Volume II

And so begins the second volume of Amira's tale. There were no missing pages to be accounted for here, so we assume this flight to the land of Rohan to the North-West is the true beginning.

Chapter Seventeen: The Plains of Eastemnet

The following days were a blur of repetition, but most of all, energy sapping pain. I had never had to run any distance with a wound, and I was finding every step a painful one. I did my best to hold my arm in a way that wouldn't jostle it so, but it soon became clear that pain was unavoidable.

As we moved away from the River Anduin and the hills by Amon Hen, the earth levelled and stretched as far as the eye could see in fields of stunning gold to contrast the blue sky. Aragorn stopped every once and awhile to lay his ear to the ground and listen for the Uruk-hai, and I took advantage of these small rests, for they were few and far between. What a time to be injured! At the end of a day, my jaw would ache from holding it in a tight grimace. Of course, I was of little help to gather firewood or hunt for edible plants, although I did make a weak attempt to assist whenever I could. I was quickly led away to sit by the fire, where I would cradle my arm and battle against my dazedness and pain. Even sleep evaded me, since the constant agony tormented me at rest.

On the fourth day of running, my legs gave out. I suppose I must have fainted from pain momentarily, for some time had passed before my eyelids fluttered open. Legolas and Ehlon were leaning over me concernedly, and I lifted myself up onto my elbows.

Shame filled me. I took a deep breath: "I did not mean for that to happen. Let us continue,"

Legolas grasped my uninjured arm when I attempted to stand, holding me down. Ehlon gazed at me with a frown.

"I do not think you should continue any further," she said slowly. "This run is killing you!"

Reaching out, she placed her palm over my forehead, and her hand was cool against my feverish skin. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them, Aragorn had stepped forward.

"Amira, are you alright?" he asked, and I nodded. Ehlon shook her head.

"She is far from alright, Aragorn," she hissed angrily. "The wound is giving her a fever, and she will only weaken further. She needs proper rest and sleep, not to mention a healer!"

Aragorn chewed at his lip, frowning. In the silence that followed Ehlon's statement, Legolas spoke up.

"I will carry her," he offered, and Ehlon's head snapped toward the Elf.

I gazed up at him in surprise. Aragorn gave a slow nod, and Legolas gathered me into his arms, carefully lifting me up. I winced a little, and Ehlon frown deepened.

"Are you comfortable?" Legolas asked softly. I attempted a smile, although I felt perfectly ridiculous. I should not have needed such measures!

They all began to run again, and I suppose I must have slipped into a feverish doze against the Prince's chest, for night had fallen when Legolas laid me on my cloak to sleep. At this time I was so exhausted that no pain would keep me from sleep, for soon morning came and the process was repeated.

Legolas carried me for two more days, and it was on the seventh day that I felt strong enough to run on my own. The Elf did not like this one bit, but he allowed it with a delicate frown.

On and on we ran over the rolling, golden fields until at last Legolas's keen eyes spotted the dark gathering of Uruk-hai on the horizon. Aragorn called for a momentary rest.

Legolas shook his head. "They run as if the very whips of their masters were behind them."

"Indeed, Legolas. They are marching far quicker than I expected," our leader admitted slowly. "Let us hope they slow their advances."

There was silence as a water flask was passed around. I believe we were all attempting not to think of the possibilities surrounding Merry and Pippin's fate at the hands of the Uruk-hai. Gimli, leaning on his axe, sighed emphatically but said nothing.

Allowing my senses to expand, I stretched myself as far as I could. To my surprise, I met the dark force of the Uruk-hai army on the horizon. Although my reaction was to pull away in revulsion, I scanned through the melting pot of black energy for the Hobbits, feeling my energy drain as I did so. In the next moment, I felt their life forces, pure and unmistakable. I pulled back in excitement.

All were staring curiously at me.

"The Hobbits?" Ehlon guessed anxiously.

My voice nearly broke with relief. "They are alive!" I breathed out, a smile forming on my face momentarily.

Aragorn's shoulders straightened. "Are you certain?"

I nodded, and Legolas brushed off the grass from his legs.

"The Hobbits are crafty folk to stay in one piece among those foul Uruk-hai," he murmured in admiration. Ehlon smiled, rolling her neck to the side.

Gimli raised his axe. "Let us run!" he growled.

