of camp was dominated by a large, crackling fire, its flames throwing dancing shadows across the faces of the riders gathered around it. A whole wild boar, impaled on a sturdy spit, slowly turned over the hottest logs. Its skin sizzling and fragrant. Each man of the camp could take his fill of the succulent meat for the evening meal; carving generous portions with their own knives, tearing into the warm, smoky flesh with unburdened appetites. They knew to eat and drink well in times of peace, for they, too, knew the hunger of war-time.

The air was thick with the rich scent of the roast, mingling with fresh bread and the faint, sweet tang of mead. Around the fire, men spoke in low, contented tones, finding solace in the company of their brothers-in-arms. For this brief time; short-lived and uncertain, the weariness of patrols and the gnawing worry of the kingdom's state seemed to recede, held at bay by the warmth of the flames and the satisfaction of a good meal. Laughter, clear and unforced, rose occasionally.

Éowyn's presence, walking beside him, seemed a striking contrast to the rugged figures of the riders. It brought an unexpected light to the camp. Her silks, though simple, shimmered faintly in the firelight, and her fair hair caught the glow like spun gold. Even as the sun sunk beneath the ridge of the world, she shone. The men watched her with a softened gaze, as she moved with a subtle grace among them. For each man she passed, she offered a warm smile or a quiet word.

For a moment, Éomer saw his mother in her.

A similar blend of noble strength and quiet compassion that drew men's hearts; his father had been the roaring fire, boisterous and unyielding, but it was Théodwyn, who had been the steady embers, nurturing the loyalties that bound the Mark. It appeared Éowyn had inherited much from her. He saw the way the riders, hardened and grim, visibly straightened, a renewed sense of purpose flickering in their eyes.

Her presence was a balm, a silent promise that the spirit of Rohan, though ailing, still burned strong.

The House of Eorl would not fail them.

Éomer smiled with pride for his sister.

A place was soon cleared for them near the main fire, a simple arrangement of logs and furs. A small, separate brazier crackled nearby, tended by a young squire, and the scent of roasting meat and warm bread filled the air. Éomer settled, his gaze still surveying his men, a quiet satisfaction in his features. Éowyn sat beside him, accepting a cup of honeyed mead from the squire with a grateful nod. The general murmur of the camp resumed, though tinged with a new, quiet awareness of the Lord and Lady in their midst.

They ate, for a while, in comfortable silence; the simple foods made grand by open skies and loyal company.

In the peace, Éomer watched the play of firelight on Éowyn's face, the softening of her weary brow, until she appeared entirely at ease. It was while they were finishing the last of their meal, that a small group of riders approached. One, a grizzled veteran with a kindly eye, stepped forward and bowed deep. "My Lord. My Lady," he rumbled. "If it would please you, we have a few songs we could play – nothing of great fancy, for Aelfláf snapped half his strings in a brawl – but a merry tune or two?"

Her face brightened. "Indeed, good sirs! It would please me greatly."

The men grinned, and a thrum of anticipation took the air. Two settled cross-legged; one drew out a lively, bright melody on a wooden pipe, while another plucked at a small, gut-stringed harp, coaxing a spirited rhythm from its remaining strings. Soon, a third, with a surprisingly strong voice, began to sing a boisterous lay of a fox and a farmer; a familiar, humorous tune that quickly had the surrounding riders chuckling and tapping their feet, for all knew the song. Éowyn's lips curved into a smile as she listened, a touch of carefree joy softening her features.

The small cluster of men around their fire grew, drawn by the music and the rare sight of their Lady so openly at ease. The oldest men of Éomer's company, grey-haired and weathered, remembered her best – for they had served his father, Éomund, before the passing of the mantle of Marshal upon his death – and they had seen the girl become a woman, and the joyful child turn cold with responsibility.

When the laughter from the first tune subsided, the piper began a new, softer melody.

It was a familiar air, often heard sung by mothers rocking babes to sleep, or by fathers around a quiet campfire under the wide, open sky – a gentle, lilting song of the green fields of Rohan. Of the stars that watched over them, promising safe return. The mood softened, replaced by a warm, shared contentment as the men listened, some humming along, others with faraway looks in their eyes. Éowyn's gaze grew thoughtful, a quiet peace settling over her as she remembered distant sounds of home. Mayhap she also recalled gentle hands, soft kisses, and their parents' voices, as Éomer then did.

The second song was soon replaced by a third, a tale of a long ride under a winter's moon.

It was mournful, but enduring, of those lost and waiting beyond the grey veil of the world. It was a song of death – the companion known to all; the friend waiting at the end of life's path, the guide to the far reaches beyond. Not to be feared, but welcomed. There were no murmured voices, or gentle humming from those listening; only the voice of the one who sang, clear and steady, carrying the weight of shared grief and unbreakable hope across the quiet camp. A hush had fallen, deeper than before, as each man listened, perhaps thinking of comrades lost on lonely marches, or kin who slept beneath the barrows.

Éowyn's smile had faded, replaced by a solemn reverence. Her gaze fixed on the dancing flames, seeing perhaps the faces of those she, too, mourned. Éomer watched her quietly, his own heart heavy with the song's truth, knowing that this shared remembrance – these wounds of the heart that could never mend – though painful, was a bond stronger than any forged in mirth.

As the music faded to an end, there was at first only a somber silence shared between those present. Éomer met Éowyn's gaze across the dying embers. A quiet understanding passed between them. He rose, offering his hand. "Come," he murmured, "Let us seek the open sky." She placed her hand in his, an acceptance of his offer.

Éowyn then turned to the riders who had offered their music, expression soft with gratitude. "My thanks to you, good sirs," she said. "Your songs brought warmth to the darkness, and fond memories to the heart." A few of the men nodded, mumbling words of appreciation for her words. Together, the siblings walked away from the fading glow of the campfires, their footsteps soft on dew-touched grass; following the path as it gently rose, leading them to a familiar hillock. From there they overlooked the slumbering tents, and further still, the grey, formless lands of Rohan sinking into night.

High above them, the sky of deepening night unfolded into a glistening expanse, a velvet curtain dusted with countless stars. Sigelwara, the Swordsman of the Sky, gleamed brightly, its familiar constellation a guiding sentinel in the inky blackness. The Rohirrim knew to follow its bane, for it promised dawn and the breaking of shadows. The herald of both hope, and vengeance. The air was cool and sweet, carrying the subtle scent of night-blooming flowers from the fields below.

Éomer fixed his gaze on the distant horizon, where the faint outline of mountains met the deep-blue sky. He had sought this solitude, this moment that should only be theirs, to speak of more difficult things. He would permit no watching eyes – not even those of his own men. The worry had found him once more, woven its way into his thoughts as he listened to the rueful melodies; the memory of his parents, and a promise made to them, to himself, to watch and guard his only sister. "What you said in the hall today," he began, voice low, "It was ... a risk. You stood against Wormtongue with a boldness that even some men would shrink from. Yet such words are easy targets for hostility in return."

Her grey eyes met his, sharp and ready to bite.

He raised a hand, imploring for her to remain quiet. "I am proud of you, sister, that I truly am. For your inner fire; your wisdom and your strength. You will not bend, nor yield, in the face of injustice. You serve our uncle, and your country, with a loyalty greater than any of those who whisper in the King's ear with false fealty. I will not take that from you. I see so much of our mother in you – today more so than ever – and that is why my heart aches with fear for you. When Father and Mother were laid to rest, I swore to them, silently, that I would do my utmost shield you from the world's harshness. Now, you have openly marked yourself an enemy of Wormtongue, and his venom knows no bounds. This is my burden, Éowyn, to keep you safe from the dangers that now encircle you, a promise I made in the shadow of their barrows. It should not be yours."

Éowyn's hand tightened on his, but her voice held no tremor.

"You speak of burdens, Éomer, but this is a burden I chose. Do you think me so frail, that I cannot stand against a viper when he bites at my own house? You are the sword of our father, your duty is to strike at the heads of our enemies. But the shield Mother left me? It is not one you can carry for me. My place is here, beside you, and by our King; it is to defend Rohan, even if it means facing down the likes of Wormtongue." Her gaze was keen. "I am not a child to be shielded from shadows."

"Yet still I wish that for you," Éomer admitted. "I wish you would live a carefree, joyous life, far from the shadows that now creep over our lands. I wish I had the strength, the power, to grant you this. But I cannot. I strive to – with each sunrise, I fight to protect you, and all the people of Rohan." His free hand lifted, a desperate gesture towards the distant, darkening silhouette of Edoras, a place that felt more like a cage than a capital. "But it is like fighting against the tide itself, Éowyn. Each victory feels fleeting, each breath harder to draw. I am trying, truly I am, but the strength, my strength ... it wanes."

He turned from her, withdrawing from her touch. Deep and dark, the lands were steeped in night, and he saw little more beyond their small patch above the fields. The breeze, sweeping then over the hillock and beyond, ruffled through the tall grass in a whispered caress. It came to them chill; much too cold for a Summer's wind it felt to Éomer. Unnatural. As if touched by the hand of Saruman, so even the forces of nature bent to his crafty powers. What mortal power could ever rival that of a wizard's?

In the vast, cold expanse, his struggle was but a fleeting passing.

Éowyn reached out, her hand finding his once more. Above, the countless stars persevered in their indifferent brilliance, an unwavering, ancient host against the turmoil of their world. Her fingers intertwined with his own. The touch was steady, warm. And so were her words. "Do not speak so, Éomer." Her voice was firm, as it cut through the silence of the hill. "You do not fight alone. That strength you speak of? It is not yours alone to bear. It is ours." She guided him back to face her.

Strands of golden hair had loosened from her braid, caught in the fickle breeze, and worried eyes met his.

"Look at them," she gestured subtly towards the slumbering camp below; the white tents ghostly pale in the moonlight. "Our kin. They draw strength from you, yes, but you must draw from them, and from me, too. We are the last of our line, Éomer. We stand together, or we fall alone – and I will not see us fall. The strength of one man cannot hold back the tide, but together we may be the shield against the storm."

She stepped closer, her silk dress rustling softly against his mail, a gentle, unwavering presence in the cool night.

For a moment, she simply stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, under the silent watch of the stars.

The flowers smelled so sweet as the dew fell. It was a pleasant night, both serene and warm, and the still skies promised another fine day on the morrow. In the grave east the Moon rose higher, silver and pale. And all such things Éomer noted, yet too troubled was his mind to enjoy them. The world was beautiful, but his heart dreary and clouded. Too many troubles called him from it, leading him to someplace only the Valar knew. The gentle hill sloped downward, into an open sea of swaying grass, but in his thoughts it was an unfathomed gulf, as if a vacant depth would swallow him whole. One step, and he would plunge into chaos.

As he stood pondering, half in the abyss of his worrisome mind, and half in the quiet beauty of his homeland, Éowyn nudged at him. Mayhap she saw his lonesome figure, wrapped in shadow; hunched, afraid, he so appeared, and searched for words to save him; to drag him back from his spiralling thought. A profound stillness was about them, as Éowyn took both his hands in hers. Her touch was warm, though the skin frightfully pale.

She guided his hands and placed a tender kiss to his fingers, a smile spent and sombre. "You have always been strange, in these matters," she said quietly. Her words were but a whisper in the night. Éomer looked down at their hands, so small they were. Yet in that very moment, it seemed as if she held his entire world. "To carry all by yourself, as if you must shoulder all the responsibilities of our people alone. Why not permit others to share in this burden?"

Éomer's troubled mind wrestled with her words, the truth of them undeniable, yet the weight of his solitary resolve was difficult to shed. To involve her, to ask such of her ... It was a dangerous game between the wolf and the viper, and the road could only lead to death. But for whom? He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat, unspoken.

Their conversation was cut short.

From the direction of the camp, a sudden, urgent shout wove through the quiet night, shattering the fragile peace they had found. A figure emerged from the pale tents, running with a desperate, stumbling gait up the hillock towards them. It was a young rider, one of the outriders Éomer had dispatched towards Helm's Deep, his face streaked with sweat and urgency even in the dim moonlight.

"My Lord! My Lady!" The rider gasped, collapsing to one knee a few paces from them, breathless and trembling. He was covered in sweat and dust, clearly just returned from the road. "I bring news of Théodred! I was ordered to deliver them immediately, to your hands no matter the hour." His voice cracked with urgency, his gaze wide and haunted, avoiding the Marshal's piercing stare.

Éomer's heart seized. He moved with a speed born of dread, dropping to one knee beside the gasping messenger. "What news? Speak plain and at once!"

The rider fumbled at his belt pouch, pulling forth a leather-bound scroll, sealed with the Second Marshal's own mark. "From the Prince's hand, my Lord," the young man managed, holding it out with a trembling hand.

A coldness spread through Éomer. He snatched the scroll, his fingers already tearing through the wax seal.

His eyes scanned the familiar script, his brows drawing tighter with each line. The message was indeed from Théodred, a reply to Éomer's urgent summons to Meduseld. Written with his cousin's neat, but clearly pressed hand; the ink had barely dried before the letter was sent, blotched and smudged, making some words hard to read. But the message was received.

