The sound of hooves thundered through the air. She thought she might hear them before she could see them.

Decidedly, she halted her mare. A sand-colored steed, the color of the shores of her homeland, a color she would no longer know. A self-imposed exile. The worst of its kind, she thought, although could it truly be worse than any other?

She waited for the riders to approach. Her hesitation was only evident to herself. She knew they had already seen her. They must have. These were masters of these plains, after all. Their armor gleamed against the sun in shades of green and gold. No other banner carried those colors. These were the horsemasters of Rohan.

She left her bow resting on her back, swallowed by her hair. She was careful not to show any sign of threat. Whatever diplomatic talent she carried in her blood, she would need now. Every ounce of it.

The riders were closer now. There must have been a score of them. They were approaching fast. Perhaps they could hear her now over the sound of their horses' hooves. She shouted, hopeful that her voice would not betray the fear simmering inside her.

"Riders of Rohan! I come in peace and seek your aid."

If the men heard her, they made no sign of it.

Skillfully, they rode towards and past her and then surrounded her in such a way that barred any attempts of escape. She felt their gaze burning in her skin, scanning her, her possessions, and her steed. The mare took a step backward to the dismay of her rider. If her mare's courage failed now, what would happen to her own?

She knew what they were wondering. Who could this woman be, alone, unguarded, and looking so foreign from their own? What aid could she seek? If she was distressed she did not seem so. Is this the form the enemy's spies now take? The figure of a lone woman? She did not need to read their minds to know their thoughts. They were judging her; an opportunity to show the right qualities for them to judge.

She steadied her voice and repeated, "I come in peace and I am alone. I am armed only for my own defense. I seek the aid of the Third Marshal of the Mark of Rohan. Is he among you?". She scanned their helmeted faces, but could not see any defining features. They waited in silence, watching her with the stillness of the mountains far away.

At length, one of the riders rode towards her and removed his helmet. His features showed strength yet were full of youth. He seemed weary, but the kind of weariness that riddles the mind more than the body. His voice was clear and stern but gentle when he spoke. "Who are you and what business do you have in the Mark?"

"My lord, I am afraid I cannot answer your questions. I shall only speak to the Third Marshal. These lands belong to the Eastfold of Rohan, do they not? If so, you must be his Riders. You must allow me an audience with him." She could not chance to tell them a name, not even a false one. At all costs she must secure a conversation with the marshal, and the wrong identity might deprive her of just that.

She looked around them to seek a sign of consent but behind their helmets their thoughts were simply a guess.

The man spoke again, raising his tone, "If you come in peace, then give us your name. Only spies hide their purpose."

"I am no spy. I have stated my purpose: I seek an audience with the Third Marshal. To you, I will say no more. You may take my weapon and my possessions. You may take charge of my horse. You may bind and blindfold me if it will make your decision any easier. But you will take me to your lord or leave me here to find him on my own. Either way, I will speak to him." She straightened atop her mare, pushing away thoughts that were wondering about the origin of her boldness. She then released her bow, quiver, and saddlebag to the ground and dared stare into the commander's eyes without fear, using strength she did not know she had in her.

After seconds that felt like minutes, the man commanded another rider in their own language, who in turn promptly dismounted and took hold of her possessions. She could hear him looking through her bag but she knew he would find nothing other than food, water, a cloak, and a satchel of healing herbs. Her key possession, a simple letter, she held on her person, in the pockets of her riding vest.

She heard the men speak in their language, an act that both frustrated and intimidated her. The tone alone suggested orders to be followed. The riders began to move again, and she found herself riding encircled by them, trying to match their speed and grace. She should have expected they would ride in a way that would prevent her from escaping. Yet there was an odd sense of safety, being surrounded by these seasoned riders speaking a language deep as the earth itself.

She did not speak more until they reached their destination. They arrived sooner than she had expected, but she was glad. After a long journey, she was yearning for rest, even under an open, velvet sky.