And run we did, our footsteps buoyed by not only our purpose, but the knowledge that our dear friends were alive…

On the eighth day, just as the morning sun was rising and setting alight the tips of the grass, Aragorn heard the thundering of hooves from his place on the ground. Blinking the last remains of sleep from my eyes, I watched as he and Legolas stood side by side, both squinting into the distance.

"They are riding quickly," the Elf murmured.

"How many are there, Legolas? Your eyes are far keener than mine," Aragorn said.

There was a pause. "Twenty-five dozen," he confirmed, "And I believe they have seen us."

Ehlon's hand went to the hilt of her sword. "Who are they?" she asked, "The Rohirrim?"

Aragorn nodded, but he seemed deep in thought. I pulled myself into a sitting position, trying to sort through the changing events. The Rohirrim were the Riders of Rohan, a highly trained and deadly force of warriors to which I had heard many tales of from other Rangers.

Ehlon gazed up at the sky for a moment, closing her eyes. Then she turned to Aragorn. "They must have met the Uruk-hai on the horizon, for it would be impossible not to sight them in this sort of landscape."

Indeed, without natural valleys or mountains or even forests, there was little to conceal an enemy here…

Aragorn did not answer for a long moment. Finally, he said: "If they have seen us, we will await them."

Gimli jumped up suddenly. "Excuse me, sir, but I don't like the idea of sitting like a hunted duck in the least," he argued, "They might mistake us for the enemy!"

I stood slowly, and strode to Ehlon, who was still staring at the sky.

Our leader gazed at the indignant Dwarf with an ironic smile. "With a Dwarf and Elf in our midst, it would be difficult to mistake us for Uruk-hai. Wait we must, for the Riders will know of Merry and Pippin."

Ehlon turned to me, lifting up my wounded arm gently. She checked over the temporary bandage before meeting my eyes. "Is it any better?"

I nodded, for it was true that the pain had ebbed slightly. She sighed, "Can you make a fist?"

My attempt was met with a searing jolt of pain, and I stalled. She straightened.

"Come with me a moment," she said, and then she led me to where my cloak was lying on the ground. She made me kneel, and before I could protest, she removed my leather jerkin and outer tunic, leaving me in my thin white undershirt. The morning air was cool, and I shivered a little but did not ask of Ehlon's actions. It was a universal message of peace and surrender in Middle Earth: the white undershirt and visible bandage spoke to any eye that the member of the Company was wounded and would not draw their weapon to fight.

Aragorn smiled a little when he saw Ehlon's handiwork, but again he turned to the advancing dust rising from hooves of the Rohirrim riding toward us. We five stood side by side together unmoving, watching in silence. I shivered again, and Ehlon pulled me close to wrap her cloak around me. Leaning against her gratefully, I watched the oncoming Riders, still two and a half leagues away.

When they were half a league from us, Aragorn raised his head to the morning sun, the rays lighting up the red undertones in his hair. Legolas's hand crept toward his bow but he did not pull it from his shoulder. Gimli, too, appeared restless. But Aragorn was completely at ease as the Rohirrim drew closer. The thundering hooves met my ears at last, and I saw the sun glinting off the raised spears and armour of the great warriors.

I leaned away from Ehlon, taking a deep breath and straightening my spine. She stared straight ahead, her profile against the sun appearing almost regal.

The host of Riders had nearly passed when Aragorn opened his mouth, calling out in a loud, commanding voice: "What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?"

The effect was immediate.

My breath caught as the Riders instantly checked their steeds and charged them in our direction as though they might trample us. I tensed up, but just then the Riders changed their direction and circled around us, forming a smaller and smaller clearing until at last we were surrounded. Our backs pressing against each other as a circle of Riders caged us in with their spears. Aragorn stared calmly at the Rohirrim, but Legolas had an arrow fitted on his bow, and Gimli had raised his axe threateningly. Ehlon had drawn her sword, glaring at the rider pointing his spear at her shoulder. Another rider held his spear a mere hands-length from my neck, and as much as every fibre of my being urged to draw my sword, I resisted, forcing myself to keep calm.

A man seated on a black horse among the chestnuts urged his steed forward slightly, the sun playing on his blonde hair and glinting in his hazel eyes. I saw surprise register on his face when he sighted Ehlon and me, but that soon was gone. He stared at Aragorn with a frown, his face a mask of authority.

"Who are you and what are you doing in this land?" he called out in the Common Speech, his voice breaking the tense silence which had descended.