The Prince had been delayed, the letter explained, by a sudden escalation of attacks from Dunlendings near Rohan's western borders. Close to the Deeping-coomb – not on the banks of the Isen, nor the open, uninhabited plains in the shadow of Fangorn Forest. They were striking at the very heart of the Westfold, encroaching upon the homesteads and hearths of the Rohirrim. Théodred detailed hasty defenses being set up, a necessary delay before he could ride for the King. The prince promised to come as soon as he was able, but a chill warning was woven through his words; caution until his arrival, for the King's illness and Wormtongue's poisons had clearly deepened the shadows over the Golden Hall.

Éomer folded the letter slowly, his gaze still fixed on the parchment for a long moment. Then, with a visible effort, he looked up at the trembling rider. "You have ridden hard and well, young man," he said, his voice surprisingly even, though a muscle twitched in his jaw. "Go, get some rest and food. You have done your duty." The rider, clearly relieved at his dismissal, and weary with exhaustion from a long ride, scrambled to his feet, bowed once more, and then turned to stumble back towards the camp.

Éomer crumpled the letter in his fist, so tight it almost cut into his palms, his face a mask of grim fury.

"Dunlendings!" He bit out, the word like a curse.

He rose to his feet.

Then, he handed the letter to Éowyn, allowing her a brief moment to read its contents. Her face was pale under the Moon. Éomer stepped to the edge of the hill, fingers clenched behind his back; they twitched for action, to inflict harm to those that encroached on their borders. "This is not their doing alone. This is Saruman's hand, drawing our strength away, dividing us while the serpent poisons our heart!" He looked up, peering far into the dark West, his eyes blazing; it was hard to discern anger from hope, blooming even in the pit of long-lived despair. For hope there was. "Théodred is delayed, but he is coming. He means to set his house in order before he rides ... We are not alone, not truly."

The wind blew, rough and fresh. It felt like the land itself stirred, a powerful, unseen force heralding the turning of the tide, whispering of help and strength gathering on the horizon.

"We have a Prince who fights for Rohan, and soon he will stand with us."

While Éomer's arrival in Edoras had been met with disdain and thinly – if at all – veiled hostility, the prince of Rohan rode through the gates of Edoras with such unquestionable authority, that there was little room for anyone to voice their astonishment. Pennants of green and white fluttering, snapping and biting at the wind, raised high above the many riders that milled into the streets. The royal guard fanned out, surrounding the Prince. He was clad in road-worn, yet immaculate mail, gleaming faintly despite the dust of his ride. Théodred did not come as a guest or a supplicant, but as the rightful heir returning to claim his place by the King's side.

With him he brought the stark reality of Rohan's borders into the heart of Edoras.

His helmet, shaped to resemble a horse's head, was still on his brow, shading his steeled eyes; there was a cold harshness to his gaze, prepared for any challenge, and not merely returned for a ceremonial visit. For a long moment he looked out over the crowd; men and women murmuring in both worry and amazement, soon collected around the royal guards. The morning air, usually alive with the familiar sounds of Meduseld waking, now held a breathless hush, broken only by the snorts of the warhorses and the creak of leather. Sunlight, freshly spilled over the eastern peaks and plains, caught the gilded scales of the Riders' armour.

The grim procession transformed into a glittering river of steel and purpose.

The shadows seemed to shrink before the disciplined ranks, the very cobblestones echoing with the weight of Théodred's arrival. Help had finally come. Windows of the timbered houses were flung open, curious faces peering out, their expressions a mixture of apprehension and dawning hope as they witnessed the true heir ride in force. Éomer made his way through the crowd, carving a path as onlookers stepped aside at the sight of the Marshal – many offering curt bows or murmuring respectful greetings, their relief at his presence almost palpable. But he pushed through the jostling mass of people, eyes fixed on Théodred, a resolve tightening his jaw.

He had seen the trail of dust from the ramparts, the Golden Hall behind and the open plains ahead, and from where he had sat since early morning; perched on the top stones, silently watching, waiting, a statue of warning. Each day since the letter had found him, holding on to that fragile tread of hope. Éomer would make sure no other voices reached the Prince's ear before his own; no poison, no whispered word of contentment or false peace. Only truth.

Théodred looked tired, dust-caked and battle-hardened from the border skirmishes, but his eyes burned with a clear, uncompromising fire. A keen wind was blowing from the North. He dismounted with an agile grace that belied his weariness, his gaze sweeping over the assembled guards and courtiers, landing finally on his cousin. The two men met, a shared understanding passing between them in a quick, firm clasp of forearms.

No words were needed yet; the urgency in Théodred's eyes, mirroring Éomer's own, spoke loud enough. "Welcome, cousin," Éomer said. "You are much needed."

The grip tightened on Éomer's arm. "I know, Éomer. The shadow lengthens here even as war burns on the borders. I did not ride here for pleasantries." Théodred's gaze, sharp as a hawk's, cut past the Third Marshal's shoulder. High above them, towering and gleaming in all its brilliance, the Golden Hall awaited. The doors were open, both doorwardens seemingly absent, and the deep dark beyond impenetrable. "I would see my father. Now."

Éomer stepped aside, in a flutter of green, and followed in the wake of the Prince.

The crowd parted at once; each man, woman, and child bowed in reverence, mumbled greetings and wondering eyes. There was almost a palpable shift in the air. Uneasy anticipation, mayhap, for seldom did Théodred, Prince of the Mark and Lord of the Westfold, grace Edoras with his presence. His duties were bound to Helm's Deep, to protect the peace and uphold vigilance in the far West. Now that he was here? It marked a subtle, indisputable change of power within court. Every eye was on the heir to Rohan, as he moved with a purpose that brooked no delay.

By his side walked Éomer, followed by a large group of guards.

He could feel uneasy anticipation, churning with a sense of grim satisfaction, until his many emotions settled into a tight knot in his stomach. This was the moment he had yearned for, the turning of the tide that could yet save the country, and their King, from the serpent's coil. It was only a short walk through the main road of Edoras, before Théodred and Éomer climbed the winding path up, quickly leaving the gathered crowd behind them; in the morning sun, turning thatched roofs into hues of gold, made the Prince's armour shine – a light to fight the dark shadows within Meduseld's gilded halls.

In Éomer's eyes, his cousin appeared like a beacon of hope.

For too long had he shouted warnings into the wind, hoarse and unheard for all seemed deaf to his words; a lone sentinel, watching the very fabrics of pride and strength that was Rohan unravel before his eyes. Threads of precarious silk slipping through his fingers, unseen and unheeded by those who clung to false peace within the Golden Hall. The fading of the white horse, the ancient emblem of their kings ... An ominous prophecy.

At the top of the hill, on the even slab of stone that gave a clear view of the surrounding lands, Théodred paused for a moment. On the steps below, the guards halted; shadowed faces hidden beneath horse-tailed helmets; swords, and spears, and bows, awaiting command. Éomer looked first to his cousin. There stood the rightful heir, sharp-eyed and resolute, a tangible force against the creeping darkness. A surge of relief, potent and almost dizzying, washed over Éomer. He was not alone. Hope came to him, and he gazed out over the lands. The ground was rolling and uneven, a steep drop from the Hall; soft and muddy near the stream that sprung from within the cliff, stony and broken by tufts of tall grass. A few trees spotted the hillsides.

His heart pounded in his chest, and, under the layers of leather and steel, his skin felt cold with sweat. The sun was warm, and the skies cloudless. He could see the white tents of his own camp beyond the ramparts; the endless stretches of fields; swallows and crows high in the air. A hissing wind. Rattling of green banners, the leaves on the trees, the crowd far below them. Carrying with it a faint, unsettling scent – not of the clean plains, but something stale, a breath of suffocating air and decay. Between the eaves of Meduseld itself, through unseen cracks, the wind howled – and not one sound came from within the Golden Hall.

It seemed as if only the dead waited within.

The absence of the doorwardens concerned Éomer deeply. The keep stood unprotected. Háma, Captain of Théoden's guard, would surely not abandon his post? His loyalty was beyond question, and his duty to the King absolute. The man had proved such many a time. Éomer glanced to Théodred, a silent question in his eyes. If the seasoned captain and his men were absent, it could only mean Wormtongue had moved against them.

"He wants no eyes on me upon my arrival," Théodred said, finally breaking the long silence.

The prince walked, with slow, deliberate steps to the open doors. As they approached, a colder, heavier air seemed to emanate from the dark maw of the entrance, carrying a faint, cloying scent Éomer could not quite place, but instinctively disliked. "But I have no use for an audience, nor a grand welcome." His eyes – blue and grey, a Winter's turbulent storm – were clear. "I only need to see my father."

The Marshals entered.

Polished wood and dim light, unnervingly quiet, turned Meduseld to a vast cavern of hostility. Mighty pillars stood as silent watchers, lining their walk through the long and wide hall; filled with shadows, fighting the vision of his eyes, Éomer saw and heard little. Rustling armour, booted steps echoing between the walls. Whispers, soon hushed to silence, came from somewhere to his left – breathing, followed by the subtle shift of fabrics. The great hearth was left untended, leaving piles of ash in the absence of familiar flames. It was a coldness more profound than the mere absence of fire, seeming to seep from the very bones of the neglected hall.

At the far end of the hall, the dais, where King Théoden should have sat enthroned, was empty.

Instead, Wormtongue stood beside the vacant throne, his hunched form a dark silhouette against the polished wood. Green banners hung lifeless behind him, the white horses embroidered upon them seemed to droop in sorrow, their proud heads bowed in silent shame. A cold chill pierced Éomer to the bone. It was the chill of a tomb. This was the uttermost degradation, the final insult; the King's seat abandoned, and the viper standing guard over its emptiness. The pale man offered no greeting, no bow, to the Marshals of the Mark and the Prince of Rohan; merely a slow, unsettling smile that did not reach his cold eyes.

Théodred stopped not far from the dais. At first, he said nothing; gloved hands unfastened the chin-strap and lifted the horse-crested helmet from his head with a soft clink of metal. A grim, dust-streaked face was revealed beneath. "Is this truly the welcome befitting a Prince of Rohan within the King's own hall?" There was anger in his voice, a cold glint underneath the loud, unwavering call. He spoke not to Gríma, but rather to the dark figures slithering and hiding within the deeper shadows of Meduseld.

The challenge, hurled at the unseen courtiers and guards who stood silently by, lingered for many long moments.

At length, Wormtongue moved. The man allowed the silence to fester, for the prince's words to die in the stale, heavy air of the hall, as he came to the edge of the dais. The steps left him taller than the Marshals; a vantage point of sheer pridefulness, from which he could look down upon those he deemed beneath him. Heavy-lidded eyes glinted when finally he replied. "Hail, Théodred son of Théoden. We greet you in this Hall – though you seem to have forgone the usual courtesies of a formal visit. One might almost imagine, given your lack of heralds, that you were in too great a hurry for ceremony?"

Théodred narrowed his eyes.

He did not raise his voice, but the sudden stillness in his posture, the shift from motion to an unwavering stand, was more cutting than any shout. His back was straight. "My only ceremony now, Gríma, is to see to the King, my father, and the welfare of Rohan." His gaze swept past Gríma, briefly flicking over the impassive King's Men, for they had slowly slipped from the shadows, before returning to the slithering advisor. "I find myself in no mood for your customary pleasantries, nor your preening. Where is my father?"

Yellowed teeth revealed, as Wormtongue's thin lips peeled back; a flicker of raw hostility not even he could hide, before quickly hiding behind a mask of sympathy. "Alas, my Lord Prince," he simpered, his voice now laced with feigned concern. "The King is quite unwell. He rests, as is his custom when the demands of the realm press too heavily upon him. Such a visit, however well-intentioned despite unannounced – and from his own son – would surely overtax his weakened state."

The counsellor clasped his wizened hands.

"There has been given explicit orders not to disturb the King."

Théodred's cold fury, barely contained until now, finally broke free. He took a single, deliberate step forward, closing the remaining distance to the dais. At once, he climbed the three steps, and came to tower over the paling man. The air seemed to crackle around the Prince, and the guards instinctively tensed, hands dropping to sword-hilts. Wormtongue, for all his arrogance, flinched, a faint tremor running through his hunched frame as the Prince's shadow fell over him. The silence in the hall became absolute, punctuated only by the ragged edges of Wormtongue's own breath.

"I am Second Marshal of the Riddermark, Crown Prince of Rohan. You may have power over this court, Gríma, and sway over the king's ear; but unless you stand before me with a royal decree – signed by my father's own hand – your words do not command me. Stand aside, or I will have my guard remove you by force, should you dare bar my path to the King."

"Of course, my Lord Prince. Your word is command." Instead of stepping aside, Wormtongue bowed slowly; head lowered just enough to be insulting, his gaze fixed on Théodred beneath heavy lids. Then, with a pale, claw-like hand, he gestured for a doorway across from the hall. "Though the King rests, I will, of course, guide you to his side ... As is my solemn duty." His movements were a slithering retreat; he did not step aside for the Prince, but rather turned in a whirl of black robes, an illusion of control. His dark eyes flickered to the members of court, a silent, almost imperceptible command passing between them, before he began his slow, deliberate shuffle across the polished floor.

For a brief moment, the hostile eyes found Éomer. In that fleeting glance, he saw not just the usual contempt, but a chilling glint of pure, unadulterated hatred.

It was clear to all that Éomer's hand had guided the prince's return to Edoras.

