As promised, Rivendell!

Unfortunately, this is probably the last time we'll be updating this week. Or for the next two weeks, as Senna is going to be busy and Elis will be out of town and, so, cannot edit. So put this on your Follow list, people! (Why? Because.)

Thanks again muchly to those who Followed and Faved and to dear Guest who reviewed! We are always happy to hear you like the story.

(We're lookin' at you, secret readers! It would be nice to hear about what you like or hate about the story. But no pressure. (Yes, there is. (Nope!)))

The pacing will pick up and may be a bit off, unfortunately, as we get into the movie. Senna tried to add more scenes, but not too many relationships can be cultivated right at the start. It's the time for first impressions and getting a feel for each other.

Inevitable to add the Council of Elrond scene. In Senna's case, anyway. She is not very original in this matter and did not change much of the wording; only added Éohild's perspective, actions, and consequences. Because it is about her development throughout the War (and because Senna is a lazy hobo), as you have already seen, this will be mostly in the limited 3rd person POV. It will sometimes shift to the thoughts and opinions of the rest of the Company or other characters, but usually those only known by Éohild. There will be times, of course, when secret thoughts of other characters are mentioned, but not so much. Just for your information.

We hope the canon characters are, well, in-character. We tried not to make the Hobbits too silly, but at this point they still are pretty silly and lighthearted (with respect to their movie selves). We only hope they are just right, or almost there.

Chapter 3, GO!


The Province of Men

Chapter 3: The Last Homely House

Their travels did not end in a fortnight, however, but nearly four times that. Éohild estimated a hundred days in total, and just when she laughed to say she had exaggerated and that in truth she never tried to count, Boromir said he had counted more for his journey to Rohan. The North-South Road of old had been long deserted, and past the marshes, forests and causeways were more hills canopied with tall, unkempt grass. Though there were no more Orc encounters for the rest of their trip, the pair contended with wild animals and strays no longer accustomed to the presence of Men.

Some scampered off as soon as Boromir brandished his blade and made an example of their companions, but the great pack of wild dogs, among other perils, was particularly daring. One of them managed to sink its teeth into Boromir's leg and another in Éohild's left arm at a time when she finally recovered, again. They stopped, then, after clearing the surrounding area of any more that might come.

It was in this stretch of time when Boromir and Éohild commiserated and grew in friendship. Not for the sake of the common love they held for Théodred and Éomer but for the trials they faced and survived, together, out of which two strangers may only emerge with an unbreakable bond.

This friendship did not, of course, stop them from debating which way to go on occasion. Éohild had little love for mountains and constantly pointed to a faraway structure on the crest of a tall hill, but Boromir grew tired of climbing hills, up and down. His friend soon found that he was irrefutable when it came to directions. It became his decision, as most of their arguments ended, to follow the Bruinen when the river forked into it and Hoarwell. The Bruinen was a river that flowed into a thick, true wood, the likes of which Éohild had never seen.

Despite the trees, the soft sunlight of dawn broke into the forest and formed dancing shadows with the leaves and branches upon the ground and the river. For sustenance, Éohild picked fruit from low-bent, flowering trees, for while she heard birds and different sorts of vermin around them, neither she nor Boromir could ever spot one they might hunt.

It was comfortable enough to sleep on, at least. The forest floor was carpeted with leaves of different colors and crunched beneath their feet as they walked – which might have explained their dwindling ability to hunt – and might have been mistaken for blankets for how soft they were.

The deeper they marched into the forest, the more Éohild thought that something was wrong. Simply off. Something told her she should be wary. But the more suspicious she felt, the more relaxed she became, and to struggle felt almost futile.

Boromir had noticed the simultaneous expressions of caution and relaxation on his friend's face and was beginning to grow in worry. It slipped away as soon as he felt it, but still he asked, "Is something the matter, Éohild? The forest is beautiful, is it not? Can you hear it in the distance – a waterfall?"

"No," she said, shaking her head languidly. "I feel as though…we have gone around in circles…for days…"

"No," replied Boromir, smiling. "No, not at all. Perhaps you feel this way because you are not accustomed to walking in forests? And Ithilien is nowhere nearly as beautiful as this wood. Be at peace, Éohild…"

Éohild thought it an odd thing to pass his lips – be at peace, but Boromir was right. There could be nothing wrong in a forest as beautiful as this. War could not taint this place. Neither could wild beasts. She herself wanted to drop her belt sheathe and sit by the river, making necklaces out of the few flowers that littered the ground.

Suddenly, her vision seemed clearer. The waterfall was loud in her ears too, very close, and leaves were sparse on the green grass. Éohild's wide eyes immediately turned to Boromir, who nodded in comprehension. "Let us follow the sound."

Éohild took a whiff of the river, which had become so much more real after that one moment, and chuckled almost dreamily. She felt like jumping, screaming, doing anything wild just to revel in her freedom of the complacency from which she had broken. "A bath sounds very appealing."

"Truly a woman, Éohild," Boromir tutted. "Thinking of hygiene before a mission!"

"Not hygiene," she joined his mirth, "but your fortune, Boromir!"

"And your lack of it," Boromir grinned. "Had you not sent away the horses, we may have gone a very different way. We may never have tread into this forest. They say Imladris is close to a waterfall."

Éohild gave a whoop, bumping arms with Boromir. "Let it not be said that my misfortune did not bring joy to the renowned Captain of Gondor!"

Finally, after several minutes of almost giddy laughter and a steep decline in the forest, Boromir and Éohild found the archway leading to Rivendell. It was a great connection of beautiful homes interspersed with trees and gardens built along the precipice of the mountainside, bursting with high waterfalls. Éohild thought aloud that she might be dreaming until Boromir humored her and painfully pinched her side.

"Ow! You are just like Théodred," she grumbled, rubbing her arm. "I never realized we were so close to the mountain face."

"It must have been an enchantment clouding our thoughts," said Boromir, still chuckling slightly. He fell silent at the beauty that surrounded them. He was certain he saw a multitude of rainbows over the falls, but was distracted by the colors of the leaves that once lay at their feet on the trees lining their path to the bridge sitting over the river to the Last Homely House.

Éohild could not believe the buildings were crafted out of wood. Branches woven into roofs and railings looked instead like marble splashed in milk and caramel, and the serenity that enveloped the place coupled with the early morning sun rising beyond the river and the mountains gave it a glow even Meduseld could never imitate.

Only the sight of the Elves released Éohild from her trance. Whether fair or dark-haired, their slender gracefulness and angular features gave to them beauty she could express as nothing but otherworldly.