"I am called Strider," our leader answered fearlessly. "I came out of the North. I am hunting Orcs."

I looked briefly to Aragorn, marvelling at his calmness in this situation. My eyes were drawn back to the speaker when he swung off his horse and handed his spear to a companion. Drawing his sword slowly, he stepped forward to stand face to face with Aragorn.

My body tensed completely as I watched them stare at each other for a long moment. The atmosphere was like the electricity in the air before a lightning storm; the men's eyes shot daggers into each other as they stared.

Finally, the man spoke: "You know little of Orcs if you go hunting them in this fashion. They were swift and well-armed, and they were many. But there is something strange about you, Strider…" the man paused, his clear eyes narrowing. "That is no name for a Man that you give. And strange too is your raiment." Still Aragorn did not speak. The man sighed. "How did you escape our sight? Are you Elvish folk?"

At the corner of my eye, I saw Ehlon bite her lip, a grin flitting across her mouth briefly as amusement crossed her face.

Aragorn glanced at her before returning his gaze to the man in front of him. "No," he said, "Only one of us is an Elf – Legolas from the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood. But we have passed through Lothlórien, and the gifts and favour of the Lady go with us."

At the mention of the Lady, the man's eyes widened, and the Riders shifted uncomfortably around us. Then their leader frowned suddenly. "Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell!" He stepped closer to Aragorn, "Few escape her nets, they say. But if you have her favour, then you also are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe."

The man's tone was abrasive, and I felt irritation crawl up my back like a dark spider. Why was not Aragorn rebuking this man? Fingers dug into my arm, and I did not have to glance to the side to know it was Ehlon. I forced myself to calm down, focusing instead on Aragorn's next words.

"Net-weavers and sorcerers we are not," he said, "And there are many old tales that are not simply tales…"

"And don't think you might have that sort of talk about the great Lady around me!" Gimli added gruffly, and the leader turned toward him sharply.

"What was that Dwarf? If you were but a bit higher off the ground, I might hear you better," the man retorted, and Aragorn laid a warning hand on Gimli's shoulder when he saw that the Dwarf was about to attack.

The Riders pressed closer to us, their voices angry as they pushed their spears to our necks.

Aragorn raised his hands, "And whose spears do we have the honour of having pressed to our necks?"

The leader seemed a bit surprised by his words, but answered slowly: "I am Éomer son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of Riddermark…" he paused, frowning at Aragorn and then at Gimli. "Wanderers in the Riddermark would be wise to be less haughty in these days of doubt. First tell me your right name."

Aragorn was still looking directly at the Third Marshal. "First tell me who you serve. Are you friend or foe of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor?"

The man's jaw clenched in an anger I did not understand. "I serve only the Lord of the Mark, Théoden, King of Thengel. We do not serve the Power of the Black Land far away, but neither are we yet at open war with him." Éomer paused, his tone less harsh when he began again. "We welcomed guests kindly in the better days, but in these times the unbidden stranger finds us swift and hard. Come! Who are you? Who do you serve?"

Our leader did not even blink. "I serve no man," said he, "but the servants of Sauron I pursue into whatever land they may go. The Orcs whom we pursued took captive two of my friends. In such need a man will not ask for leave to follow the trail. Nor will he count the heads of the enemy save with a sword. I am not weaponless."

Suddenly, Aragorn threw back his cloak, revealing his face and form to the Riders. The Elven wrought sheath glimmered as he drew Andúril, the blade shining with the reflected brightness of the midday sun. "Elendil!" he cried softly, all traces of calmness forgotten, and Éomer backed up a step in shock. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isildur, Elendil's son of Gondor. Here is the Sword that was Broken and forged again! Will you aid me or thwart me?" He held Andúril high. "Choose swiftly!"

Éomer stared at him in amazement, as did the Riders surrounding us. I too was marvelling at Aragorn in this moment, watching the sun illuminate the greatness and nobility of his character, the brightness of a future with him as the power of his people. Indeed, he seemed to glow like a stolen flame from the sun itself was burning within him, and it appeared suddenly as though he had grown taller, stronger. It was difficult to look away from him. All the majesty of Kings before him flickered across his face so that he was no longer simply even Aragorn son of Arathorn, but all the ancient nobility of previous ages.