Chapter Text

The path to the King's chambers was slow, deliberately so, taking the Marshals through narrow corridors and winding stairs; meant for servants and attendants, and those who normally passed unseen through the Keep. The air was dark, lit only by passing flickers of sconce-light, and dust hung heavy about them. There was only silence beyond their booted steps – no creaking wind through high rafters, no shuffling feet or rustling clothes, nothing. They appeared entirely alone.

Only briefly was the quiet broken, when the slinking man at their head spoke. "This way, my lords." His voice feigned courtesy, yet the coldness beneath was unmissable in their ears. It was a sound like rustling dry leaves, brittle and unsettling. Éomer watched as the counselor's hunched form twisted and turned through the passages, the dark robe a momentary absence of light.

Wormtongue did not look back, merely a glance over his shoulder to ensure they followed, before returning to his creeping pace.

"Where do you lead us?" Théodred commanded, his patience entirely spent. The Prince did not tolerate the treatment of a fool, nor to be led blindly through the keep. His voice rang sharply through the corridor, a blade cutting the dust-shimmering air; and, perhaps, in that moment, a truth dawned on the wizened man before them. While he led them through hidden paths, as if to belittle and mock their every step, he was now alone with the pair. Wormtongue's hunched form halted.

He slowly turned, his expression a careful mask of wounded surprise.

"My Lord Prince, I merely thought to take the fastest route. The King's true dwelling is large and grand, but there is a cool draft that not even roaring fires can quell, and it so troubles his old bones. I have brought him here, to a smaller, more intimate room. It is much cozier, and the lack of a chill makes it a more suitable place for a man in his delicate state." His voice was a low whisper, meant to sound humble. Yet the laced condescension dripped from his every word.

Théodred ignored the veiled insult. "I have not come to see these halls, Gríma. I know them better than any; for this is, and will always be, my home. I have come to see my father." He took a single, deliberate step forward, forcing Wormtongue to either stand his ground or retreat. The walls seemed to narrow in around them, and the suffocating silence now felt like a living thing, an angered beast ready to strike. For the first time, Éomer saw a flicker of true fear in Wormtongue's eyes. Trapped between two men whose will was as solid as the walls around them.

There would be no place to run.

Wormtongue's mask of feigned humility finally cracked. With a barely perceptible shiver, he offered a final, stilted bow. "As my Lord Prince wills it," he said.

Down the corridor, and around another corner, the way brought them, until they came to an unremarkable door set in a shadowed recess of the wall. Two men of the King's Guard stood watch, shadowed statues flanking the entrance. They did not stir as the three approached, their helms lowered and their spears held at perfect attention. A glimmer of recognition flashed beneath the metal, and in the faintest twist of a glove; they were Háma's, but forced to follow the commands of another.

With a slithering step back, Wormtongue gestured with a pale hand. "I have done as tasked." He did not push the door open, and neither did he order the watch to do so; the act was too common for him. The Prince had demanded to be brought to the King – and so he had been, but not one step further. Théodred came forward, heeding not the slight against his rank. Pale, blue eyes were steeled, and he nodded briskly at the soldiers.

The door groaned open, revealing the King's chambers. A sickly, dim light spilled into the corridor, carrying with it a stale, thick scent of old spice. Decay and sickness. So stark a contrast to the promise of the open plains of Rohan, that all hope drained from Éomer's heart. He felt ice spread through his veins. Wormtongue did not enter first, but waited, fingers clasped before him and head bowed, tilted so that only a thin sliver revealed dark eyes. He watched them pass.

His gaze fixed on Éomer. In that final, fleeting glance, the Marshal saw the true threat, not in the man's unspoken words, but in the unblinking, venomous promise of vengeance. And in that moment, fleeting and easily missed, Éomer understood; the realm would suffer, fester until the rotten core of its strength was left as a hollow husk, easy for the enemy to shatter and consume. Gríma Wormtongue could not be left alive.

A fire sputtered, struggling and failing, in the hearth, its light casting long, dancing shadows over heavy tapestries. The cramped space felt suffocating, and all sounds seemed muffled. The lone window was shuttered. Silken quilts lay piled on the great bed, but it stood empty. The quarters of the King had always held a great collection of many things; tomes and books, spines spun with threads of gold, or old and weathered, impossibly precious, from ages passed; great chests and cloths of vibrant colours, depicting tales of their ancestors. All were they gone.

The room was small, entirely too small to host a King of Rohan, yet that was precisely what it did.

In the center of the room sat King Théoden. He was not enthroned, but instead hunched in a high-backed chair, a crumpled puppet in fine linens. Not even the layer of blankets and furs masked the withering figure beneath; the bear was without strength. Much more so, than when Éomer had last seen his uncle. His head was bowed, and the hair, once a fiery silver, was now a colourless white beneath a circlet of gold.

While he had permitted the Marshals to enter before him, it was with a swish of dark robes, that Wormtongue hastened to the King's side. There, he hovered. His presence felt like a stain in the room, a haunting shadow. With a pale hand rested on Théoden's shoulder, he lowered himself to speak into the King's ear. The gesture looked caring, yet seemed to Éomer but a form of possession; the words too low for him to discern.

Éomer walked further into the room, following his cousin's long strides. Standing before the King, both bowed in unison. No light came to the lifeless vision, downcast to the floor below; their presence entirely unheeded. Théodred stepped forward, the mail of his armour clanking in the chamber's hushed stillness. With each rattle came the drums of war, shattering a false peace instilled behind shuttered eyes. He moved with a purpose that brooked no resistance, his eyes fixed on his father's withered face.

"Father," Théodred began, his voice clear and strong. He ignored the King's haunting shadow, keen gaze leaving room only for the old man before him. Quickly, he removed the leather gloves, kneeled, and placed his hand upon the King's. The touch was gentle, coaxing the ghost of warmth to return to the thin, pale fingers. "I have come. Rohan's borders are afire, and I have left my duties to ride to your side."

For a moment, Éomer felt hope. Surely the voice of the Prince – his only son – would break the cloud that claimed Théoden's mind.

Yet the figure remained quiet in the chair.

Théodred persisted, though his eyes held a deep, hidden sorrow. "Father, the Dunlendings have crossed the Isen once more," he said, heavy with the grim truth. He looked to Éomer. "And orcs lay claim to the borders of the Anduin. We are besieged on many fronts, as if an invisible hand seeks to draw our strength from the East. I have come to implore you, now – before all is too late – to act." He held his father's hand firmly, as if he could pour his own life and vigor back into the King's veins.

A low, scornful chuckle rippled from the advisor. "The Prince speaks of war, my Lord," Wormtongue sneered. His bony hands rested on the back of the King's chair, and he leaned forward; almost indiscernable, Théoden titled his head to meet the words. "He seeks to burden you with the cries of distant battles. But what is this far-off strife to our great King? He, who has faced far greater foes. You, my Lord, need only rest." The words were like a physical force, an invisible hand attempting to push Théodred away.

The air itself seemed to grow heavy, filled with the weight of the insidious counsel.

There was a gleam, momentarily, when Wormtongue licked his bared teeth in a smirk. Then the mask fell into place once more. "Dunlendings and orcs have always attacked our borders, and each time they have been cast back by the strength of the Rohirrim. There are no great hosts of war; only small skirmishes without leadership, mindless creatures throwing themselves to a quick death. Surely that is something the Marshals of the Mark can manage. Perhaps their watch is not ... adequate."

The final word hung in the air, a poisoned arrow aimed directly at both Éomer and Théodred. Wormtongue did not raise his voice, but the veiled accusation of incompetence was more cutting than any shout. Éomer felt familiar rage building within him, a fiery pit that soon smothered all reason. So this was how the viper would play his hand?

But Théodred's gaze never left his father's face. He ignored the words of the other, and instead, tightened his grip on the King's hand. "Rohan suffers," he said. "We have watched villages burn, men and women cut down in their own homes. I have lost riders, to both sword and spear. Your nephew was attacked on the road to Aldburg, pierced by the arrows of Dunland. I speak not of distant strife." His eyes hardened. "I speak of the very heart of our country! Our watch is strong, Father, but it is nothing without your leadership."

There came no reply. Nor did the father look to the son before him, the one who so desperately urged for help. It was too late.

"The King has spoken," Wormtongue said with a soft finality that made Éomer's blood run cold. "He has chosen to rest, and he has spoken through me. You have said your peace, Lord Prince, but your visit has disturbed the King enough. Now, leave him to his well-deserved slumber." He took a step forward, his shadow falling over Théodred and the King.

The rage in Éomer churned to a reckless storm. His hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. He did not care for Wormtongue's words; his mind was only for his family, and for his country, and it seemed to crumble before his very eyes. He cared for the King, as close to a father as any, now nothing but an empty shell; and for the furious Prince, denied the right to his own kin. If blood was needed, then so it would be by his hand.

"You have no right to speak for the King, you rat!" Éomer growled. His voice was a low rumble, but it filled the small room with a force that made Wormtongue flinch. "You are not his voice! He has no voice, not since you came here with your lies and your poison!"

Théodred's hand shot out, holding Éomer back. "No, cousin," he said, his voice strained but firm. "Stay your arm, and save your breath. We are better than this." Éomer felt the steel in his hand, heard the alluring call ... "Do not stoop to his level. Not here – not in front of our King." The Prince looked at Wormtongue, his eyes filled with a cold, terrifying fury, shadowing even that of Éomer's unbridled wrath. "This is not over, Gríma. You will not stand between me and my father for long."

With that, Théodred released his father's hand and, with a final, heartbreaking glance, turned to walk from the room. Éomer followed him, but not before he cast a final, murderous look at the King's advisor. Wormtongue only smiled in return. It was the smile of a predator who had won. This is not over ... Perhaps the King was deaf to their plight, but it would not be a victory for the serpent. Not while they drew breath.

As the two Marshals reached the threshold, a sound knock came to the door. "My King," a guard's voice reached them, halting their steps. Clear hesitation was in his tone, and surely the watch had heard the raised voices from within. "The lady Éowyn asks for an audience."

The announcement hung in the air, a clear, jarring note of fresh life. Éomer and Théodred looked at each other, their shared rage momentarily forgotten, replaced by a deep concern. Wormtongue, however, looked as if he had been struck. His sneer vanished, and his pale face contorted into an unreadable look. He turned to the door, his eyes narrow and hostile.

"The King is unwell and cannot be disturbed!" He snapped, voice uncharacteristically sharp, as he walked in front of the King's seat. "Tell the Lady Éowyn that her brother is just departing, and that the King must now rest. He will have no more visitors."

"Open the door," Théodred commanded, his voice a low rumble that held no room for argument. "The lady of the Mark has a right to see her own uncle." He took a single, powerful step toward the entrance, and the guard, hearing the Prince's command, began to unbar the door. Wormtongue's face twisted in veiled anger, but he held his tongue. As the hinges groaned open, a soft, clean scent – not of stale spice masking sickness, but of fresh earth and growing things – reached Éomer first. A figure entered, her face a pale oval in the dim light.

In her arms, she carried a small woven basket filled with white blossoms.

Éowyn's presence was a sudden quiet, breaking through the suffocating atmosphere of the room. She acknowledged her brother first, with a simple, solemn nod; then, a bright smile touched her face as her eyes found her cousin. She stepped forward, her plain, maroon dress a stark contrast to their mail. Gently, she took a hold of Théodred's arm, her head bowing in a silent, affectionate gesture. "It has been too long, Théodred." The touch was quick, a brief and fond reunion, but little was said between them. They were not alone – and Éowyn knew well that fondness could be dangerous.

Wormtongue's watchful gaze was a cold, piercing presence in the room. Éomer glared at the pale man, a quiet warning. His stare was as sharp and unyielding as a drawn blade, a silent promise of the violence he yearned to unleash. Today it was a threat, but also a promise for the future. It was a look that said he knew exactly who and what Wormtongue was, and that he would be repaid for every lie, every vile word, and every breath of poison he had inflicted upon their King. And in that moment, more than anything, a warning against the wizened man's clear regard for his sister.

Éowyn brushed a delicate hand against Théodred's cheek, then turned her gaze onto the hunched form of her uncle.

She did not seek Wormtongue's leave or acknowledge his authority, let alone his presence in the King's quarters. She simply walked with a purpose that made the cramped, musty chamber seem to shrink before her. She knelt beside her uncle's chair, her movements a tender, silent grace. "I have brought flowers, uncle." The basket was placed on the floor beside them.

Her gaze lingered on the heavy, moth-eaten tapestries, the fire that was soon naught but embers, and the room's single, shuttered window, which admitted no light. She allowed a huff to escape her. Then, Éowyn moved to the shuttered window, unlatching the hatch to quickly allow streaks of clear sun into the dimmed room. And with it came a gentle breeze.

"My lady," Wormtongue rushed over to her side, a hand hovering close to hers on the sill. "The draft is too much for the King. I advise the window to be closed immediately."

"It is Summer yet, and the wind blows warm from the South. There is no harm to be found in a mountain wind." Éowyn's voice remained calm, her eyes meeting his without a hint of fear. Her words were not a plea, but a statement of fact, and in their quiet simplicity, they held a strength that defied his very nature. For a moment, the golden sunlight caught the motes of dust dancing in the air, revealing the rot and stillness Wormtongue had created. The subtle rush of air seemed to give the room life, a ghost of the vibrant world beyond its walls. Wormtongue's hand, still hovering near hers, trembled slightly.

"A mountain wind can carry all manner of ailment," he murmured, his voice now a low, conspiratorial hiss. "Why risk the King's health for a breath of dry air?"