They greeted the pair at the bridge and led them across, informing them that it was indeed something of an enchantment to ward off those with wary or unkind intentions, for, said one, "Events have transpired overnight which require such care." Éohild must have looked very lost at that, for one of the women – she could at first barely tell them apart for their ethereality – hair tucked behind one of her sharp ears, guided her by the elbow and released her only when they were presented to a magnificent Elf crowned in silver. He did not look much older than Boromir, but it was clear from his dignified posture and smile that he possessed a manner of leadership among the Elves, both in wisdom and strength.

"Lord Boromir of Gondor and Lady Éohild of Rohan, my lord," said their guide, who was dismissed with a nod.

"Lord Elrond," Boromir imitated the woman's bow. "It is an honor. We…"

"You are fortunate to arrive on this day, Boromir of Gondor; Éohild of Rohan," he informed them, nodding courteously. "Something was brought here that has not been seen in an Age; and though all our guests must contend with their own concerns, I must persuade you to attend a Council in which we are to discuss the fate of Middle-earth."

"Of course," Boromir answered for the two of them, without hesitation. Éohild had balked at the sudden solemnity of his words, but understood. "Our concerns are tied, I believe, to this Council. We are honored."

Elrond inclined his head in approval. "There are others, on their way or on the mend. You are welcome to join us in the Last Homely House to await them."

"Thank you, Lord Elrond," said Éohild, beaming when the great Elf politely smiled down at her. She was so awed that she did not quite understand what he said when his lips moved before he departed.

Just as she turned to Boromir, their Elf guide reappeared. "Please," she motioned ahead, "follow me."

Éohild's head spun as they walked the halls of the Last Homely House, eyes darting left and right. There was never enough to drink in. Boromir seemed determined to put up a show of collectedness, but she didn't quite care at the moment, and accepted the invitation of their guide, Vinariel, to bathe.

Éohild did not keep track of how long she stayed in the baths, scrubbing especially between the nails and neck, but she felt refreshed enough to sleep when she finished. Yet Éohild could not. There was too much of Rivendell to see, too much excitement to be able to participate in something so trivial as rest.

To her misfortune, Vinariel had never quite seen a human girl and was fascinated that, hardy as Éohild seemed, she would die less than a century from that day. A grim outlook, in the Rider's opinion, but she supposed being immortal gave the woman a different perception of the world. What displeased Éohild was not that Vinariel insisted on arranging her hair in the way of the Elves; it was that according to the woman, she was so like a man in temperament and gait when they first arrived that Vinariel felt it was her duty to remind her she was also still a woman of grace. The girl refrained from sighing simply because Vinariel was so kind.

"And beautiful, at that," said the Elf, knotting the last braid behind her head. She went round Éohild to face her and smiled, motioning to the mirror beside her bed. "The prettiest girl of Rohan I have ever seen."

Éohild turned to her skeptically. "Lady Vinariel, I am the only girl of the Mark you have ever seen."

Vinariel's smile did not falter, as though she was used to babying girls and telling them they were very beautiful despite being only a little. "Nonetheless," was her stubborn answer. "Now, look!"

Éohild rose from the bed to stand before the mirror. A part of her was disappointed, having hoped that she would hardly recognize herself because she had magically become an Elvish beauty even immortal men would die for, but her rational side was only too happy to have her hair almost look as lovely as Éowyn's. Their family had a history of golden locks, though Éomer's had always been a mite darker, and – was her hair's texture actually smooth enough to shine, like her sister's?

"Thank you," she said, fingers still twisting adoringly at the golden strands fraying her cheek. "Lady Vinariel."

"Vinariel," corrected the Elf, hands resting on her shoulders. "Éohild. I thank you in turn. It has been an Age since Lady Arwen allowed me to do this for her. I once attended to her, upon the will of Lady Celebrian." She explained, "Her mother, Lord Elrond's love long sailed to the West."

Éohild glanced back at her, measuring her in some way. Did Elves have governesses? The Mark did not, but Boromir mentioned that it was customary for highborn Gondorians. "You are so young. But then I suppose – you are an Elf. Lady Arwen?" It was the first she had heard of Lord Elrond's kin. Or that he was married.

"You will know when you see her," whispered Vinariel. "She is the most beautiful creature you will ever see. You are certain to, if you are to wait for the rest of the council attendants. But you are free to do as you wish for now. I would show you the graces of the Last Homely House, but I have duties to which I must attend. Will you be well?"

"Yes, thank you, Vinariel," said Éohild, watched the Elf disappear behind her door with a smile, and took a few minutes to admire her hair in the mirror. For once, they were not unruly or mired in sweat and dirt within or without her helm, as was often the case for a Rider. Miraculous! Her hair pinned back so elegantly brought out the brightness in her hazel eyes, if she said so herself.

When that was accomplished, Éohild knocked on Boromir's quarters down the hall. She would have entered if she were any more impatient, for in their months together she had grown accustomed to speaking with him whenever she wished. But Éohild remembered that it might seem improper to the Elves for he was only a friend, though now she felt a kinship with him as tightly wound as that she had with her cousin who may as well have been her brother.

She heard him lumbering towards the door and opening it seconds later. "Éohild. You…You're a woman?" When she replied with an affronted expression, he laughed. "You know I jest! You look wonderful, my friend."

"Hmm. Vinariel told me we were free to explore Imladris. Have you ever seen a place so magical?"

Boromir's mirth fell in favor of an apologetic grimace. "Loath am I to deprive myself of a friend's company," he murmured, "but even if I wished it I could not deprive my body of rest. I'm sorry, Éohild. Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Very well." Éohild was only slightly disappointed. Companion or not, she would see the splendor of Imladris to its last detail.

Éohild began outside. She passed a garden with flowers and fruit-bearing foliage that may have passed for its own world, so varied were its inhabitants, then descended a short flight of stairs, the walls surrounding which engraved with designs as intricate as – no, certainly even more than – the tapestries in her Uncle's court.

The dirt path she found ran along the river that coursed through the area beneath one of its many bridges. She followed it to a rising slope and into a domed gazebo, where two young boys were sitting and laughing with another, though he spoke solemnly and only quietly looked up to one of the balconies every so often.

They did not talk like Elves, and as she approached them quietly she realized they wore no shoes, though their feet were larger than usual and covered in what appeared to be fur or thick hair. Nor were they clothed in Elven apparel. And their legs hung short of reaching the ground even as they sat on the edge of their seats, as though uneasy even in their laughter. They were Halflings; hardly children at all. Like in the stories! She thought it unbelievable at first, but then she was in a home of Elves. She was willing to wager that not even her Uncle Théoden had ever seen one of these creatures.