They reached what could not be described as anything but a war camp. Tents were erected, fires were lit, and everywhere horses, and weapons, and men were scattered, engrossed in one task or another. Upon reaching the camp the riders came to a stop and dismounted. She followed their example, wondering if they would meet her demands or if they were readying themselves to take her prisoner. As she started to walk, holding the reins of her sand mare, she was ordered to stop and wait by the man who commanded the riding party. She watched him disappear through the crowd of warriors until she spotted him talking to another man. Together, they made their way through the camp towards her and she felt all bravery in her fade away with each one of the warrior's confident strides. They gave her no chance to take the reins of conversation to give herself a negotiating advantage.

"Who are you and why have you come here?" His voice stilled her will and almost made her give her secrets away. The voice belonged to a man whose armor was richer, and his stature greater than most of his men. He was clearly their commander. She gave herself a moment to look at his face. Yes, it was him. She wondered if he would recognize her but the thought filled her with nerves. It had been nearly three months since she first and last gazed upon him. But he had not seen her face then, she did not think. It was her cousin, not her, with whom he dealt the two days they stayed in his hall.

"Are you the Lord of the Eastfold? The Third Marshal of Rohan?" She pretended not to know the answer. Yet even without their previous encounter, it was evident this man was a commanding lord.

"Aye." He stated simply, but impatiently, while staring at her.

"Lord Marshal, I plead for your aid. If we could speak privately, I will explain my purpose here." She debated between bowing her head or keep matching his stare, but the long moments of her debate made the decision for her. He studied her, watching her demeanor as much as her appearance. She looked very different from the women of Rohan. Her hair did not shine with the brilliance of the sun as the golden heads of Rohirric maidens did. There was no land or grass in the color of her eyes, but instead there was a vast sea, endless and chilling. She was tall, but it seemed to him that shieldmaidens were taller than her. But the greatest difference was in her boldness. Not once had she shown any sign of reverence to one of Rohan's High Lords, and he thought that with every word she uttered, she stood straighter. Moreover, she held his gaze with a silent fierceness that revealed determination without compare.

At length, he nodded and motioned for her to follow him. He led her to his tent. Inside was a small desk and chairs carved of rich, dark wood. She looked around, noting the distinct practicality of the furnishings of the tent and the clear lack of riches, but the sound of his voice brought her back to her present purpose.

"We are speaking privately. Why are you here?" He asked, again, impatiently.

For all of her plans she had not planned how this particular conversation might go. She tried to gather her thoughts quickly and thought it best to start without preamble.

"I am a long way from home, but I cannot go back. I am in danger, or else I have reason to think I will be. Because of this I have needed to exile myself from my home and hide my identity. Only in secrecy may I stay safe. Only one person knows I have come to seek you. You know him: Lord Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor. He sends you this letter to explain what I cannot." At the mention of Lord Boromir's name, his expression turned from impatience to curiosity. He took the letter and turned it around. It bore the seal of Gondor on its back. He tore it open and read it aloud.

"Lord Éomer, I thank you for your hospitality during my travels through Rohan. I have found what I was seeking in Imladris, but it seems I have now more cares than I did before. One of them is the lady that carries this letter. For reasons that are too sensitive to pen, she must remain hidden under a false name. I intend for her to ride with me to Gondor but at the moment it is not safe for her. I understand that there is no reason why you should honor me with this favor, but I must ask it of you regardless. Keep the lady safe until I am able to return for her. We have agreed to meet at Edoras at the coming of spring. I ask that you keep her safe and hidden until then. Do this and Gondor will be indebted to you, as shall I, Boromir of Gondor."

"What sensitive reasons are forcing you to hide?" He asked, putting the letter down on the desk. He leaned on the table and crossed his arms across his chest, expressing his thoughts through his demeanor.

"My lord, I cannot-" She lowered her gaze and shook her head slightly. This was hopeless.