Éowyn did not flinch or raise her voice. She simply looked at him and answered. "My uncle has been starved of both light and air," she said. "If the King were to pass, he would not do so as a man cloistered and hidden from the sun of his own country. That is not the man he is. And, certainly, the Prince would not happily inherit a throne from a king who was not free in his final days – if the King truly is as ailing as you say." Turning from the window, and the sunlight with it, she smiled at her cousin. "Surely he would make a thorough reckoning of those who held his father in such a state."

Éowyn had dealt a final, elegant blow.

The words, though soft, were as cold and sharp as a shard of ice. For a moment, a flash of pure fear crossed Wormtongue's face. He knew the veiled meaning in her voice – Théodred would not rest until he had vengeance for his father's death. It was a clear warning that his poison would not go unpunished. It was a truth; dawning not only in the mind of Wormtongue, but in the heart of Éomer. The King was still safe; if he were to succumb to the illness, whatever it may be, the crown would fall to Théodred. And all of the viper's sinister plans, so carefully laid, would crumble.

Wormtongue's lips thinned into a pale line, and he drew back his hand as if burned. He had no answer for her quiet, resolute will.

Éomer, watching from the doorway, felt a surge of pride. For the first time since they had entered this cursed room, it seemed the light had won.

But while the men of the room each seemed caught in thoughts of their own, the lady was not yet done in her task. "And if you believe the Summer heat cold, Gríma, may I suggest the fire better tended? It is but embers." She knelt by the king, skirts pooling around her in a blossom of red. "I would imagine those, tasked with the care of a King, could better manage their duties?"

"Of course, my lady Éowyn," the advisor replied, hands clasped and face paler than normal. "I will have a word with the attendants, and they will understand that such oversight will not be tolerated again." He did not raise his voice, but the word understand was stretched, made to sound cold and final. His eyes, though fixed on her, seemed to look past her, as if already considering the fate of the servants. His smile, polite and devoid of warmth, promised a thorough, and deeply unpleasant conversation. "But I shall wait until my presence here is no longer required, my lady. I must ensure that the King's rest is not disturbed further, and, of course, to be of assistance to you."

"I am glad. Though surely the King should not wait for anything he needs, let alone a fire to be tended. It is a simple task that could be done by any servant, or perhaps even by one as highly placed as yourself, Gríma." She picked through the flowers, carefully selecting one after the other in a specific, to them unknown, order. Éowyn turned a smile to Wormtongue. "After all, what better way to show one's devotion than to tend to the needs of the King with one's own hands?"

The muscles of his jaw worked, but for once, no clever words came. He could not argue. The full extent of her cunning was now apparent. She had, in a single, polite sentence, undermined his entire claim of devoted service and revealed the very heart of his deceit. Wormtongue simply stood there, pale and silent, his dark eyes fixed on her; the gaze so piercing, Éomer walked further into the room, one hand in the belt and the other on his sword. His sister required no aid in a battle of wits and words, and so his role came to that of a silent sentinel.

The only thing in the room as cold as Éomer's glare was the dying fire in the hearth.

Then, after much deliberation, Wormtongue found his bearing once more. At once he walked to the door and poked his head out. "A servant! Now!" He snarled, his voice a low, vicious hiss that shattered his mask of polished courtesy. The sudden, unhinged fury of his tone made the guards at the door flinch. He didn't even look at them, but pointed a trembling finger down the dark corridor, his pale face a mask of thwarted rage. "Fetch an attendant at once and have the fire mended! The King ... the King will not have his chambers so ill-tended again!"

A soldier scurried off, echoing down the passage to convey the orders.

"Brother," Éowyn spoke, voice lithe and untroubled, and brought his attention back to her. "Would you be so kind as to bring me the vase on the table there?"

He returned the smile directed at him, hoping his eyes conveyed his pride. "For you, anything."

Éomer's boots made no sound as he walked, his mail clanking softly in the sudden hush. The air, now stirred by the open window, felt cooler as he crossed the small room. New life was breathed into the staleness. His eyes never left hers, a silent conversation passing between them that needed no words. He reached the table and saw the vase, a dusty, ornate thing of tarnished silver, forgotten and unused for what must have been years.

He returned to his sister and presented the vase to her with a gentle, almost reverent care. As she took it, Éowyn's gaze met his once more, and for a moment, the two stood united in the quiet act of her defiance. Éomer and Théodred had entered the room with the force of storm and steel, but they had been met with a wall of poison and contempt. Éowyn, however, came with flowers and sunlight, a gentle force that shattered Wormtongue's power where their fury had failed. One could not withstand without the other, but for now they had only won the clash of words – and not the war of the kingdom.

While the exchange, one of veiled threats and feigned courtesy, appeared to abate, Éomer chanced a glance to Théodred.

The Prince observed without a word, struck by deep thoughts. Clearly, the harsh truth of his father's state of mind troubled him deeply. The rage, which Éomer had felt moments before, had been eclipsed by his sister's quiet strength, and it appeared Théodred, too, had found some solace. The battle for the King was not only a battle of raw fury, but that of subtlety. A completely different kind of weapon – one of grace, patience, and love. For truly, all three loved the man who had been the steadfast pillar of their youths, and now, their greatest sorrow.

In the hallway, cloaked in shadow but still there, Wormtongue waited. Silently watching. His presence could be felt, like tiny pin-pricks in the back of his neck, and Éomer made sure to reveal nothing. He smothered the dull, constant throb of anger; even the swelling pride and glee for his clever, brave sister. The Marshal held his posture rigid, his face a carefully crafted mask of indifference.

Éowyn picked through the flowers, her movements careful and deliberate, and began to arrange them within the silver vase. Blue and yellow, clear white and deep purple. A low, soothing murmur left her lips as she worked, a soft sound of comfort to accompany her quiet, patient hands. She spoke of the warmth of the sun and the rich scent of the soil where the flowers grew, on the fields just beyond the western fences, as if weaving a picture of the world beyond the shuttered window for her uncle to hear.

As she placed a final white blossom into the vase, a moment of profound stillness fell over the room.

King Théoden's head, which had been bowed to his chest as if caught in an inescapable dream, tilted. It was a slow, almost imperceptible turn, as if he were a puppet being pulled by a frayed string. The movement was small, but his withered face turned faintly toward the scent of the flowers, following the soft sound of Éowyn's voice. Éomer, and Théodred still in the doorway, saw it. Éowyn reached for her uncle, pale hand upon pale hand.

He was not entirely gone.

Chapter Text

"Leave me the room."

The voice of the prince came sharp, an order that brooked no argument in the otherwise deadly silence of the chamber. Éomer looked at his cousin and saw naught but resolute purpose in his eyes. They were steel; clear and sharp, entirely transfixed on that small, miniscule movement of the King's wizened head. On he who wore the circlet of rule, yet heeded not its weight. Then, momentarily, Théodred's gaze snapped up to meet Éomer's, and at once he understood the unspoken command. The deep, personal need that rested behind it. A reunion between father and son – in desperate times, long delayed, and too sacred even for a silent witness. This moment was his alone.

Éomer nodded in understanding.

"By the Prince's command," he replied, looking now to his sister. "I shall see it done. Éowyn, let them have their time."

Éowyn, who had stood steadfastly beside their uncle, brow furrowed by a faint line of worry, rose slowly. Dark skirts rustled around her, while pale fingers clasped the King's bony hands. Her gaze lingered a moment more, a final, loving touch before she moved. "Of course." She smiled at Théodred. "Do come find us after, dearest cousin. Long have you been away, and missed much the greater. We have so much to speak of, and so little time."

With an outstretched arm, Éomer guided his sister to his side. There, with a bow to the frail figure in the chair, both turned to leave.

The pair walked from the room. Éomer led the way, his eyes fixed on the doorway where Wormtongue now stood. The man was but a pale, hunched shadow in the corridor; features wretched and warped by the flickering sconce-light. The viper's mask of composure appeared entirely shattered. His face now twisted in fury and humiliation, lips drawn back in a silent snarl as he watched the two siblings emerge. His eyes, dark as a crow's wing, darted between Éomer and Éowyn, glinting with a venomous light.

He had lost control of the King.

Éomer met Wormtongue's stare in challenge. No words were needed. The message was clear; a new dawn had come to the Golden Hall with the arrival of the Prince. Power would not so easily fall into the hands of those who sought control through poisoned lies. On this day, at least, Wormtongue had lost. "You heard the Prince, Gríma. Now go, and let your shadow fall elsewhere."

Behind them, the oaken door to the King's chamber closed with a quiet thud; it echoed long throughout the corridor, and only when silence found them once more, did Éomer motion to leave. He spared no more glances on the court viper. Instead, his thoughts turned to glimpses of hope; that Théodred's voice of compassion, reason, and – more than anything – love could pierce the veil cast upon Théoden. Rohan would fall if not for the guidance of its King. Drowned in deceit and lies, each drop added by hands of cowardice and greed.

He knew the heart of the court. It was not guided by the best interests of their people, for those too powerless to defend themselves; it was the heart of dark selfishness, and for far too long had Wormtongue ruled unchallenged in a cesspool of sycophants. The counsellors spoke only the language of gold, and heard only the winds of favour. The few – the men of sworn swords and steel – were but an inconvenient truth, easily ignored. But perhaps now the winds had changed ...

The corridor was no longer as dark; with each stride from the shadowed chamber, the gloom seemed to lift. Indeed, so different it felt, that Éomer risked words previously unspoken. "He was so very ... old. Much older than last I visisted. Pale and sullen, perhaps, but not entirely without his wits! This man is but a hollow shell. A tree, dead at the heart, and standing only by the will of others."

Éowyn's hand rested on his arm, a gentle nudge of warning. Her voice came much lower than his. "The days pass as years in that room. He has been starved of both light and air, Éomer, and it is a slow, creeping death. It is a patient hunter that lurks within that darkness."

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together in surfacing anger. "But today the hunter has lost its prey," he said. The presence of Théodred – and, likewise, Éowyn and himself – was a bulwark of resistance. They stood between the unseen hand of Saruman and the throne. The tide, which for so long had crept in to drown them, had stilled. For now. Each step resounded, firm echoes of purpose. They were the hope of Rohan, and they would not fall.

Ahead, light came to the path as the Great Hall beckoned. It spilled from the open doors in a golden flood, telling them early morning had turned to noon, and the air into a shimmering haze of motes and dust. There was a shift in the stale, cold air, and heat – bringing the smell of baking bread and roasting meat – met them instead. The kitchens were hard at work elsewhere, always tasked to feed the many that came and went under the eaves of Meduseld. But the Hall stood empty.

There were no slinking shapes lurking in the shadows, hiding behind carven pillars to wait and watch; no fire lit the great hearth, and the tables were deserted, stripped bare and silent. A warm sun found a way through high rafters, and Éomer could faintly discern life beyond the cold walls. For a moment, they stood quietly in the doorway. Only the shadows of ghosts appeared to watch them from the colourful, woven tapestries, forms frozen in thread.

Clear eyes, almost lifelike in their make, watched him as Nahal, the steed of Béma, seemed to move from its tapestry. Silver under moonlight, the guide to a righteous path. Éomer remembered his dream. So long ago it soon was, distant and unreal ... But his heart became a swift and steady drum. He had been guided, and he had listened. A reminder. The Valar would not forsake Rohan, or its people, and his choice was that of truth.

His booted steps resounded once more.

"Have you yet eaten?" Éowyn asked, her voice soft in the still air.

He shook his head. "I have little time for such."

Upon his reply, his sister brought him to another halt. Anticipating a sharp retort, he glanced at her, but instead, only a thoughtful scowl creased her brow. Then, her grey eyes met his. "Clearly, I shall have a proper word with that squire of yours! He must keep better care of you." A slow smile spread across his face. The thought of the fiercely protective Éowyn reprimanding the hapless Éothain left him mirthful. It would not be a first – nor a last – scolding the poor lieutenant received for things he had little control over.

It truly was a struggle to keep the Marshal fed.

"What words you voice, dear sister," he chuckled. "You must not speak of him as such; as if he were an inadequate wife not performing his duties. The poor man!"

At once, he regretted his words, for Éowyn's gaze sparked dangerously. She planted herself squarely in front of Éomer, hands on her hips. "Do you really wish to speak on the topic of wives?" Her look of utter disbelief mirrored their mother's silent chastisement from their childhood; the same way Théodwyn, princess of Rohan, had regarded him when he stood before her with jam-smudged cheeks, feigning innocence in the case of missing apple tarts. They had moved into dangerous territory.

"Peace, sister!" A warm fondness washed over him and he patted her arm, guiding it to rest within the knook of his elbow. "I certainly do not. But, if it helps to lessen your soured mood, I can tell you this! One who is much more in need of a spouse is only a few rooms away. Let Théodred be the inheritor of your ire, and not I. He has already passed his fortieth summer, and Rohan has a desperate need for a new heir. Now, speak no longer of such matters, and instead cherish this quiet moment, for I fear it will only be brief."

Éowyn pursed her lips, carefully masking the determination that lurked beneath. With a quiet chuckle, Éomer knew well he was not completely free, and he would surely be subject to her will at a later time. There was clear intent in her gaze. "Very well," she muttered. "But eat you must, and I will hear no complaint." For now, he had deflected her aim.

Happy to distract her, he allowed himself to be led from the Hall.