"Hello there!" said the one nearest her, having heard her footsteps in the soil and seen her bewildered expression. They were all fair-haired with curly locks that reached their chins, but he had the narrowest nose and a twinkle in his green eyes. "You're not an Elf."

"No," answered Éohild. "And neither are you, Master Halfling."

"Actually, we prefer Hobbits," he said, standing with his arms akimbo as though he weren't only two-thirds her size. She rather liked his mettle.

"Forgive me, Master Hobbits," Éohild corrected herself, bowing respectfully, though she thought it a strange name. "I am Éohild, a Rider of the Mark."

He made a fancy flourish of his arm before holding it between his chest and stomach and imitating her bow. "Pippin," he replied, "of the Shire. And this is Merry, and that's Sam." He motioned to his friends. Merry had shared in his mirth earlier, but seemed now cautious before her. Still, he offered a smile and a bow. The widest of the three, Sam shuffled to his feet and did the same.

"We are well met, Masters Pippin, Merry, and Sam. I have never met Hobbits before. Or Elves," she added. "Not until today."

"Nice folk, the elves," said Sam, shyly, and glanced up at the balcony again. "Do you think I can go back there now? What if he's already awake?"

"Yes, a bit solemn, though," Pippin remarked, ignoring his friend.

Clearly, thought Éohild, they had not met Vinariel. "I was once told that Elven feasts were the envy of all the races."

"Whoever said that has never been to the Shire," grinned Merry, but as soon as Éohild smiled with him, he turned away, eyes downcast.

"Forgive me; the Shire?" she asked.

"Oh, it's where we come from," Pippin replied, but absentmindedly, and added, "They need to loosen up, I think." He turned to Sam, saying, "Oh, I think Frodo should be better now. I hope."

Sam perked up at this. Merry seemed uneasy in her presence, and it was not difficult to realize that Pippin had too many things on his mind to keep track of his own conversations, so Éohild took a step back. "I shall take my leave of you."

"Oh, yes," Pippin waved, looking back at her pleasantly. "It was nice meeting you!"

Éohild noticed that Merry and Sam buzzed back into the conversation as soon as she slipped away and wondered at the back of her mind if she was fearsome or irritating in some manner. Had she been too informal with them? What were their customs? Pippin seemed familiar enough, though he could have been one to naturally flout formalities. She saw that easily in him.

Still, Éohild did not think on it for too long. Rivendell was too enchanting for such worries. She decided to return to the river. On her way there, she saw an old, slouched Hobbit. Peculiar that she should begin seeing their kind all of a sudden, but not unwelcome. Were they part of the Council? She had forgotten to ask Pippin. The Hobbit looked kindly; lonely, even. She thought to approach him, but when Éohild peered closer she saw by his furrowed gray eyebrows that he was in deep thought, so she left him alone.

Éohild followed the stream. She would have found the bridge heading out from the archway that served as the entrance to Rivendell if a band of equestrian Elves cloaked in gossamer gray hadn't just entered, golden-haired but much taller than her, she could tell. She had always wondered if Elves tended horses as well as those in the Mark. With pride, Éohild saw that they seemed a mite stronger than Gondorian steeds, but were nothing like the royal mearas.

It struck Éohild as odd that the man who headed this group appeared to be the youngest out of them all – not older than Éomer, to be certain. He was handsome, she admitted to herself, and were his golden-hair wavy like the men of Edoras he may have passed for a member of the Eorlingas.

Well, that was a lie. The Elf was far too graceful as he dismounted his horse to be a member of the race of Men. Again, that otherworldly artistry with which his kind appeared to have been molded... Unlike the men of her home, he seemed unmarred by the terrors wreaking havoc from the East, and he held himself in such a princely manner that when he looked upon her, standing plainly by the stairway like a lost child, Éohild felt her breath catch.

The moment dissipated as soon as it came when his gaze passed her as though she were merely a spot in the splendid scenery of Imladris. Two Elves serving Elrond had come out to meet the group led by the young man – if he was indeed that age, something she began to doubt highly as embarrassment caught up with her by way of cold sweat. Had she actually stared, nearly slack-jawed, in the manner other maidens had at Éomer and Théodred? And only to be ignored?

Éohild felt nauseated at the thought that she, a Rider, should commit such irrationality as had only transpired. Taking a last glance at the golden-haired Elf – he was preoccupied with his kin, though she doubted he had ever noticed her – she turned on her heels and sought a more peaceful place without distraction.

Again, she found the dirt path that came before the gazebo, though passing by it she no longer sighted the Hobbits. Perhaps they went to visit that Frodo Pippin had mentioned. Éohild tiptoed close to the edge against a half-circle of pillars blocking the water, reaching for the streaming falls. There she sat, admiring the view of the rivers below and the woods ahead without a care as to the world beyond.

Her mind departed her earlier display of the silly girlish tendencies she thought she'd been certain were already removed from herself and flitted to more important matters like home. Did Gram manage to make it back? Were Éomer and Éowyn and Théodred worried? She hoped they did not send a fruitless search party. If there was any truth to the bond she shared with Fleetfoot or Windfola, perhaps they would realize that she lived, and had arrived safely into the capable hands of Lord Elrond.

Not even the setting sun drew her from her trance. If anything, it pulled her even deeper with it past the horizon, until a familiar singsong voice called out to her many times. Even then it was the tap on her shoulder that woke Éohild.

"Vinariel," she greeted, when she recovered from her jump. The sun had gone, but Rivendell proved just as beautiful in the evening. Lamps lit its elaborate halls, giving it an iridescence Éohild had only ever imagined in dreams. Before she was lost in its splendor again she asked, "What time is it?"

"Mealtime," smiled the woman, motioning for her to rise. "Lord Boromir was searching for you. It would please him if you shared dinner."

"Oh, yes, of course. Thank you," said Éohild, getting up and dusting the blue dress she was accommodated. She had tucked it between her legs to minimize the earth it might gather where she sat. She was glad no lady from the Mark had gone with her there; Leófe especially.

Leófe had grown to be the sort of adult who showed her love for the King's sister-daughters by reprimanding them for actions they undertook that were unbecoming of a lady. Éowyn hardly got scolded, having perfected the act of a court maiden, so Leófe spent her time hounding Éohild whenever she was in Edoras, insisting that though she was a Rider, she needn't act like an unruly man.

Éohild missed Leófe. Vinariel reminded her of the dear woman. Clearing her throat as though it would rid her of the sudden nostalgia, she turned to the Elf. "May I ask why there are Hobbits in Rivendell?"

"Perhaps I should not say too much," said Vinariel, looking for the first time uncertain. "Their arrival is – what, I shall say, sparked the necessity for a meeting. Tomorrow, they, too, will join the Council."