Éomer stepped back further, his eyes lowering to the ground as he sheathed his sword. "These are indeed strange days," he murmured, "Dreams and legends spring to life out of the grass!"

He gestured to his Riders, barking out an order. The spears retreated suddenly, and I sucked in a relieved breath. I had not liked that spear cutting into my neck one bit.

Then Éomer looked to Aragorn again. "Tell me, lord, what brings you here? What doom do you bring out of the North?"

Aragorn lowered his sword slowly, but did not sheath it. "The doom of choice," his voice was softer now, "You may say this to Théoden son of Thengel: open war lies before him, with Sauron or against him. None may live now as they have lived, and few shall keep what they call their own. But of these great matters we will speak later. If chance allows, I will come myself to the King."

There was a pause as Éomer considered Aragorn's words.

"All that you say is strange, Aragorn. Yet you speak the truth, that is plain…" he frowned, "But you have not told all. Will you not now speak more fully of your errand, so that I may judge what to do?"

Our leader sighed. "I set out from Imladris, many weeks ago," he began, "With me went Boromir of Minas Tirith. My errand was to go to that city to aid his folk in their war against Sauron…Gandalf the Grey was our leader. But alas! He fell into darkness in the Mines of Moria and comes not again."

Éomer let out an exhale. "That is heavy tidings…"

"It is tidings more grievous than any in this land can understand," Aragorn continued, "My part of it has been to guide our Company. Through Lórien we came, and thence down the leagues of the Great River to the falls of Rauros. There Boromir was slain by the same Orcs whom you destroyed."

The man shook his head. "Your news is all of woe!" he said. "Great harm is this death to Minas Tirith, and to us all." He paused for a moment. "But now, lord, what would you have me do? It is true that we are not yet at open war with the Black Land, and there are some, close to the King's ear, that speak craven counsels' but war is coming. We shall not forsake our old alliance with Gondor, and while they fight we shall aid them: so I say and all who hold with me." A new fire was flashing in Éomer's eyes now. "The East-mark is my charge, and I have removed all our herds and herdfolk, withdrawing them beyond Entwash, and leaving none her but guards and swift scouts."

Gimli shifted. "Then you do not pay tribute to Sauron?" he asked suspiciously.

Éomer turned to him again, his eyes narrowed. "We do not and we never have." He looked to Aragorn again, who had not twitched. "But at this time our chief concern is with Saruman. He has claimed lordship over all this land, and there has been war between us for many months. He has closed the Gap against us, so that we are likely to be beset both east and west. I do not know how it will all end, and my heart misgives me; for it seems to me that his friends do not all dwell in Isengard…But if you come to the King's house, you shall see for yourself." He paused, all pride and hardness escaping from his tone as he said: "Will you not come? Do I hope in vain that you have been sent to me for a help in doubt and need?"

Aragorn sheathed his sword fluidly, looking kindly at the man before him. "I will come when I may."

"Come now!" Éomer insisted, "There is battle even now upon the Westemnet, and I fear that it may go ill for us. Indeed in this riding north I went without the King's leave. But scouts warned me of the Orc-host coming down out of the Eat Wall three nights ago, and among them they reported some bore the white badges of Saruman. So suspecting what I most fear, a league between the Orthanc and the White Tower, I led my éored and we overtook the Orcs and gave battle yesterday at dawn. Fifteen of my men I lost, and twelve horses alas! For the Orcs were greater in number than we counted on…"

The Hobbits! What could have happened to them? My mind was a flurry of thoughts. I felt Ehlon's fingers dig into my arm again, and I attempted to listen to Éomer's words as he continued.

"Nonetheless," he was saying, "we put an end to them. But we have been too long away. Will you not come?" He looked expectantly at Aragorn, who was silent for a moment.

"I thank you for your fair words, and my heart desires to come with you, but I cannot desert my friends while hope remains."

Hope? The Riders had likely not even noticed the Hobbits among the carnage of the fallen Orcs. How could he say such a thing?

Éomer echoed my thoughts. "Hope does not remain. You will not find your friends on the North-borders."

"Yet my friends are not behind. They were still alive not far from the East Wall, but between the wall and the downs we found no other trace of them, and no trail turned aside. I can only think they were carried off into the forest before the battle. Can you swear that none escaped your net in such a way?"

My heart sank when Éomer shook his head. "I would swear that no Orc escaped after we sighted them. We reached the forest-eaves before them, and if after that any living thing broke through our ring, then it was no Orc and had some Elvish power."