They took to another, broader corridor – not one of shadows and dust, but of open windows and a breeze, carrying the sweet scent of the surrounding gardens. Éowyn's grip on his arm was steady, resolute, as if he would bolt when given the chance. She spied a passing servant and called out. Food and drink was to be prepared for the Marshal; as well as for the Prince, once his audience with the King had concluded. Much had to be discussed; worries and hopes, things both dark and bright that had weighed upon their hearts for too long.

Éomer followed his sister through a side-door and into the open air.

The gloom of the Golden Hall fell away behind them, replaced by the fresh scent of earth and the sweet fragrance of late summer blooms. A winding path carved through rock, following the gentle slope of the hill around the shadowed keep. White-stemmed birch and silverleaf poplars grew dense, and between branches of rustling greens, sunlight, warm and golden, fell upon their faces. They stepped into a small, secluded garden nestled within the castle wall and the many trees planted by their grandmother.

The space was a quiet sanctuary, created by Queen Morwen, when her husband had inherited the throne of Rohan. Éomer remembered the fondness in his own mother's voice, sitting beneath the whispering trees, as she spoke of a heart's longing. Here, flowers and herbs were tended to with great care, for they grew nowhere else in the rocky soil of the mountains, nor in the open fields and plains North of Minas Tirith. But there was also juniper and myrtle and thyme, turning the air heavy with the scent of late Summer. The few patches of grass between stones was sprinkled with dandelions. Sweet briar, yellow-flowered vines, and droopy violets; primeroles had been his mother's favourite, and she had treasured them when she had lived in Edoras as a child.

They grew still in great numbers on the eastern slopes surrounding Aldburg.

Carefully removing his belt and sword, they took their seats on a bench of white marble. Gúthwinë rested not far from his reach, and for a long moment they said nothing. The stillness came over them, a tranquility touched deeply by memories; in a garden of their childhood. His grandmother had always been burdened by longing for a home, in marriage no longer her own, away in the bountiful, perennial lands of Losarnach, where the meadows were always in bloom. And, despite bringing a little piece with her, a part of her soul remained forever tied beyond the mountains until the day of her death. A bee buzzed lazily by his ear, and he followed its languid flight.

Théodwyn had been little different ...

Heartbreak and sorrows, Éomer thought. The women of his family loved deep. Perhaps too deep.

He glanced at his sister, who sat straight-backed on the bench, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her gaze was fixed on the open sky beyond the garden walls. The shieldmaiden of Rohan with a heart as proud as any warrior. Fiercely, he knew her love for their family, their home, and their people was boundless. A fire that burned hotter than the sun; strength and will unbending. But he could not help but wonder if one day a different love would take hold of her. When that day came – for surely it would find her – he hoped it would be a love that would not take from her spirit. That she would not follow in the footsteps of her ancestors.

"You seem caught in thought." Her voice was a soft murmur.

Éomer blinked, his focus returning from the distant skies to her face. She smiled at him. "I was," he admitted. "Merely thinking of our mother ... and her garden."

Idle fingers traced the carved patterns of the marble bench, and Éowyn's gaze grew distant for a moment. "I thought as much. I come here often when I miss her, to find a quiet peace, and to feel her presence, even now so long after. It smells like her; the air that same fragrant, silent embrace, as if she is still here with us." There was a quiet pain in her voice, and her words a key that unlocked a long-hidden memory within him. Suddenly, he was back in that dark, terrible chamber, later barred and shuttered, filled with the scent of lilies and sorrow. He saw a much smaller Éowyn, her thin shoulders shaking, tears of silent grief streaming down her pale cheeks.

She had clung to their mother's hand, unwilling to let go.

No lilies bloomed now in the gardens of Meduseld.

A soft shuffling sound broke through his thoughts, and Éomer glanced up, pulled from the vision as if waking from a long, troubled dream. He returned to the warmth of the sun, the scent of summer's colours, and the sight of a servant approaching their bench. The man carried a large wooden platter laden with food, its contents covered by a white cloth. A second servant followed, carrying a skin of wine and simple earthenware cups.

They were quick and silent at work, setting the small, stone table for the lord and lady. Éowyn stood gracefully, walking slowly down the path laid with stones of smooth, grey rock. There was a stiffness to her shoulders. Torn between words of comfort, and allowing his sister a moment to herself, Éomer remained quiet. As she came to a halt at the edge of the garden, her hand rose in a swift, subtle gesture. The golden sunlight caught the pale knuckles of her hand as it quickly wiped at her eyes. The movement had been so discreet, that had he not been watching, it would have gone entirely unnoticed.

He said nothing, and allowed the moment of sorrow to be her own.

No words of his could combat the memory of loss.

With practiced hands, the pair of servants placed a platter of roasted meat – honey-glazed and piled to plenty; along with a loaf of warm bread, a wedge of cheese, and a bowl of fresh, red apples. There were nuts and dried berries, and a small bowl of cherries. Soon after, a glass of deep red wine was poured for each. Without a word, the servants bowed and withdrew, leaving the siblings once more in the quiet of the garden. Yet Éomer did not touch the food, not until his sister took the seat beside him once more. The sun had begun its slow descent, westering over the lip of the trees, and the light came sharp to his eyes.

There were no clouds overhead, the sky was open and filled with gold. "Come, Éowyn," he called with fondness. "If you do not join me, I will not eat, and then what hope is there for poor Éothain? The burden of feeding me is one you must share! Or do you admit defeat in this impossible task? Gladly, I shall accept the mantle of the victorious."

A mirthful laugh rang out. Éowyn turned from her path to walk back to the table. "I will not concede such a small battle to you, Éomer, nor will I abandon my post." She sat by him, reaching for a slice of warm bread and butter. "The burden of feeding you is one I will gladly share. Eat you will, until nothing remains from the plate. And I will pardon no complaint from your stomach!"

They ate in a companionable silence broken only by the gentle clink of earthenware cups and the sound of bird-song.

Éomer had been quickly caught, secretly feeding small crumbs of bread to the glimmer-feathered, sharp-eyed magpies, that nested each year in the tallest poplar of the garden. Their rattling chatter could be heard, jumping from branch to branch within the green shadows, as they made their disagreement heard. But with an apple to the head, he had ceased his little game, and instead taken to his duty of eating.

The food did him well, he found.

A sharper clarity came to his mind, a strength trickling back into the tips of his fingers. The wine was rich, and he could feel a warmth against the chill of his bones; a peace and a breath that had been so long amiss. Somewhere from above, the heavy thud of a door opening and closing broke the quiet that surrounded them. A single set of steady footsteps followed, an echo that ran along the shadowed path around the hill.

Both Éomer and Éowyn looked up, meals forgotten.

The last of the sun, still visible as a golden hue over the treetops, caught the figure of their cousin as he emerged from within the keep. Théodred was tall and grim, his face pale with weariness, but his eyes were bright in determined thought. A soft breeze caught the edge of his green cloak. He met their gazes, and a smile – albeit thin and tired – touched his lips. Éowyn rose and walked to meet him.

"It has been too long, cousin," she said, "and I have missed you dearly. Allow me to greet you proper!"

They embraced, and the grimness on Théodred's face eased, until even the weary lines around his eyes softened as he held her close. "And I have missed you, dearest Éowyn." They broke apart, and Théodred took her hands in his. He placed a tender kiss to her knuckles. For a fleeting moment, the hint of old warmth returned to his face. "I have been away far too long, and I hope you will forgive me leaving you the ungrateful task of this keep and those that dwell within."

"There is nothing to forgive, Théodred," she said, her voice firm and without a trace of bitterness. "It was my honor to stand guard for you."

The Prince turned his gaze to Éomer, who had now risen to stand beside his sister. "But now, let us rest, for the time for quiet talk is only brief. Today, we speak not of troubled times or the plagues upon this Hall. The night comes all too swift and the shadows will soon begin to lengthen; the days ahead will be dark. There will be a time to speak of the fate of Rohan, alas it is so ... But my heart needs a peaceful moment amongst family."

Éomer clasped his shoulder. "Then come, sit with us, cousin! Help me with this feast before the magpies steal away with it all."

Another genuine smile, although bewildered, free of the weariness that had marked him previously, came to the Prince. "I would gladly," Théodred said, and with a soft sigh of relief, he took his seat at the small table, with Éowyn on one side and Éomer on the other. He accepted the wine offered, and as he took a sip, the tension that had held him rigid seemed to melt away. The three of them sat in a comfortable hush, sharing the simple food and the last of the Sun's warm light.

Here, in that brief, precious moment, they were not a Prince, a Marshal, and a maiden, but simply a family reunited in the tranquil peace of their grandmother's hidden sanctuary.

Éowyn was first to finish her meal, and swiftly took upon herself that neither Éomer nor Théodred were long without food. "I will not have the descendants of Eorl go hungry under my care," she said, and, with a determined look, took the platter of roasted meat to place squarely between them. "And while you eat, you will have no room to argue, nor speak, and I will have my moment uninterrupted!"

With her proclamation – and the gleam in her grey eyes – Éomer emptied his cup. The Prince, on the other hand, was entirely unguarded, and accepted the offered meat in good faith; his face showing only gratitude for the simple food and the quiet company. He was a man accustomed to the hardship of the field, and a meal that did not need to be won by the sword was a blessed comfort. Even more so when shared among kin. There was no inkling that an unwinnable battle had already begun, and he had been deftly led to the front line without so much as a word.

Théodred was the next target in Éowyn's campaign, and he was completely, blissfully, unaware.

For a good while longer, she allowed the solemn silence to linger over them. But then changed Éowyn's gaze, which had been so unwavering a moment before, and took on a familiar, mischievous glint. She took a slow sip of her wine, and Éomer reached for the skin to fill his own cup once more. Strength was needed, he decided.

"I will not, as promised on this fading day, speak of the troubled times that haunt this Hall," she said, her voice now low and secretive. "For my heart is burdened by a different, and perhaps more desperate, matter." She turned her gaze to Théodred, as if inviting him to share in their little conspiracy. Éomer would have laughed, if not for fear of turning her attention back on himself. "After all," she continued, her lips curving into a slow smile, "you have already passed your fortieth summer."

The Prince frowned, a look of utter confusion taking to his features. "Yes?"

"And Rohan," Éowyn continued, her voice gaining a triumphant note. "Rohan is in desperate need of a new heir." Her eyes, bright with mischievous resolve, turned pointedly to Éomer. "This matter concerns you both. For far too long have the only descendants of Eorl been the King, and the three of us gathered here. It is time this changed. The two of you have a duty to your country, to the line of Kings, and you cannot hide behind feeble excuses any longer."

Éomer, catching the direction of her words, took another great, weary gulp of wine.

Théodred looked between his cousins, and a slow, painful comprehension dawned on his face. With a soft clink, he placed his cup on the table. He had just walked straight into a trap. "With the way of the world, now is hardly the time for–" He rubbed the brink of his nose, sighing. "For a wife, of all things. The enemy is at our gates! How can I ask any woman to share in such a precarious future, let alone find one willing to marry a soldier; to marry someone you know not whether will live or die upon the morrow?"

There was a grimness, a deep, digging cut of truth hidden within his words. A truth spoken from the heart, even if it were not meant to be spoken out loud. It was the worry of the rider – not the fear of his own death, but the fear of the quiet grief that would follow in his wake. The slow sickness, a clammy touch of heartbreak, infesting those left behind. Like Mother ... The loved one that had to go on living. No amount of courage could ever quell that unspoken fear, and a thought Éomer, too, had carried in his innermost thoughts.

He looked at his cousin, and in Théodred's tired eyes, he saw a reflection of his own soul.

For a long, heavy moment, a profound silence fell over the small garden. Éowyn, who had been so full of spirited purpose only moments before, now watched her two cousins; the soldiers who, with each sunrise and sunset, mayhap saw the world for the last time. Her face held a solemn empathy. She had asked them to speak of hope, but they had instead spoken of sorrow.

She perched herself on the edge of the bench. "Give me a stone, and within an arm's throw I can hit at least five women, all more than happy to tie their fate to yours."

Her words, sharp and unexpected, shattered the mournful silence. Éomer let out a bark of laughter and stood, immediately seizing the skin of wine, and the moment of distraction. With a great, theatrical flourish, he topped off his cup and offered a toast to Théodred, who now sat in a state of dazed confusion. "I shall at once procure such a weapon! Come, cousin, let us together watch how Éowyn hunts fair maidens throughout Edoras."

The Prince watched him, his lips twitching into a slow smile. The heavy mantle of his previous words seemed to fall away, and in his eyes, the light returned. Accepting the cup offered, and with a small, fond shake of his head, Théodred raised it in a toast. "And perhaps, while she is at it, she can also strike upon a husband of her own."

The red-flushed mortification on Éowyn's face, and the indignified yelp that followed, sent the two Marshals at once scampering in search of pebbles.

Much to the chagrin of the Marshals, they were never permitted to witness the hunt for wives nor husbands, for Éowyn – finding the voices of all the ladies of Eorl before her – had soon scolded them into properness. But her duty, her avowed task to secure the future of Rohan's lineage of Kings, was only put to rest for a short while; there was a promise in her eyes, a silent resolve for another, more opportune day.