"Then there are other races?"

Vinariel nodded. "Glóin, son of Gróin, and his son Gimli of the Dwarves, to name a few. Mithrandir is come as well. You may know him as Gandalf."

"Oh!" Éohild felt elated at the mention of a familiar name, though she had never spoken with Gandalf. Or even met him, to be honest. He had always preferred to speak with Théoden King personally, and she was only too wary of him to protest. "Yes, I saw him in the halls of my home as a child. But – why have more Elves come? I saw them earlier. Fair-haired, most of them."

"You must mean the Elves of Mirkwood," Vinariel answered as they started for the rooms. "They, too, come bearing news. And now you have all arrived. The Council will convene tomorrow."

That was disappointing. Éohild had hoped to spend more time in Imladris, but she steeled herself remembering that this was no vacation. She and Boromir had risked their lives braving the abandoned North for the sake of a hope for their kingdoms, and the sooner the Council could assemble, the better. Orcs would continue to assault Riders of the Mark and the soldiers of Gondor whether or not she saw Rivendell's entirety.

Éohild and Vinariel parted by Boromir's room, where a table had been set up for them. It was a small feast, and Éohild's eyes sparkled at the sight of meat. The last they had partaken of anything like it – though this was superior in every way – was before they entered the forest that eventually brought them to Rivendell. She forgot that she hadn't eaten since that morning.

"You look well-rested," said Éohild, sitting across her traveling companion, by whose rumpled hair she could tell had only awakened. It was funny how familiar a hundred days could make them that she could identify the different ways the environment could tousle his hair. This was new, for he had actually lain on a comfortable pillow.

"And I hear you have not rested at all," replied Boromir, grimacing at the thought. "But you smell better now."

Éohild laughed. "I found it difficult to sleep with so much to see. Boromir, I even met three Hobbits! Halflings, if you'll believe me. Vinariel says Gandalf is here, too! They call him Mithrandir. I have not seen him since I was young, before I took up the sword for the Riders. They say he doesn't age."

"In Gondor, we call him Mithrandir, as well," said Boromir, looking only slightly surprised before falling into a state of reflection. He stared at his food, brows furrowed.

Éohild did not stop eating for his sake, but it bothered her not to receive the shock she had expected. Perhaps Gandalf visited Gondor more often than he did the Mark. They faced Orc numbers so much more frequently, after all. When he finally continued his meal in silence, it seemed almost perfunctory. "What is it, Boromir?" she asked. "What bothers you?"

Blinking at her for a second, Boromir recovered with a smile. "Did you see more of your Elves?"

"Oh, yes," Éohild muttered. "But they were not as hearty as I imagined; perhaps it is the preparation for the Council tomorrow. Only Vinariel seems unaffected. You know, Pippin expressed the same thought."

"Pippin?"

"One of the Hobbits I met."

Boromir's eyes twinkled. "Look at you," he said. "Stealing hearts already. I promised Éomer you would not entertain men under my watch."

"Funny," replied Éohild, making a face. "But his friends did not seem to take to me, much."

"Well," Boromir shrugged. "You do look rather unfriendly in the beginning."

"I do not!" Éohild gasped affectedly. Boromir kept the smirk on his face, and she continued to defend herself for his amusement until the heavy air from earlier had gone. And it did, a little, until he finished his meal pleasantly. By that time Éohild had long finished and was only waiting for him. When he walked her back to her room, she noted that he was walking off opposite the direction of his.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"For a walk," he answered, turning back slightly. When Éohild said nothing more, he left the hall.

Boromir looked so weary. He only looked that way a few times in the months they had traveled. There was a week when they both worried, frantically, that they had missed Rivendell, until they suffered the wolf attack and simply resolved to get somewhere civilized at all. Even then, he almost always appeared optimistic.

Perhaps the weight of their duty had returned in full force, now that the Council would convene tomorrow. He did not have to bear such a burden on his own, but she would leave him to his devices, if he needed time to brood. It was something she had learned from dealing with the men of her family and éored.

Éohild returned to Boromir's room and noticed only then that while her traveling companion had tried his best to make the bed – a rather sad attempt, but he was a Captain-General and probably had little time to learn such things – his blankets were completely crumpled. Here was one valid indication. Had he tossed so uneasily in his sleep? In the time they had traveled, he had always been a still sleeper. It was as if being in Rivendell provided him no comfort at all.

Still, she wondered what to do about the food. Éohild almost always took it back herself, save for when she was with Éowyn or Éomer. But she had seen nothing that resembled kitchens there. That and it was difficult to imagine Elves having kitchens. They seemed too glorious for such a thing. Just as Éohild stood to search for it anyway, she noticed the Elf standing by the doorway.

"Are you finished, milady?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded, waiting for him to move, but he remained in place. Did he want her to leave? Was the Elvish tactic for cleaning a trade secret?

There was nothing Éohild could do but exit the room and, since her curiosity would never be sated otherwise, find the kitchens. Outside their hall was a wide clearing surrounded by short trees. Fireflies blinked in and out of view, but Éohild hardly noticed them when she stepped out. Across the garden in the opposite hall was the golden-haired Elf who had caught her eye.

Éohild discovered that her feet had brought her to hide behind one of the building's posts when she caught herself peeking at him from behind it. Clad in a sky blue tunic that matched his eyes – and when exactly did she even note that he possessed such things? – he had been walking leisurely when two dark-haired Elves approached. It was clear from where she watched that they had been searching for him, and that they were familiar with each other.

Why was she watching him? The thought squirmed itself into Éohild's mind, and she answered by saying she was not. What did she have to be ashamed for? She was only looking at him because…well, she found it irritating that a man should have golden hair prettier than hers. Silkier, too. Nodding to herself in affirmation, Éohild's attention returned to the Elves.

One of the dark-haired pair was staring straight at her.

Éohild almost yelped, managing at the last minute to contain it to a gasp that did not escape her lips. But she was certain he had seen her stiffen, and that his gaze was not an absent one. When Éohild peered out at him again, she saw him speaking, eyes turning in her direction every so often. His companion and the golden-haired Elf were none the wiser.

She was ruined. That Elf would spread to the Council that the representative of the Riddermark was an oddity who attempted foolishly to hide behind twisting posts half her build, and who was now sauntering away from the place as calmly as she could. Deniability was always an option. Éohild could have simply dropped a hair clip and picked it up at that very moment from that very post, hence the close proximity to it. It was only natural to be surprised at the Elf's glance, after all, and then walk away as though she had nothing to be guilty for.

And then Elves would wonder if knights of the Mark were all so clumsy, and the Riders would be ruined.