"You expect me to protect you not knowing from what?" He demanded, as if he were taking advantage of her sign of defeat. She did not give him another chance.

"I expected nothing, but I hoped for a chance at safety." She met his gaze again and defiantly held it.

"What is your name?" He asked her.

Her name was Lothíriel. Only daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. The Lady of the Sea. But the less he knew the easier this would be.

"My safety depends on secrecy. I cannot tell you my name." She stated as calmly as she could, and searched in his dark eyes for a reaction.

"You will not tell me your name? So when I ask my Riders to give their lives for yours, you will not grace them with the name of the one for whom they sacrificed everything?" She had not considered this. Thinking of warriors dying for her was an impending truth she did not want to admit was approaching. His words were like a stab to her stomach.

"I will need a false name under which to live. Only you, my lord, need to know it is not my true self." She felt shame at the coldness with which her voice left her mouth.

"What name is that?"

"Sílrien, my lord."

Sílrien. A Sindarin name. He wondered what it meant in the tongue of the elves. Even more, he wondered if she was the lady who traveled with Lord Boromir at the beginning of autumn, when he welcomed them into his hall. He had only spoken to her briefly, at night, on the courtyard of his hall which overlooks the city of Aldburg. He tried to compare the voice of that maiden to this mysterious lady, but it was no use. Long nights had come and gone between then and now, and the darkness of that night had shielded her from him. But what he wondered most was what her real name was, and from what she was running so desperately.

When his thoughts robbed him of timely words, she continued, "Sílrien, the daughter of a Gondorian diplomat. Hidden until her father deems it safe to return home, as he negotiates dangerous treaties with tribes from Umbar and Harad. The less details offered, the better."

"The less details offered, the more people will wonder," He considered. She did not know whether he was referring to himself or to his people.

"I will be prepared to answer questions about myself. I do not want to ask more of you than I already have, my lord."

He considered her for a moment, then traced his fingers around Boromir's letter once more. "Boromir is a good man and a good warrior. I will not dishonor him by turning you away." He glanced at her doubtfully, "but I must consider the implications of my decision."

"I understand, Lord Marshal." She bowed her head to him. Such an enigma, he thought. Where is the defiance of moments ago? Did it shed away to reveal weakness or nobility?

"You must be hungry and weary. Let us find you some food." He allowed her to exit the tent first, after which she immediately felt the judging and wondering gaze of the riders. A gaze directed at her. It is reasonable to be cautious around foreigners, she reasoned to herself in hopes of helping ease the burden of the intimidating stares. Éomer led her to one of the roaring fires where bowls of stew and pieces of bread were being handed and taken in a rhythmic fashion. He motioned for her to sit near the fire, near many pairs of eyes stealing glances at the new guest. She noticed there was a female among them, dressed in mail armor; she then realized she was not the only female warrior around. This made her feel more away from home than she had until now. She was in a strange land, and to them she was strange herself. Her exile would not be easy.

An extended hand interrupted her thoughts. Éomer was handing her a bowl of steaming stew. She noticed she was hungry when the aroma of spices circulated around her. She reached out with both hands to take the bowl when her fingers brushed against his.

First, her mind emptied.

Then she saw with perfect clarity a tall man in mail and leather armor. It was golden and green, but riddled with blood black as night. A thundering voice commanded in a strange tongue, strange as the surroundings themselves. One word she heard clearly among the tones of the earthy tongue: "Éothain!".

It was over in a second yet it felt like she had seen more than a second.

Her expression changed and she seemed lost and disoriented. He thought he felt her fingers shake.

"Sílrien? Are you alright?" He spoke, then sought a place to sit near the fire. His voice travelled through her and brought her back to reality. She was afraid but she could not explain why. She tore her gaze from nothingness and forced it on him. The sight of him wearing unbloodied armor reassured her. She made no reply and began eating her meal. Next to her, he did the same. But where in her mind lay fear and uncertainty, in his thirsted a burning curiosity he vowed to quench.