Though in the days, soon passed to weeks, that followed, greater worries consumed those that walked within the Golden Hall. The peace of the garden soon became but a fleeting memory, the respite of a sailor clutching at slippery rocks; the rugged, final breath before the waves dragged him beneath once more. The air had grown thick with dark rumours, of riders coming to and fro Edoras with news from each corner of the winds.

The Prince had made the Hall his seat of command, a beast of fire and will, battling away the creatures lurking, waiting, in the shadows of the King's sickness. What had before been a gathering of rich furs, precious gems, and fine silks, was now replaced with fluttering green; the clanking mail of soldiers, voices loud and rough. And honest. The tables, previously empty, hosted both maps and scrolls, and also those seeking a warm meal and hearty company. Life had slowly seeped its way in through shuttered boards and cold rafters.

Each day Éomer would meet with his cousin, discussing strategies for the kingdom's defenses, and devising plans to counter the encroaching darkness from Isengard. They could sense the invisible strings of Saruman, the wizard biding his time with great patience. Their conversations, earlier filled with the fleeting warmth of familiarity, were now weighed down by the heavy burden of command. With the breaking of dawn, before the day's duties began, Éomer would accompany Théodred to the King's chambers.

There, they would find King Théoden, a hollow echo of the man he had once been, seated in his chair. It was hard to tell, if the old man had moved since the visit before. Théodred would speak to him of Rohan, of the plans for its protection, and of the love that still bound them. He told stories of the great, white steed – Snowmane – restlessly awaiting its rider in the stables; of the freedom of the plains and the wild gales.

Yet, the words fell into a painful silence, a deep-cutting dagger straight to their hearts. Each audience nudging the blade, inch by inch, further into hopelessness. Their pleas were lost to the muddled wasteland of the King's mind. His eyes, though sometimes open, seemed to see nothing ahead of him, and no reply ever came. Even in sleep, Éomer could smell the stale air, the lingering decay and sickness. It churned his stomach. But the grim, daily ritual that offered no solace, could not be forsaken. It was a duty and a silent act of faith, though it seemed but an uphill, insurmountable battle against an enemy no weapon could touch.

The Marshals fought on nonetheless.

They both knew their efforts would be for naught if the King remained a puppet in Wormtongue's hands, and so they held on to that slender thread of hope – that one day, the man they knew, the true King, would return. Until then, they worked, tiredless in their efforts. Despite hidden resistance, and the troublesome voices of rich courtiers, slowing progress and change, reports trickled steadily in from the surrounding lands. From the Westfold, Erkenbrand held command in the absence of the Second Marshal, and permitted no enemy to step foot on the banks of the Isen. No word came from underneath the shadow of Orthanc.

Outriders brought news from Gondor; the White City of ancient kings remained vigilant in its watch, but smoke and ash rose beyond the ridges of Ered Lithui, where dark storms brewed and orcs bred unchecked. The forest surrounding the Anduin was lost in skirmish and ambush, and the road North, to Rhovanion and Dale, untraversable.

The tidings spoke of war.

Each day, each word that came to their ears, felt as another step closer to the gallows. An unease grew in Éomer, trailing a ghostly touch up the back of his neck, and a restlessness came to his waking hours. But Éomer went on, day in and day out; in days of warm sun and clear skies, and others of downpour, grey and bleak. The nights were struggles for rest, dreams plagued by a vast, winged shape that blotched out the sun. Deadly cries, more swift than even the West wind. But he spoke not of his concerns – instead, he shouldered soundlessly on.

One late evening, Éomer found the Prince hunched over one such report. The chamber, his cousin's temporary dwelling, was dimly lit; dusk crept through the windows, and a steady fire burned within the hearth. A solitary candle dripped wax onto the table. A wave of anger rolled through Éomer, and in his trembling hands he held a scroll just delivered. He slapped the parchment down hard before him, rolling out to reveal a map of the Eastfold. Théodred remained quiet, for he could see the rage within the Marshal.

Symbols marred the lands of their people, marking burnt-out villages and slaughtered herds of livestock. He had advocated for more men, more patrols, to protect the outlying settlements, but the court had met his demands with obstructions. They were not in times of war, and the command for soldiers in Edoras could only come from the King himself. They could move small pieces, protect one and lose another ...

Éomer dragged out a chair and sat down heavily, head in his hands.

It was the workings of Wormtongue. The authority in Meduseld belonged to Théoden alone, and if either Marshal wished to increase the watch, they were to do so in and from their own domains. The subtle inhospitality did not go unnoticed. Only in the eyes of the soldiers; the King's guard and the watch were they welcome. "We are stopped at every turn," Éomer said, his voice muffled behind curled fingers. Flickering sparks of light danced across his lidded eyes, but he added continued pressure to dull his rampaging emotions. "He has men in every corridor and an ear to every door. As long as the counsellors fight against us, we have no hope of victory."

"The King cannot rule without the people," Théodred said.

"Those cowards?" With a flash of unbridled anger, Éomer pointed to the distant Hall. The silouetted walls were cast deep in shadows, and no sounds came from beyond. To his ears, his own outburst seemed to echo; raw and harsh. "Those venomous snakes of court are not Rohan's people. They are out there, suffering as we speak; yet we can do nothing! We do nothing!"

His cousin looked away from the flickering candle and up, weary exhaustion painting his face. "Yes," he said, without question to Éomer's truth. "They are suffering. I read the same reports as you, I hear and see all that you do, and my heart bleeds in with anger, too. With each passing day, all the more than the one before. But without the court, without those that hold command in the absence of the King, only little can be done. This is not within our strengths, Éomer, but to seize that power would turn the nobility against us. It is not the way."

"Then what is? For I have one mind to drag Wormtongue from this Hall as we speak."

Théodred met Éomer's desperate gaze.

"The shadow is our enemy, intangible and hidden. We must draw them out into the light, meticulous until each and every adversary has been revealed to us. We must give name to the nameless shadow." He snuffed the candle between his fingers. "This malady runs deep, and to remove it we must cut away at the roots. Now cast aside your anger and find a calm mind, cousin, for I have much to show you."

Éomer watched the flame die, a trail of smoke curling from the wick. The chamber was plunged into a deeper darkness, broken only by the flickering light of the hearth behind the Prince. For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the heavy, ragged sound of his own slow-calming breath. He felt the words of his cousin settle over his anger, like a cold hand dousing his rage.

To settle himself, he rose from his chair and walked to the open window. Coldness found his fingers, as he rested against the pane, for day had long turned to evening. Far below, Edoras spread out across his vision, half in sleep, and each home stood like orange eyes in the dusk. The black velvet sky held only a few, early stars, and the last crows whipped through the settling night. It breathed peace, and Éomer anchored his thoughts to the sight.

He turned back to Théodred, who leaned forward, elbows on the table. A smile of exhaustion came to his features, yet reached not his eyes. "You fight your battles with honesty. And I hope you will act with righteousness when the time is right. But for now ..." He gestured to the seat across from his. "The king is the heart of Rohan, and the heart cannot be healed while the poison remains. We have no authority to strike down the counsellors, but we may have a way to expose them. I have men working to gather evidence of their treachery – falsehoods and lies, perhaps even Saruman's hand in it all. When we have enough, I shall present it directly to the court, and the people will see their lies for what they truly are."

Éomer nodded, a single, firm gesture of his understanding.

Then, he returned to the table and took a seat.

"Very well. Let us fight this war together, cousin."

Chapter Text

The green hill sloped gently down, its path ahead touched by a warm, hopeful sun. It led a trail of revellers; each dressed in their finest, brightest, most colourful garb, and a thrum of expectant voices filled the windless air. By his side, arm linked in his, walked Éowyn; his sister's smile was heartfelt, for the day had brought both happiness and festivity– something they had long been without. Before them, where pitched tents and long benches took space in the field, Éomer could hear the deepening roll of drums and playful fiddles rise to meet them.

Amidst the growing unease of Meduseld, a brief respite arrived in the form of a wedding.

Eadric, Elfhelm's eldest son, a sturdy young man who served in the King's guard as did his father, was to be wed. The day was as fine as one could ask. No cloud nor shadow marred the green of the earth, or the myriad of the late Summer's blooms; white and yellow and blue dotted the endless field. Swallows had taken to the sky, whirring and dipping in a dance that much mirrored the parade of guests already making merry.

The morning had been a rambunctious tangle of contests and duels, where the groom had faced off against the bride's family in a spirited show of strength and wit. On horseback, with bow, sword, and shield, proving his worthiness to a great deal of laughter and good cheer. It was an old tradition amongst the Rohirrim, only still upheld by lords and warriors, and one that neither side took too seriously. It was but a light-hearted test of skill and valour, where the right of boasting was the only prize to be won – for the lady's love had long been claimed.

The poor, well-spirited young man had weathered a grapple with the bride's elder brother, and, a little worse for wear, stood the test honourably. Perhaps more bruised than before, but filled with clear pride and joy, to the cheers and claps of the crowd. And so it had been, with the blessings of both families, that Eadric could then lead his beloved to the field of celebration. The bride rode beside him, eyes alight with laughter, while Eadric guided her horse with a steady hand.

Behind them, the guests followed in procession, their voices lifting in song as they made their way toward the heart of the festivities.

They walked by in order of standing and rank, the closest family of the bride and groom first; parents and siblings, their faces alight with joy – and one face marked with a yellowing bruise speaking of playful mischief. Behind them, Théodred, Prince of Rohan, strode alone, immediately followed by Éomer and Éowyn, who walked in step after their cousin. The groom's father, Elfhelm, had been one of the many men in the King's Guard, a warrior who had trained the young, still-grieving Éomer when he and his sister had first come to Meduseld. Through knowing Elfhelm, they had come to know his son, Eadric, who was close in age to the siblings, and had trained alongside Éomer as children.

Further the line of people wound its way up the hill, with both lesser lords and members of the court, but also merchants and the people of Edoras. Such happy occasions in Rohan were open to all, a vibrant tapestry of the common folk mingling with riders and lords alike. All were welcome, for as long as they came bearing gifts and a share of ale.

The smells of roasted meats and blooming flowers hung already heavy in the air, and the sun was warm on their brows. Distant mountains watched them in silence, shadowed and pale, far beyond the rolling sea of grass and darted in and out between the adults, their voices rising in delighted shrieks amongst the buzz of anticipation.

At the far side of the field, by a raised terrace built for the occasion, the groom helped the bride dismount. The platform was a simple construction, made of polished timber and draped with bright fabric in hues of green and blue. It stood high enough to give the couple a view of the crowd, and a table was set only for the pair. The sunlight caught the colours of the canopy, casting vibrant patterns onto the ground below.

Those closest to the groom – Éomer amongst them – could not hide smiles of knowing; the arch encompassing the newly-weds, wrought with branches and flowers chosen by both husband and wife, was each picked with careful deliberation. Each tree and bloom of Rohan symbolized something; be it the history and strengths of the family, or wishes for a future shared. The two sides met and intertwined in the middle of the platform, opening into a canopy to shield the couple beneath. The bride's branches were dominantly oak and willow, with lavender intricately woven into the craft. Patience. For such was the bride's wish for her husband.

It was well-known that the courtship had not been without effort.

For years Eadric had pursued the lady of his heart with little luck. It was not until she had – much to the mirth of his soldier companions – struck him senseless with a bucket to the head, that she had finally accepted his proclamations of love. The story had made its rounds at court, leaving most unwed ladies sighing for such a love to find them; and likewise, eligible lords hoped to find wives without the need to win over a woman with such a strong head, and arm, on her shoulders.

The bride and groom found their place on the dais for all to see. The drums rolled. The fiddles answered. Soon, the music became louder, and swallowed even the voices and song of the crowd. A hush fell over the gathered, faces upturned to the smiling pair, as the Prince was first to step forward. They bowed, heads low in reverence; and Théodred, once the tunes quieted, spoke with a voice loud and clear. "Before the eyes of kin and people, I greet you, Eadric son of Elfhelm, and you, lady bride. May your days be long in the Riddermark. May your house stand firm against the storm, and your hearth be ever bright with comfort. As the fields flourish beneath the sun, so may your love endure."

So it went, in the wake of the Prince's words.

Lord after lady, rider after kin, each bowed before the couple, voices rising in well wishes and fondness, until all had spoken their share. When the greetings of ceremony gave way to merriment, songs and cheers claimed the winds of the field, and the tables were soon filled with laughter and chatter. It was now the time for the feasting, of ale and wine, and a great clamor that not even the shadow of Meduseld could smother to silence. Later, with stars their witness, the pair would tie the strings of handfasting. Simple cords of dyed wool – embroidered by the bride with flowers and horses in days prior – would bind their joined hands, a promise spoken before sky and earth alike.

Éomer found himself seated near the high table, with Éowyn and Théodred at his side. Over the clatter of cups and the passing of platters heavy with meat, bread, and honeyed vegetables, fiddles leapt into tune with the beating drums. For a while they did not speak; they listened and watched, finding peace in the people who surrounded them. He breathed in. Then, turning a smile to his kin, raised his cup in toast.

Théodred raised his own in kind, and Éowyn followed, a gentler, though no less bright, smile masking her thoughtful gaze.

"To the bride and groom," she said, "May their home stand strong, without sorrow and through every storm; may laughter outlast the years."

The three drank together, and for a while there was no gloom lingering over them; no malady of mind, nor worries of duty and war, that had long been their unshakable companions. Around them the feast roared on – drums, fiddles, and voices lifted in unison – but in their small circle, there was the momentary respite of peace. They spoke quietly; of things that held little weight, yet seemed to mean the world to them.