Éohild rubbed her palm over her eyes. Pondering the issue would only give it importance. If she treated it as insignificant, so would the Elves. At least, she hoped so.

Her own troubles were forgotten when she spotted Boromir shooting his finger a sour look far ahead of her. Going to him quickly, she asked, "Are you all right? You look pallid."

Boromir lifted an eyebrow at what seemed to be an interruption to his thoughts, but put on his best smile when he saw that it was her. Placing a hand on Éohild's shoulder, he nodded. "I am fine, Éohild."

"Boromir, wait f—" she tried, but he appeared determined to head back to his room. Éohild was beginning to think that Rivendell had opposite effects on them, with her friend's agitation worsening. Asking him to discuss it might lighten his burden, but she had never been a great speaker. When she came to the decision to follow and knocked on his door, he didn't answer.

Éohild had sadly resigned herself to her quest for the kitchen and was wandering about aimlessly when she rounded a corner and laid her eyes upon the most beautiful woman in the world, whom until that moment she had thought to be her sister. With dark tresses that highlighted her alabaster skin, she walked with a grace that outclassed any royal-blooded mortal.

Beside her was a man dressed in a simple tunic, the stubble on his chin quickly growing into a scruffy beard. The sparkling pendant hanging from his neck contrasted greatly with his dark ensemble, and Éohild wondered what gave him the right to keep the company of such a lovely creature.

When she looked into his bright eyes, however, she simply understood. He was different from any Man she had ever met, and while unassuming in the way he dressed, he exuded something magnificent Éohild could not grasp, like a distant star whose brilliance she could never fully fathom. She wondered if he even knew it.

"Do not go."

Éohild had been ready to retreat to her bedroom, hoping they had not seen her, when the woman spoke. Turning back, she bowed immediately. "Good evening," she greeted. Vinariel had been right. "You must be the Lady Arwen. It is an honor to pass you in the halls of the Last Homely House."

Arwen smiled. "You are welcome here, Éohild of the Mark. Be at ease."

Éohild had grown as the King's niece and was accustomed to praise and honor, even gratitude among many of her people, but in the face of the Elves she felt inadequate, small. Arwen's soothing voice brushed it away like weightless dust. "I am," Éohild said, honestly. "Thank you, my lady."

Arwen and her companion exchanged gentle smiles. She motioned to him, glowing as she did, and Éohild before them was certain they were about to be introduced when another person came up beside the young girl, cutting into their conversation. It was the golden-haired Elf.

He was taller than she expected was all Éohild could think as he spoke in some Elvish language she could not understand. Aragorn, he had addressed the man – unless she was mistaken and that was I am sorry to rudely interrupt your conversation without so much as a glance to the woman you are speaking with in Elvish. Elrohir, she understood as a separate concept, but after it, she could make out nothing but a string of incomprehensible words.

The man nodded, lips pursed and, touching Arwen's hand intimately, nodded apologetically at Éohild. The Elf looked back at Éohild with an expression that denoted surprise. Éohild could not help but frown unhappily at his interruption. He had noticed her just then, but turned away without a word and followed the man who seemed to be Arwen's lover away from them.

"Shall we walk together?"

Éohild forgot all about the Elf and nodded almost eagerly at Arwen, who preferred that Éohild address her without the title. The girl blushed but agreed, and soon found herself lost in conversation with Lord Elrond's daughter.

She told Éohild things about the Last Homely House she could not have known otherwise, about the Hall of Fire and the feasts that might be held, songs sung and stories told there were there not an urgent need for a Council. Éohild was so fascinated by her stories to think more on how Arwen had expertly deflected her question about the kitchens. Soon they fell into a silent lull, but Éohild was only too happy for the company and the chance to appreciate Arwen's home before the Council the next day to notice that they had already arrived at her quarters.

"It would be most ungrateful to Lord Elrond if I did not bring you back to your quarters, my lady," said Éohild, but in truth she only felt the need to protect the woman. She had no idea whence the desire stemmed, but like Éowyn, though she knew she could hold her own, she would feel uneasy if she did not see Arwen to her room, reassured of her safety.

"This is my home," Arwen declined kindly. "And I am as much the host as my father. Rest now. Tomorrow the Council will convene, and for the grave matters there to be discussed – I would compel you to lie in preparation. You are still travel-weary."

"Very well," said Éohild, bowing again. "Thank you, my lady." Then Arwen went, and almost as if under a spell, no matter how she tried to stay awake, Éohild slept as soon as she washed up and crept under the blankets of her bed.


A knock on the door roused her early the next morning. It was an Elf, still to her surprise, whom she gratefully sent away after watching him stare at her messy hair almost curiously. Did they have perpetually immaculate hair? Éohild was groggy and tried to imagine why this was so when she recalled that she had been traveling for months with Boromir, where they never slept at quite the same intervals as if they were safe in Imladris.

Dressing into her 'Council garments,' which consisted only of her other pair of clean traveling clothes, Éohild allowed Vinariel into her room. At times Éohild knew that she looked rather comely in dresses, and Rivendell was beautiful enough that it might help her along, but she had heard other council members wore apparel from their own homes. Éohild thought it only proper that she wear something representing the Mark, no matter if it was a mannish tunic that might make others think she yearned only for "the fires of battle" instead of a man's heart, or that the green dress laid out for her on the bed looked like something out of a dream, like many other things in this place.

Vinariel had come in to offer her the dress and, once she entered, arrange her hair again, for the Elf was grimly astonished to see that Éohild had certainly not gotten the hang of the simple art of hair arrangement. It did not matter that the girl insisted that she had tried very hard practicing the night before and would have "succeeded" had her eyes not been so heavy.

Boromir had gone ahead, so Éohild followed Vinariel to the Council grounds. It was held in a secluded area of Rivendell where the members were gathered in seats facing a single pedestal. The overhead structures and the branches of a great oak tree whose roots weaved into the mountainside hovered close to the seat of Lord Elrond, just taller than the rest to signify his place as chief presider, providing shade in an already cloudy morning.

On the way, Éohild caught Merry and Pippin tiptoeing nearby. It was Merry who noticed her first, freezing with obvious guilt, but Pippin waved back a cheerful hullo! before Merry hauled him aside and Vinariel turned a corner. Éohild did not think Hobbits could much affect the Council by eavesdropping, and though from what she had understood, the Hobbits would attend, she kept quiet.

"There they are," whispered Vinariel.

They stood in a suspended arch connecting to the structures surrounding the council proper, peeking down like children. Below, Éohild saw Elves, Dwarves, Gandalf in his pointy hat and gray robes, Boromir, and a Hobbit, though he was not Merry, Pippin, or Sam. Later she would see that he was dark-haired with the clearest blue eyes, and were he not a Halfling he may have made for a fair lad. Now, Éohild was most dismayed not to find the Lady Arwen, but she supposed there were enough Elves to represent their kind in the meeting.

