For as long as their ancestry told, Aelfwyn of Strongplow's family had lived in Rohan. They had, for the most part, lived normal and ordinary lives, as common folk of Edoras who served their king and loved their horses.

Of course, every one of Aelfwyn's family had his story, no matter how mundane – each one had his secrets, his fears and his loves, his strengths and his sorrows. But few of them had stories that were remarkable enough for someone like you or me to want to hear about. The past centuries had been relatively peaceful, and the house of Strongplow was, as their epithet suggested, exceptional behind the plow, with a good yoke of oxen at the other end.

But Aelfwyn's times were changing. She had been born the only child to her parents, for her mother had grown ill during childbirth and never become strong enough to have a second child. Her father worked a farm – a very small farm, built on steep slopes of the hillock upon which the town rested – and Aelfwyn was obliged to work on it too, when she was not doing more domestic work, if they were to be able to put bread on their table. From this she learned discipline of the mind and body from a young age – the work was hard, and one rose at dawn to work until sunset. Since she had been old enough to work, she had gotten used to going to sleep each night with her muscles aching. So as she grew, she became a strong and hard-working young woman – willing to carry her burden and her neighbor's, and to carry it with a straight and strong back.

And it was a good thing, too. The time was changing. A shadow grew in the East. There would come a time when her people could no longer live quite lives here in Edoras. There would come a time when the Shadow would spread, and the crops would crumble, and the widows would send their children away on their horses to seek refuge while they stood up and fell to the countless swords of the foul enemy. When the blood of Rohan's slaughtered ones would cry out from the trampled ground.

It was a dream that came to Aelfwyn's mind, when she would lie awake at night listening to the breathing of her mother and father and the whickering of the horses in the yard. The terrible army of the East that people were beginning to speak of in the streets of the village, when the cruel and horrible soldiers – most were not men, people said, but a terrible breed of Uruk – would come tramping into the villages with their iron shoes and unmelodious voices, burning as they went, killing her people and her horses.

They never killed Aelfwyn, though, in the dreams. She always found a way to escape them. Sometimes she wished she didn't because living would mean living knowing they had killed her people. But she always found a way away – she'd climb out the back window into the yard behind their cottage, and mount one of the horses and run away in the moonlight, and leave her burning village behind. And then she'd wake up, sweating and listening to make sure she could still hear her parents' breathing.

She was dreaming the dream again tonight.

The raucous screams echoed lifelike in her ears as she heaved herself out the window, away from her sleeping parents, and whistled for her horse as the Uruks broke through the door. She heard her mother scream her name as she mounted her mare, and heard heard her father yell something, and then she heard nothing more in her house, except the slam of the door as the horrid Orcs streamed out, their work done. The house went up in flames as her mare Ascfaxi galloped away, paying no heed to how she tugged at the reins. She couldn't turn back for her mother and father. She could do nothing, only run as her people were slaughtered.

She woke with her throat dry, and her hands tangled in the sheets. On shaking legs, she rose from the bed, desiring a drink of water from the well. She exited the house as quietly as she could, welcoming the refreshing bite of the cold night air. She lifted her hands to her cold cheeks, and drew them away in surprise to find them wet – with tears! Tears. When had been the last time Aelfywn had cried?

I must do something, she thought. Something to save my people.

But there is nothing you can do, thought the other half of her mind. What can you do against such needless hate? You are one small girl in a great world.

There is always something to do, she replied. Always something to help us save the good. And I am not alone. There are others. There are others who wish the same thing. Even if it is one sword among an army, one corpse among the fallen, and one grave in the yard, it is still something.

There was no reply from the other part of her mind. She smiled as she drew up the bucket from the well, cupped some water in her hands, and drank. It was cold and it burned her throat with that lovely feeling of life.

Barely a week went by before there was an audible commotion in the town. Aelfwyn was exercising her mare Ascfaxi in the corral when she heard the noise. Shading her eyes, she looked up towards Meduseld, the King's hall that stood upon the top of the hill, rising above the village. There were many figures standing on the terrace that overlooked the town, but she could see no better than that. She guided Ascfaxi out and trotted up through the village.

She could see the king! No one of the villagers had seen him for months until now. He was standing, sword in hand, next to a tall and grim Man she had never seen. His hair was dark, and by his looks he was not of Rohan. Higher above on the terrace stood the king's sister-daughter, and a few other figures whose faces she could not see well.

It was only a few more days before something else entirely unexpected happened. The king's guard, Hama, announced that all the men, women and children would be leave the village by evenfall for Helm's Deep, the great keep where many battles had been fought. Helm's Deep had won all of the battles – it would not fall while men defended it. An attack must have been coming.

So that night, they left for Helm's Deep with all the rest of the village. It was a slow road, through the mountains, and many of the people of Edoras were on foot – for although horses were important, many families could only afford one. The Strongplow house was lucky.

Aelfwyn readjusted her skirt as she fidgeted in the saddle. She switched the reins to her right hand for a moment, flexing her stiff fingers. Riding might be hard for the horse, but it is also hard for the rider.

It was slow travel, and altogether uninteresting. Aelfwyn talked very little, preferring to ride quietly with her head down and her hood up. She drifted to sleep more than once, falling forward on Ascfaxi and jerking back up again when her forehead touched his neck. After the third time, she finally surrendered and let herself fall to sleep for a while, cheek in her horse's mane.

She was rudely awoken by a scream. She heard the king shout, 'Eowyn!' and then saw his niece rushed over to him. One of the guards was on the ground, and she saw that some others had ridden off. She could see the forms of animals riding towards them. Then Eowyn, the king's niece, was rounding up the women and children. The riders and soldiers were going with the king.

Aelfwyn wondered why her horse was standing still before realizing she had stopped her, not knowing where to go in the surging tide of people. Turn right, and she would be fighting. Turn left and she would be hurried safely to Helm's Deep. Then someone grabbed Ascfaxi's bridle, and they were dragged toward the band led by Eowyn, the women and children and men too old to fight hastening on to Helm's Deep.