Often, cheers and shouts would erupt from the surrounding tables; tumultuous boasting, riders sharing tales of great deeds or the fumbles of their fellows, drinking deep and with feet stamping the grass beneath them flat. Laughter rose higher than the fiddles. Éomer felt the noise strike him, like the beating of waves, cresting and falling, as he surveyed the great mesh of people. Many children – stomachs full and minds now restless with curiosity – ran about in play. At times, when their paths took them close, they would pause; eyes wide, a hush of reverence would fall over them in the presence of the Prince.

They would bow, to both Marshals and Lady, faces red and hands squirming.

Yet with each, in turn, Théodred greeted them. Never did he do so with aloofness, but with a hand upon the shoulder or a word of encouragement; an interest in a pretty dress or a dagger of rough wood. Their eyes shone at his notice before they would rush off again. The sight stirred something quiet in Éomer, a quiet and soft warmth; a deep, almost saddened fondness, for in those brief exchanges he glimpsed the man Théodred might have been, had his cousin's life not been so bound by duty and war. When, thought Éomer, when did the hour pass …?

Things that could, but never would, be.

It was the brief flicker of foregone possibilities, now but a ghost walking in a world that no longer was. Too many evils had been seen, too many sorrows known. Cool evening gathered about them, and the first whispers of the night-wind came about the plains. And as a pair of small girls scampered back to their awaiting mother, Éomer caught Théodred's gaze – pale blue touched by lines of kindness that, for a breath, eclipsed the weariness long etched into his hopes would remain forever distant, severed from the world of men; yet even so, life was still worth the fight.

The last song of sparrows in the tall, bending grass gave farewell to the day as the bridal couple rose from the dais. Hour had passed to hours in cheer, and the sun clipped the western horizon in tendrils of red and orange. Dusk settled and torch-light bathed the field in flickering shadow. Hand in hand, the bride and groom overlooked the gathered throng. Two souls soon one. All quietened, faces upturned, while the couple lifted a cup between them. Beyond the canopy, the first stars kindled in the gathering twilight.

Eadric spoke first, his voice unwavering and clear, where all had stilled to listen. "Before all gathered here, before kith and kin, with the setting Sun and dark Night my witness, I give my hand in troth. As this vessel is full, so shall my life be filled with her, from this day until the world's ending." Then, speaking whispered words only for his chosen, he drank deep from the cup.

His bride, fair andgolden as the wheat in bloom, mirrored his pledge with one of her own. "As our fathers stood, as our mothers bore, so stand we now – joined hand to hand, heart to heart. Let this cup bind us, and may all who share it be blessed in field and in firelight."To a chorus of cheers, she drained the last, and all raised their own in tribute.

Then came a change to the music begun anew. Quickening, more playful and inviting, for ale had long and steadily flowed, it took the hearts of the gathered. Men and women rose from the benches, laughing as they pulled one another into the open space, and a great circle of dancers soon whirled beneath the darkening sky. Arm in arm, they spun in rings, in a flurry of swift feet and glittering dresses.

From behind, a voice rumbled low with mirth. "I would not set myself against such a tide, for such is the joy of youth."

Elfhelm came forward then, and Éomer was at once by his side. With a firm clasp of hand, he greeted the warrior; his frame was broad, beard streaked with grey, yet the strength–once, long ago, tested against both Marshals when they were but lads with wooden blades– held firm in his bearing. "Old friend," Éomer greeted. "My heart is glad for you, to see your son so wed. It is a gift beyond measure."

"But a battle it was, make no mistake," he laughed, keen eyes following his son within the whirling circle. He was led by his beautiful bride. "The last year's grievances near undid him. Had she not at last agreed, I know not what I, nor his mother, would have done."

Théodred smiled as he, too, had risen to meet the captain. "A harder fight than any field, and better won."

Another chuckle came from the larger man, pride bright upon his face. "Aye. And a glad victory all the same!" With a firm clasp on the Prince's shoulder, the two stood for a moment in shared fellowship. In his younger years, still green to the saddle, Théodred had ridden under Elfhelm's command, learning his first lessons of war at the captain's side – lessons he had, in turn, passed on to Éomer when he much later had followed.

Elfhelm at last turned to Éowyn, and warmth came to his face."My Lady, each day I see you in the Golden Hall, yet tonight it seems the torches burn the brighter for your presence."

"Your words are kind, Captain." A soft smile touched her lips, her gaze steady and unembarrassed. "Though I must say that none may rival the bride this night. She outshines us all."

Inclining his head, he conceded with a laugh.

When at last Elfhelm took his seat among them, sighing in content and old bones complaining, it seemed to Éomer that a circle was closed. Much of what he was – the hand upon the sword, the sternness in command, the wisdom of his words – bore the mark of the captain's teachings, whether given directly or carried through Théodred's example. Here sat the man who had shaped them both, Marshal and Prince alike, though he bore it with the quiet pride of one who asked for no recognition. As it were, the old soldier seemed only eager now for the simple comforts of the night – meat, ale, and the company of comrades – as though the shaping of Heirs of Eorl were but an afterthought to a well-filled cup.

Vast stars were now above them, and a waning moon had replaced the last embers of sun. It hung low over the horizon, clouded by distant mists of the mountains; dark they stood, watchful guardians that neither spoke nor slept. They saw all that happened beneath their shadow, yet ever were they cold in their gaze. Kings and kingdoms came and went, and they cared not for passing joys of mortal men. They would be but a flicker in a much grander scale. No cloud was brought over the plains of Rohan, for a stronger, southern wind was in the air.

Torches flickered, and the smell of smoke carried on the breeze. With it came the sharp scent of trampled grass, as laughter rolled across the field. But at the high table, the three Marshals sat apart, cups in hand. The stamping of merry feet came to them, but they seemed heedless to the call of the dance. At first, a long stretch of silence passed between them. Words were thought, yet not spoken. It was clear that the captain had not come only for old companions.

So easily minds wandered to darker things.

To part completely with their own worries appeared an impossible task.

The old captain was first to stir; hunched with pressing age, the green cloak draped over his shoulders rustled as he moved, and Elfhelm placed the cup with a heavy hand. Beneath deep-set brows, the furrowed face was set in troubled thoughts. Though his voice remained steady, if not touched by a wry disquiet. "Strange, is it not, to sit so still while the Hall is empty and the plain full? I scarcely recall a feast beneath the Golden roof ..." He shook his head, as if ridding himself of thoughts too bitter to linger on for long. "Once it was Meduseld that called us to feast, not the fields. It is no small thing when a hall of kings falls silent."

Éomer could hear the bitter desolation, the deep wound in a man of great loyalty. Elfhelm had given his strength, his years, his very life, steadfast and unrelenting in his duty. His words now, in a night where only happiness should be present, was proof of much. The King he had followed was not the man who sat the throne; Saruman's hand moved the strings, and Elfhelm, loyal even in silence, could do little but endure the shame of it. He was sworn to obey, and would follow Théoden into death – even if the path was whispered by others.

Sorrow rooted itself in his heart, and Éomer clutched at anger; a shield against the weight of grief. To see such a man brought low ... It was a cruelty too great. His wrath turned not toward Elfhelm, but against the shadow that had stolen their lord. He inhaled sharply, and a rigid stillness found him. He remained quiet, allowing the rage to bank itself like fire beneath ash, glowing but unseen. For now.

With a thoughtful gaze, Théodred emptied his cup. "Yet such is the truth of the world," he replied. "But let us rather find hope in the laugh of our people, here under the stars, than sit silent under a roof where the fire has gone cold. The day will come when Meduseld burns bright again." The bench creaked, as the Prince drew in closer. "Do not lose hope in my father. The King you remember is not lost forever; what has been silenced may yet be awakened, but not if we forsake our watch. Hold fast, old friend, and the Mark shall see dawn again."

Only a gruff huff came from the captain, though the faintest nod followed, as if to concede that hope might yet be worth keeping.

"I know the itch of your hand, Elfhelm," Éomer said, "For my own yearns for the sword. But Théodred's word ring with a truth sharper than any blade. A battle is not won by the swiftness of the stroke alone, but by waiting for the hour when it may bite deepest." More than anyone, he felt his old mentor's anguish; it was an echo of his own heart – the raw, biting desperation for something,anything, to change. The revelation of their King's dwindling power had been as if a veil had been torn from his eyes, and now, had left him blind in disillusion.

His attention lowered to his own hands, finding them tightly clenched and knuckles white.

Éomer had understood the value of waiting. To endure each stroke of humiliation, the bitter duty of serving a king who no longer saw the worth of loyalty.

His eyes lifted, hard and steady. "Stay your ire, if not only for a little longer."

There came no argument to Éomer's words. Only a curt nod and a weary sigh. "I will wait. If waiting is all that is left for us."

A silence settled between them. The wound was too deep, the shadow too near, and it was hard to say much more. Their thoughts lingered unspoken, heavy as stone.

At last, it was Éowyn who stirred, her clear voice breaking gently upon them. She had remained a quiet listener throughout, in equal touched by the same burdens; in the torch-light, she was ghostly pale. "My lords," she said, her gaze turned toward the circle of dancers, where Elfhelm's son had just broken from the throng. The couple came the straight way toward them. "Let not this night be burdened by grief. If ever there was an hour for joy, it is here beneath the stars. The shadow will not lift because we scowl, but this happiness–" She inclined her head toward the bridal pair, "–is real, and should not be lessened."

"Father!" Eadric called, red-faced from the spirited dance. His hair clung damp to his brow, and he came before them breathless but smiling. His wife appeared with a little more grace, though appeared hesitant to approach the table; her steps were softer, and her bearing was marked by poise. She bore herself well, but the weight of Lords and Lady before her seemed to press upon her.

She slowed not far from them– uncertain if a daughter of merchants might stand so near to princes and marshals. Eadric was brought to a halt alongside her.

The unease was clear to them all, though Éowyn understood first; she rose just enough to incline her head in greeting. "Westu hal, Hildwyn," she said, her voice steady yet kind. "You come not as stranger, but as daughter of the Mark, and as bride you are honoured above all this night. Come forward without fear, for joy has no station."

Fretfulness turned to delight, and the beautiful woman followed, this time without qualm, at her husband's side. She lowered her head in courtesy. "My lords, my lady," Hildwyn said softly, "Your presence here honours us. For all the joy this day has brought, none is greater than to see you share it with us. Thank you, for coming to our wedding."

While her greeting was of great propriety, Eadric grinned, as one among dear companions. "It has been far too long, my old friends," he said, his glance passing first to Théodred and then Éomer. The happiness of the hour could not be masked; it rang in his voice, bright and unburdened. "It does me good to see you both here– and you, too, Father! You have hidden well from my sight," he added, a mischievous glint to his gaze. "Will you not rise, old wolf, and take a turn in the dance? You did promise Hildwyn so."

Elfhelm gave a shake of his head. "These bones creak enough without the stamping of feet. Leave the dance to those unbent." Yet Eadric lingered with expectant eyes, and the circle of lords at the table did nothing to grant Elfhelm escape. At last, with a low grunt, the captain stood. "Very well, then. A promise is a promise. But I will not be blamed when I wake with a limp!"

He took Hildwyn by the arm and moved toward the dancers, a reluctant smile softening the hard line of his face.

Éomer watched him go, and, for the first time since their talk had grown heavy, felt his own lips twitch into a grin. In a flurry of unbridled happiness, Elfhelm had been claimed back into joy. Within the whirl or colours and laughter, flickering lights, and the soft fall of night, the celebration pressed on. For a time, the held breath of worries seemed to release and drift away, and levity found the table once more.

Éowyn's gaze lingered on the merriment, until at last her thoughtful gaze returned to the two men still beside her. She leaned closer, voice sly and soft beneath the roar of music. "Look well, cousins. Half the maidens of Edoras are already staring at you both, waiting for courage to strike. If even old Elfhelm can partake in the dance, surely so can you? Must I truly find a stone, or will you go of your own will?"

With a shake of his head, though not entirely without mirth, Éomer replied: "Your boldness is without limit, sister. I recall your own objection, and aversion, when those very same words were turned on you." He pointedly looked to a gathering not far from their table, of a handful young men each tripping over their own feet to earn the lady's glance – albeit without enough courage nor ale to act. "If this truly is of such great importance to you, should you not first set the example?"

With a brow arched in a challenge met, Éowyn rose, her chin lifted in proud defiance. At once a stir ran through the gathering of soldiers, and in a breath they were gone, scattering before her stride. It halted not his sister's march, and soon she was swept into the bright ring of dancers, her yellow gown a flash among the torches and whirls of colour.

Laughter rang out as she spun away, leaving her kinsmen to their cups.

Yet as the music quickened and the torches flared, Éomer's mirth ebbed.

Neither Prince nor Marshal made to follow. Such joy and freedom seemed not for them. Like fireflies under moonlight, the dance continued in such thunderous cheerfulness, it left those merely an audience without breath. They sat instead in the glow of flickering lights, the noise of revelry folding around them like a distant tide. It did not touch them; spirits too hardened by the grim truth of the world to yield so easily to mirth. They could not entirely forget the shadow that ever pressed upon their steps. The untroubled heart was reserved for the happy couple of the night – somewhere within the whirling circle.