"Who is that?" asked Éohild, motioning to the golden-haired Elf. His companions were there as well, but his face stood out among them.

"Legolas," replied Vinariel, "of the Woodland Realm, son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood."

Of course he was a prince, Éohild thought. How could she have thought of him as anything but, given the strength of his presence? Although he was in want of some manners, as when he hardly acknowledged her the night before—

"And who are those two, at Lord Elrond's side?" They were the dark-haired Elves speaking with that Legolas, and one of them had caught her staring the night before. One of them, because now she could see that they were twins, and she was wholly unable to tell them apart.

"Lord Elrond's sons, Elladan and Elrohir." Vinariel seemed amused at her curiosity, but upon meeting her lord's eyes below, turned to her charge. "It is time to take your seat at the Council, Éohild."

Éohild agreed and descended the steps into the caucus. She passed Elrond, to whom she inclined her head. The Elf lord smiled stiffly, dictating the mood with which the meeting was to be held. As she passed her seat, turning her eyes from him, Éohild's gaze passed the twins. The one sitting to the left met her gaze respectfully, but the other smiled – almost mischievously, though she would never know if reality or her guilt had shown her thus.

Éohild sat in the empty seat beside Boromir. "Good morning," she greeted.

Boromir glanced at her, startled again, it seemed, but replied, "Good morning, Éohild."

She wondered at his alarm. "Is something the matter?"

He blinked at her. "Nothing," he said tensely, then feigned ease. "Nothing is wrong. I am only—nothing."

"Boromir," she pushed, smiling like he had uttered something humorous. They often did it to one another to rouse each other out of moods into which they sometimes fell on their journey, but today it was fruitless.

Boromir peered at her as though she were doing something unnatural and insisted, "My friend. Nothing is wrong."

He was so tightly wound that Éohild thought it inadvisable to attempt conversation again. She turned instead the other way, to a Dwarf whose auburn hair spilled from his head to his chest – or if it stopped at a certain length she could not be sure, because his braided beard got in the way and confused her. At any rate, he was too busy to notice, speaking in hushed tones with the gray-haired Dwarf on his other side who looked an awful lot like him. Although at this point all Dwarves appeared the same to her, save for their hair color.

Éohild was curious. When Éomer grew old, perhaps he would grant her a request to grow his little beard long enough for her to braid it, like the Dwarf next to her. Théodred surely would, even if he was not very fond of facial hair, just for the fun of it. Éohild yearned for her cousin's company again. He would know what to do about Boromir.

Elrond stood after a time, when the Council had settled. He spoke of the world upon the brink of destruction and was quite a doomsayer, Éohild fearfully thought, her mind flitting to the Mark and the Eorlingas, though she had no idea why he said such terrible things until the fair Hobbit rose from his seat and ambled toward the pedestal, laying a small object in its center.

Isildur's Bane. The weapon of the Enemy. Boromir had related to her tomes of legends surrounding it as they traveled, but she had not known it would be a Ring. Then again, old tales were filled with magic that made little sense, and she sat now surrounded by creatures she had never believed existed.

And the Hobbit's name was Frodo, Éohild thought belatedly. A Hobbit in possession of such a thing? How did it come to pass?

"So it is true," Boromir whispered, leaning on his armrest closer to her. Éohild was not certain if he spoke to her or was only muttering to himself. Still, she nodded in agreement. She suddenly felt that she should reach for it, see what it was like to touch something so Ancient, something an unfathomable Enemy held so dear. Éohild would have done so – or attempted to, at least – had she not heard the buzzing.

Not all was tranquil, even as all were quiet. There was a slight murmur in the area, and when she sought its source, it came to Éohild that it was a sound emanating from within, like the voice had burrowed deep in her mind and uttered those cryptic words. They were her thoughts but they were not, at all.

"Then…" she asked, but even in the silence it was a task to raise her voice. It was like fighting against herself for attention. "What are we to do with it?"

The Council turned to her sharply, tempting Éohild to sink back into her seat, but Boromir stood and drew the attention to himself. "In a dream," he started, breathing deeply, "I saw the eastern sky grow dark. But in the west, a pale light lingered. A voice was crying: your doom is near at hand."

He had told her once the entirety of the dream he shared with his brother, but she had not thought he would take it up here, before so many strangers. Boromir neared the pedestal as he expressed it, and Éohild looked round the Council again to see that many of them watched him warily. It was then that she saw the man who had touched Arwen intimately giving Boromir the same look of caution. She found she could not blame any of them, for her friend had always spoken with such charisma – but this manner was different from how he had related it to her. Something in his voice, and for all that she knew him she could not understand what it was.

"Boromir!"

Éohild's shoulders jolted in surprise at Elrond's abrupt yell. More than that, Gandalf rose with his staff, enunciating words that bedimmed the atmosphere and caused the oak above to weaken. Éohild recalled vividly the night she and Éowyn first encountered Orcs, but this darkening of the sky was filed with malice and a fear she could not understand. It was one that stemmed from deep in her soul, as though they had been brought into the world knowing it was Evil.

The murmur grew into a solid voice, and Éohild pressed a hand against her eyes until the leaves stopped falling and Boromir returned to his seat, Gandalf quieting. Elrond cast the Wizard a look meant to rebuke.

"Never before has any voice uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris!"

Gandalf only exhaled. "I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West! The Ring," he very nearly spat, eyes directed at Boromir, "is altogether Evil."

But Boromir was adamant, and shook his head. "It is a gift to the foes of Mordor," he said, rising again. "Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay." His voice grew in intensity. "By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the Enemy. Let us use it against him!"

"You cannot wield it!" declared the man whom Éohild was now sure was Arwen's lover, or at the very least the man with whom she would plight her troth. She had thought long and hard about his manner, and though it was difficult to believe a mortal could be with an Elf like her, the way she looked upon him was so dear that they could share no other kind of relationship in Éohild's mind. She dwelled on this as the men continued to argue, for she had not understood the exchange between Elrond and Gandalf and was still fighting to understand this new discussion. "None of us can," he stressed, painfully. "The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

Boromir sneered. "And what would a Ranger know of this matter?"

"This is no mere Ranger," spoke Legolas, clearly offended in the man's stead. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

Éohild knew Boromir had been remiss in addressing another member of the Council so carelessly, but she found herself defensive in his behalf. She did not like the tone of the golden-haired Elf, no matter if his voice was pleasing to the ears.