"Our friends are attired even as we are," Aragorn pressed, "and you passed by under the full light of day."

Éomer blinked. "I had forgotten that. It is hard to be sure of anything among so many marvels. How shall a man judge what to do in such times?"

"As he ever has judged," Aragorn murmured, "Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men. It is a man's part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house."

Éomer nodded. "True indeed. I do not doubt you." Then an emotion flickered in his eyes for a moment before disappearing. "Yet I am not free to do all as I would. It is against our law to let strangers wander at will in our land, until the King himself shall give them leave, and more strict is the command in these days of peril. I have begged you to come back willingly with me, and you will not. Loth I am to begin a battle of one hundred against five."

Aragorn shook his head, "I do not think your law was made for such a chance. My duty at least is clear, to go on. Aid us, or at the worst let us go free."

I watched Éomer as he seemed to work through Aragorn's words, as though weighing each one carefully. Finally, he spoke: "We both have need of haste. This is my choice: You may go, and what is more, I will lend you horses. This only I ask – when your quest is achieved, or is proved vain, return with the horses of the Entwade to Meduseld, the high house in Edoras where Théoden now sits. Thus you shall prove to him that I have not misjudged. In this place myself, and maybe my very life, in the keeping of your good faith. Do not fail."

Aragorn smiled. "I will not."

With that, Éomer called again in his tongue and four horses were brought forward.

"Alas, I have but four. May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters."

Aragorn thanked him quietly, mounting a chestnut brown mare easily. Legolas swung up onto a tan coloured horse, pulling Gimli behind him. The Dwarf grumbled as he attempted to make himself comfortable, and I would have been amused if my thoughts had not been so dark. Aragorn had said we would not fail, but my heart was sinking more and more as every moment passed.

"And this is Anwyl," Éomer said as he handed the reins of a beautiful black horse to me, looking fully into my eyes for the first time. "Lady, you are injured…" he said, gesturing to my bloodied arm. His blue eyes were like staring into a clear summer sky, and I found myself unable to look away.

"My Lord, I thank you for your concern, but I am fine," I returned slowly, and Ehlon nudged my side. Breaking eye contact, I allowed Ehlon to help me mount the tranquil mare. When I was comfortable, I saw that Éomer was still looking at me as though attempting to sight my soul. Did he still doubt us?

Finally he looked away, mounting his horse and turning briefly to Aragorn. "In hopes that we meet again, lord, ride well!"

And with a cry, Éomer bade his Riders onward, their horses circling around us momentarily before thundering past back toward the plain. The nearby trees of what I assumed was the Fangorn Forest stood silently to our left, their spiking tree tops piercing upward into the sky.

Anwyl shifted beneath me, ears pricking up as though listening to sounds beyond my hearing. I rubbed my hand over her flank, murmuring soothing words. She calmed instantly, but when I turned to Ehlon next to me, I could tell something dark was on her mind.

"What is it?" I asked, but she shook her head.

"It is nothing," she said. Our eyes met, and I knew she'd been thinking of the Hobbits. I closed my eyes briefly – if we were to find out Merry and Pippin had been slain, I wasn't sure if I would be able to go on. I had let them out of my protection, and now they could be dead.

A hand touched my shoulder.

It was Aragorn.

"Let us ride on," he said quietly, his hazel eyes piercing into mine. I nodded, and Ehlon gave me a sad look as she urged her horse forward.

I had felt them alive, had I not? Or had it been a falsity, a moment of excitement?

Tears stung at my eyes as I nudged Anwyl gently. She worked into a steady gallop after the others, her hooves pounding on the golden grass. The wind tore at my hair, and the jostling sent surges of fresh pain up my arm. I winced, but there was nothing I could do.

Ride on we would, to whatever end…

Well, here is my first chapter of the second installment of the series. :) I'd like to thank you all for sticking with me. I do appreciate every single one of you for your interest in the story, and now that I am back from my trip to Europe (which was incredible), I will be uploading more frequently as long as time permits.

As you can see from the ending of this chapter, Amira is facing some heavy things: there is the question of whether or not Merry and Pippin are alive, and of course, her injury is worsening to some extent. Though we all know the fate of the two Hobbits, one can never know what just might happen when you have an author like me stirring things up...

Please review! They make me grin like a fool.