It was their hour, their rightful blessing, and Éomer did not begrudge them such.

His hands found cold wood beneath the tips of his fingers, anchoring him to the green field.

Though his mind was elsewhere.

The laughter around him seemed to fade, drowned beneath the heaviness of his own thoughts. Each shout, each beat of the drums, came to him as though across a great distance – for in truth, he was not wholly present. Within himself, he had slipped away; following hidden paths in his troubled mind, as if lured by a voice not quite his own. There was a threshold, a line unbeknownst to him, he was not quite willing to cross. As if he was walking half in dreams– in dreams that had long haunted his fitful sleep, yet evaded his waking mind.

It stirred something nameless within him – a call toward what lay beyond his reach. A shadow of memory, or perhaps of hope, whispered through the stillness of his heart; of clear eyes unafraid, of courage not born of command but of choice. Elusive as smoke, it drifted just out of grasp, leaving behind only the ache of absence. Unfamiliar, inexplicable, and wholly unwelcome. His fingers found the cup, filled once more by unseen hands.

He straightened where he sat, as if to cast it off, but the silence within him held its echo still. With an effort, he schooled his features to a mask of indifference. He carried it as he carried all his burdens; suppressed deep beneath the armour of a Marshal of the Mark. Éomer steadied his breath, turning his gaze outward to the night that had stolen upon them. Smoke curled into the dark, wisps of grey fingers clawing blindly at the dark, and the many, pale stars glimmered above the ridge of the valley.

Skimming the area, Éomer saw around them men and women drinking, the first slumping in a losing battle against ale, while others sang and laughed loudly. The platters of food stood empty, but had left the air thick with scents of spices and meat. He saw faint silhouettes, mere flickering shadows, sneaking away into the night; lovers and trysts stealing what quiet moments they could from the roar of the feast.

Meanwhile, Théodred, too, had fallen into silence, his gaze following the dancers without truly seeing them. Perhaps his heart whirred with the same unbidden thoughts, just as Éomer's had moments before? The light of the torches flickered across the Prince's face, showing lines carved by weariness beyond his years. Between them lingered an unspoken kinship, the bond of men too long burdened by the same shadow.

At length, as if feeling Éomer's gaze on him, Théodred turned. Clear eyes settling with a quiet intent. The merriment carried on, heedless and bright around them, but the his voice came low, meant for his cousin's ears alone. "At times I envy her ease." Théodred paused, and another look flickered over Éomer. At his words, both turned their attention to the dancers; Éomer's hand lingered against the rough grain of the table, steadying him, even as the brief sight of his sister – light-footed and unburdened – set a twinge in his chest. The freedom to laugh, to dance, to forget the weight of duty and the endless call of war. Such moments were no longer meant for him.

The two of them sat thus for a while, silent, the roar of celebration folding around them as though from a great distance.

It was only after a pause and long, silent contemplation, that the Prince added, quieter still: "Éowyn has told me much of this Northern Ranger." His tone was measured. "And your ... regard for her."

The words struck Éomer as though from nowhere, sharp and unwelcome. His hand tightened about his cup, and he forced a smile, though it wavered at the edges. His voice came without hesitation, though it was a struggle. "When did you find the time for such idle tales, cousin?" He asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. But even if he replied in jest, there came an echo of truth beneath the words; a truth he knew not he had carried. Something Éomer had been entirely blind to, but had clearly not gone unnoticed under his sister's watchful gaze. He could not recall speaking much of her; their meetings had been only brief, little more than shadows passing. And yet Éowyn had seen something he had not.

It settled in him, more keenly than he wished.

Théodred regarded him a while longer, as if the turmoil rising was made visible. Then he reached out and clasped Éomer by the shoulder. The grip was firm, warm to the touch, and kept his thoughts from unraveling further into shadows best left unspoken. While Théodred could have delved further into Éomer's inner disquiet, he chose not to; instead, he smiled. "Your sister plays many a side. While you sought to use me to turn her attention from yourself, know that I did much the same." He glanced toward the dancers. "And she happily obliged."

Éomer gave a short laugh at that, though it rang hollow even to his own ears.

He glanced away.

A realisation lodged in his mind. For a moment Éomer resisted. He drank instead, though the ale was bitter on his tongue, and he placed the cup down harder than he intended. Silence pressed at him, heavy and inescapable, until at last he gave a breath that was near a sigh.

The sound faded quickly, leaving behind a weight he could not shrug off. With it, it carried unspoken sorrow, a quiet acknowledgment of a light extinguished too soon. At length he spoke again, softer now, the mirth stripped away. "It is the truth," he answered, his voice low. "I admired her courage, her spirit; her will to put herself in peril for the sake of others – strangers, even, for that is what our people were to her. It was the kind of valour I honour in my own men. So yes, I admired her as I would a comrade, or a captain proven by deed. And my words of praise may have been misunderstood." He paused, the words heavy in his throat.

There was bitterness, too, in the way the words left him; as if to speak them aloud were to admit some folly of his own heart, a weakness he could not allow himself. A failure that had long haunted him– another burden, another scar to carry– and a constant, gnawing fail her he had, the very moment he set aside his own misgivings, and let one who should not have travelled alone pass into the West. He had known, yet said nothing.

His hand, still about the cup, tightened once more.

He did not look at his cousin, his gaze instead fixed upon the shifting play of shadow and light. "But it matters little. She died not long ago." Éomer spoke plainly, yet sorrow threaded through the simple truth. For though he would not name it, he knew within himself that some part of him had been marked by the Ranger; by a meeting nothing more than a brief, flickering passing in a world utterly grim. Another loss trickling into the emptiness of his heart, which he dared not touch.

In his heavy eyes, night deepened over the fields of Rohan; and still the music carried on, bright and unyielding.

His eyes lingered on the dark, but it was Théodred's steady gaze that drew him back. Éomer forced a smile, thin though it was, and allowed a guise to set between them. "I hope that you will see Éowyn safely returned when the hour grows late," he said, lifting his drink once words held the air of a man already half-removed, his thoughts elsewhere. He drained the cup, and with a final clasp of Théodred's arm, rose from the bench.

He bade his cousin goodnight and slipped into the dark beyond the torches, where only the night winds waited – and a silence that was his own.

By the end of the fourth week since Théodred's return, as July had passed into August, a change – more hopeful, more wonderous – happened on a bright, mist-veiled morning. The seat of the King, the empty void that marred the rising spirits of the Hall, stood no longer empty. Supported by the clack of a dark cane, and Háma's attentive watch close by his side, Théoden took his place once more.

Silence. Profound, deafening, fell over the crowd, as if both voice and thought had been swept away by invisible hands.

The King looked much the same as last they had seen him. A hunched, withered figure that held no strength in neither hands nor gaze. Waxen skin was drawn taut over bones, and the white hair, as winter's snow, was wild and unkempt. The pallor of death hid behind a small touch of warmth. First to break the spell of wonder, the Prince rose from his place, and his voice rang clear throughout the Hall. "Hail, King Théoden, Lord of the Mark!"

At once each man echoed the call of Théodred, and soon the cries resounded – so loud they were, that even the wardens beyond the great doors would know for certain; the King had returned to his throne. So great the hope was, so bright the day appeared, that it took many long moments before Éomer noticed. Wormtongue. The counsellor had arrived, following a proper distance behind, yet still he remained always within reach. A shadow not quite detached.

Théoden sat wrapped in furs, head drooping until half his face was buried in the folds. Thin, white hairs hung loose about his shoulders, stirred only when he breathed shallow breaths. Hazy eyes, once keen and proud, seemed blind to the many voices lifted in his honour. Éomer's heart clenched as Théodred walked forward to the dais. By the steps he kneeled, head bowed, yet his voice rang clear in the hall.

"Father," he said. "The Westfold calls for you. Wild Men and orcs pass our borders at night, and there is war on the horizon. Too long have you sat silent, while our people suffer and your enemies grow bold. I beg you – act now before it is too late, or grant me leave to act in your stead. The Mark still looks to its King!" The hush that followed the Prince's plea was heavy. For a heartbeat, Éomer thought he saw something stir in Théoden's face.

A flicker of fire, the man he had once been. But even as hope rose, the budding flower of early Spring, it was soon smothered. The triumphant moment of strength seemed to wane, ebbing away as fast as it had flooded his heart. Éomer felt cold dread settle in his stomach. The insidious presence lurking within the halls had not been vanquished. For where the King sat, frail but crowned, so too sat his shadow; Wormtongue bent low, his pale lips brushing the King's ear. The whisper was too soft to hear, yet Éomer could feel each word creep into the marrow of his bones.

He moved, booted steps hard against the floor, at once finding a place by his cousin's side. "I greet you, uncle, Lord of the Mark." Swiftly, he bowed his head, then lifted his eyes to seek some glimmer of recognition in the King's face. Some trace of strength or will yet remaining. But Éomer found nothing but an emptiness; it was as though Théoden looked not upon, but through him. Words failed him as sorrow found its mark, and the moment was left for Théodred to bridge the silence.

"My lord, my father. Let us be your will, your sword, though your hand no longer lifts it. Only grant us your word, and we will carry it with us into the West."

Éomer felt the silence grow heavy around them. Too long the pause stretched, until every creak of timber in the roof seemed loud as a groan. The flittering light through the rafters was harsh, blindingly sharp. They revealed truths previously hidden in shadow. Then, impossibly slow, Théoden's lips moved once, twice, but no sound came forth. His hand, pale as bone, trembled upon the head of his cane. All waited, strained and anxious, for the voice of their lord to rise again in Meduseld.

But no strength came.

There was nothing left in the hollow figure on the throne.

Instead, Wormtongue bent nearer once more, his dark hair falling like a curtain between King and kin. Éomer's jaw tightened as he watched the councillor's thin mouth shape words meant for none but the King. Though he could not hear them, he felt their weight; soft as poison, seeping into old wounds that never healed. And it was not long before the voice of Gríma Wormtongue was heard, twining about Théoden's, for the King spoke at last.

"The borders ... are watched." The words came haltingly, broken by breath, and the King's voice faltered onward. Each word punctured by sharp, ragged exhales of breath.A rustle passed through the hall, unease thick as smoke. Éomer's throat burned with the urge to cry out, to deny the falsehood, but he knelt, silent, staring. His uncle's eyes were dull as glass, his mouth shaping whispers as though they were his own thoughts. "The Mark ... is safe. No hand of war–" His voice broke, and the white head dipped back into white furs; the last remnants of spirit utterly spent.

As the King's voice sank to nothing, Wormtongue straightened. His hand gripped the edge of the throne, thin fingers splayed like claws over the carved wood. Smooth as oil, his words slipped into the silence, claiming as though it was his right. "You heard your king. Wild men have always skulked like rats in the fens, and no orc-raid has set foot upon our lands under Théoden King's rule. Shall he waste his strength chasing shadows? No – each man must remain to his charge.

He allowed the words to hang. With an air of ease, the counsellor walked to stand in front of the King; through heavy lids, Éomer saw true, unveiled glee, so biting it made him stand in an instant, jaw clenched. "Strange, I find it, that the Prince of the Westfold lingers here, and the Marshal of the Eastfold as well. If foes trouble our borders so greatly, why do they sit idly in Meduseld, speaking of war?So dire you say the danger, and yet here you sit at your father's side– feasting, not the Mark not safe in your hands?"

A murmur passed through the gathered crowd. Doubt hung in the air.

Wormtongue's mouth curved, pale and cruel, though his bow was deep and low, his voice dipped in mock humility to the Marshals. The words were not his; he was but the messenger, delivering onto them a blow most grievous. Éomer's eyes flickered to his cousin, then back onto the slumbering was Théoden's judgment, yet not Théoden's voice. "Better, then, that they return to their posts; the Prince to the Deep, the Marshal to Aldburg." Wormtongue's voice softened, though triumph gleamed. "Thus the command is given, by order of Théoden King. The Marshals shall return to their own domains. Their oaths bind them still, and their duties call them home. And who among us dare question the will of the throne?"

Anger curled in Éomer, darker than any he had ever felt, a heat threatening to burn through his restraint. His head reverberated in vengeance, and Gúthwinë sang for blood. His hands twitched at his sides, aching for the weight of his sword. One step more, and he would have spoken– another, and he would have taken the head of the viper. Torn away the mask of lies that draped over the throne. But a hand brushed against his arm; Théodred's, steady and wordless, and it held him fast.

The Prince's eyes were heavy with grief, yet clear with warning. Not now. To defy the court was to shame the King, and Wormtongue would win all the swifter. Éomer swallowed all his fury, all his bitterness, until it bit the back of his throat. He could taste iron and ash. The fire in him did not fade; but it would wait, smoldering, until the day the serpent's poison was answered with steel.

"As the King commands, so it shall be," Théodred said and bowed his head to the throne.

He did not linger. Turning from the dais, the Prince strode from the hall, each step echoing in the hush that followed. No voice rose to stop him.

Éomer stood rooted, his whole body trembling with fire unspent, until at last he tore his gaze from the slumbering figure. With a final glare cast upon Wormtongue's smirking face, he followed his cousin into the open air. Yet he marked each face; lords and thanes, riders and servants alike, those who looked away in shame and those who smiled at the counsellor's venom. He set them all to memory, ally and foe together. Retribution would come, and when it did, none would be forgotten.

The golden doors shut behind them with a hollow thunder, and Meduseld was left to silence.