Boromir repeated it with disbelief. "This is Isildur's heir…?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor," said Legolas.

Speaking in Elvish, Aragorn shook his head at the prince, declining his words. Could such a thing be declined? It certainly explained to Éohild why there was an air to be admired about him even without knowing him at all.

"Gondor has no king," said Boromir, finally recovering, first at Legolas, then to Aragorn. "Gondor needs no king."

Gandalf must have known, for he dismissed the issue without another word. Setting the Council back to its purpose, he said, "Aragorn is right. We cannot use it."

"You have only one choice. The Ring must be destroyed," said Elrond, eyes landing finally on Éohild as if to answer her previous question.

Éohild concealed a frown with a nod. This was why they were summoned here? It was hardly a matter to be discussed, if such an action had already been decided, but she supposed it was fair of Elrond to call the Council to explain such a thing. And who would do it? The Ring was beautiful, perfect in shape and glinting against the light…like thousands of her Meduseld combined.

"Then what are we waiting for?" asked the Dwarf beside her, snapping her out of her trance as he hopped off his seat ungracefully and lunged at the Ring, axe raised.

The Council gasped as he struck the Ring, only to be thrown on his back. Recovering, the first thing Éohild saw was Frodo holding his head painfully. Such brashness must have shocked him, too. She had not known what to expect from the Dwarves, but now she knew they were quite to the point—something she admired in others and had lost quite a bit in herself during her training as a squire. Speaking out of turn was highly discouraged then, most attempts getting Ears a good scolding and the entire week's worth of cleaning out horse manure, and horse manure was not the way to earning the acceptance she had so desired.

But as she looked in fear at the Ring, the Dwarf's axe in splintered pieces around it, she understood, as did the rest of the Council, that brute force was inadequate when it came to this Evil thing.

Éohild watched the Dwarf beside her surrounded by his kin and brought to his feet, even as Elrond began to address him. She wished to help him, but she could not bring herself to move for wonder at the Ring. Somewhere beneath these thoughts she heard that Gimli was his name, and Elrond told him that only in Mount Doom could they rid themselves of it, for that was where it was made.

Deep into Mordor, Elrond had said. "One of you must do this."

"One does not simply walk into Mordor," Boromir muttered with agitation. "Its black gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the great Eye is ever-watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly!"

"Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said?" said Legolas, voice full and equally aggravated. "The Ring must be destroyed!"

"Boromir only describes the perils—" Éohild had barely a chance to speak when Gimli leapt off his chair again, shaking his fist at the Elf.

"And I suppose you think you're the one to do it!" he yelled. Éohild sat down in surprise, feeling quite humiliated. She would have gotten angry with the Dwarf, but he was often the type of person she thought she might get on with, impetuous and easily riled – and if he wanted a go at Legolas, he could have it.

But Boromir spoke first. "And if we fail, what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?"

"I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!" Gimli bellowed, and the uproar sprung thence, like the Council members from their seats. They argued, all of them, hardly anyone taking sides but his own. Éohild attempted to pull at Boromir, but he shuffled out of her grasp and into an argument with one of the Legolas' Elves, whom the prince himself tried to hold back.

Éohild wanted to join the fight, truly, but she had no knowledge whatsoever of the Ring save that it was dangerous and must be destroyed. They were going to need an army greater than that of the Last Alliance to get through Sauron's forces. Amidst her thoughts she could hear Gimli yelling about Elves and Gandalf trying to bring reason into the Council, but the rest, as it was, was chaos.

Elrond watched the commotion in his Council rise helplessly. Éohild sat back in her chair looking up at the men whose reasons she could no longer decipher from one another. Perhaps this was their province. If so, it could solve nothing. Battle was tiresome enough, though necessary, but verbal sparring was foolish! If that Ring was hers, she knew she would put it to good use. She was a woman, unhindered by the prideful, warmongering ways of men. Éohild knew in her heart that she could think more clearly than any of them in the face of such a powerful weapon. Proper decisions would be made, families kept safe, wars won—

"You! Lass! What do you think you're doing?"

It was the most perfect thing she had ever seen. With it, all those who had ever scoffed at her potential would—

One moment, Éohild was sitting on her chair, the vision of the Ring inching closer and closer amidst the arguing men, and then she had lost her balance. Looking up, she saw that she had tumbled into the unwilling arms of the golden-haired prince. Before she could speak, there was a familiar tug at her wrists, and Boromir had pulled her to her feet.

"Of all the times—" her friend groaned, even as the commotion around them continued, "Picking a fight with a Dwarf, Éohild?"

"I—I did nothing!" Éohild's head whipped toward Gimli, the true way of events rushing back to her. She had stood, making her own feet move toward the pedestal, eyes focused on the Ring. It had not come to her at all. And then, halfway there— "He pushed me!"

If he had heard her accusation, the red-haired Dwarf she pointed at did not care, already caught up in an argument with a new Elf. Boromir gave a long suffering sigh and looked about to make another reprimand when a small voice rang out amidst all those fighting for dominance.

"I will take it! I will take it."

It was Frodo, and though he was only a little more than half all their sizes, his voice hushed the Council into silence. "I will take the Ring to Mordor," he said, softening as he realized he had finally captured their bewildered attention. "Though…I do not know the way."

Éohild stared at him in disbelief, the vestiges of anger still clutching at the edge of her thoughts. A Hobbit, take the Ring to Mordor? Preposterous! She waited for Gandalf and Elrond to make known their refusal of such an idea, but the great beings looked only saddened and resigned. It seemed those in attendance all understood, because their prideful stances, tight shoulders and furrowed eyebrows all fell slack. It was embarrassment, perhaps, that a Hobbit could keep his composure where they had not; or it could have simply been shock. It seemed a day before anybody moved to redeem himself.

Finally, Gandalf rested a hand on the Hobbit's shoulder. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins. So long as it is yours to bear."

"If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will," said Aragorn moments later, kneeling humbly before Frodo. "You have my sword."

"And you have my bow," announced Legolas, smiling down at the Hobbit. How he could so easily become light-hearted Éohild would never understand.

"And my axe!" Gimli declared, though he and the golden-haired Elf exchanged looks of distaste.

Boromir nodded, too, which shocked Éohild most of all. Despite his earlier demeanor, he spoke decisively. "You carry the fate of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done."

Éohild took a step closer and wavered. They were all so ready to pledge themselves to a quest like this. Was it because they were lords and heirs, meant for greatness? She was of noble blood, yet she could not imagine promising herself so wholly, no matter if she knew it only right. Théodred fit the company of these men better. But he was not here; he had delegated this task to her, so Éohild urged herself to stride forward.

She put on the air of a king's niece as best she could, hoped they did not see that she suddenly did not belong there, did not measure up to their confidence. Something in her knew she would meet disappointment if she did not speak up, despite that she hated the idea of making any announcements before this large number of strangers. Éohild had trouble enough addressing too many of their éored.

Although she knew now that hubris had given her such nasty thoughts, she still thought it better if she at least asked to join. It was the reason she was there – to rid the Mark of any threats to it. This Ring was the greatest threat…beautiful though it was. She had no choice.

"The Mark was not in attendance, long ago, when Men gave much to the battle against the Enemy," she said, keeping her voice steady, stately, focused solely on Frodo. Her worries faded a little when he smiled at her both in acceptance and gratitude. Her heart eased, her tone halfway back to the natural. Her knees still shook, but Éohild steeled herself and continued. "It is only right that we aid you now."

"Hey!" shouted something that caused the bushes to rustle noisily behind the Elves. Sam the Hobbit scrambled to get himself between Aragorn and Frodo, which the former allowed with some amusement. "Mr. Frodo's not goin' anywhere without me!"

"No, indeed," said Elrond, wearing an indignant expression, though by the end of his speech he had not been able to help his smile, "it is hardly possible to separate you even when he is invited to a secret Council and you are not."

"Oy!" Merry and Pippin yelped at the entrance, scurrying over to their friends. "We're coming, too!"

"You'd have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us," said Merry.

"Anyway," Pippin informed them, in a very matter-of-factly manner that would have made many of them laugh if they were not so surprised, "you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission! …Quest. Thing."

"Well, that rules you out, Pip," Merry grinned, and Éohild could no longer contain an exhale of astonishment at Pippin's affronted expression. She returned to pursing her lips only when Elrond finally cast a serious glance at them all.

"I should think it better that you remain nine; Nine Walkers," said Elrond, eyebrows furrowed, "set against Nine Riders."

The others shifted uncomfortably. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli did not waver. The Hobbits stuck together, Merry and Pippin huddling close to Frodo as well as Sam, and Gandalf was not an option for removal. Although eyes did not immediately or necessarily fall to them, Éohild knew that either she or Boromir would have to go. And by she or Boromir, she thought she, for Boromir had dreamt of the East, and she had only come to see what it was in Imladris that had caused it. But then – her purpose for coming, too, was to know what could be done about her people. She cared for the fate of that Ring just as much as the others.

"Lord Elrond," she guiltily spoke, attempting to channel her sister's regality, "Please – just as these good men, it is for my home and Middle-earth that I go. I – I need not even be counted."

Elrond gave her a peculiar look at that. Clearly, she did not understand what he had meant. Nine had not simply been for the sake of formality, and knowing what he knew of Men, he was not inclined to permit another of them to go. But they would face challenges more difficult than even he could imagine, and he had long thought on the foresight of an old friend, regarding the soul of a once-Man who would not be destroyed by one like him, and he had considered this girl, a rarity among her race only in that she drew thick steel instead of cloth and herbs, a possibility.

And so were the smaller races who had so politely interrupted the Council – he pardoned them both for Gandalf's love of them and his suspicions in the part they might yet play, for they were certain to face greater evils than simply Orcs on their journey. It might all be too easy, and it was more than likely that he was wrong in his interpretation of the prophecy. Yet stranger things had ever occurred in the world, so the Elf lord made his decision.

"Ten companions; so be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring," he proclaimed. Éohild felt her mouth widen as gratitude enveloped her. The last time this happened, she had finally joined the Riders and her cousin's éored—but soon the feeling grew cold, when she realized what their task entailed. This was nothing to be excited about. And yet the fear passed when Pippin exclaimed,

"Great! Where are we going?"

Elrond sighed, and the council dispersed after some words from him. Aragorn joined him as soon as it happened, while Legolas and Gimli took one look at each other and turned away, the latter talking to Boromir. Legolas later joined the conversation – Gimli left when he did – and Éohild, while glad that her friend made peace with someone despite what had occurred in the Council, wondered why he had to speak to the prince, of all people. Not that Éohild should have cared, for she had been swept into a conversation with the Hobbits.

"I'm not sure who the others are," Pippin was telling Frodo, "but this is Éohild. Rider of the Mark. A woman," he craned his neck to look at her, "and a soldier! Did I get that right?"

"You did, indeed. It is a pleasure to meet you," she said to the Ring-bearer.

"The pleasure is mine. Frodo Baggins," he said, like a true gentleman, and the way he smiled denoted this fragility that made Éohild want to sweep him into her arms and protect him. (Or throw him somewhere safe and destroy the key.) It was almost the way she felt about Arwen, but instead of preserving one to be admired it was the concern she felt for a child, though he was not a child at all, she knew. And like Arwen, there was a courage to him she could not disrespect by outwardly declaring a wish to keep him safe as though he were helpless.

"Is it normal for women to fight where you're from?" Pippin asked curiously. The other two glanced at her expectantly.

"It is not. But I did fight tooth and nail to become a Rider. And cleaned horse manure," she mumbled the last sentence to herself.

"Why is that, if I may ask?" said Frodo.

A fair question, thought Éohild, and pondered it with an almost confused expression. "Ah. I suppose I was good at it. Fighting, I mean. I had studied the art since my younger days, thanks to my cousin, and was never very skilled at cooking, or sewing, or handling the household. Much less healing."

"Hmm. Okay. Do I have it right? You've a woman's body, but you're a man inside?" said Pippin, thumbing at his chin in wonder.

Éohild blinked. "No, no. I am a woman. On both ends. Inside and out."

"Ah. I suppose you just have different tastes when it comes to your skill, then? But you are completely a woman." When Éohild nodded gratefully at this assumption, Pippin looked pleased and elbowed Merry, whispering, "It's safe."

"So," Merry cleared his throat, pointedly glaring at Pippin before glancing at her for a split second, then turned to Frodo, who simply chuckled at the exchange. Éohild didn't understand. Had she said something to offend him so? "What do we do now?"

In any case, she answered as Sam joined them, "Well, the first thing to do is to determine which of your belongings to prepare."

"I'll have to bring my trusty skillet," said Sam, thoughtfully.

"Allow me to accompany you, Sam," said Éohild. "Boromir and I have little to pack. We have learned to travel relatively light."

"He was your companion; Boromir?" asked Frodo.

"We came here together, yes."

"Oh," said Pippin, and Éohild knew at once that the mischief on his face was a near permanent fixture. "Then you're engaged."

Éohild couldn't help but mimic Merry's shocked expression. "No, not at all."

"Oh." Pippin's mirth faded until he came up with another question. "Does that disappoint you?"

"Pippin!" Merry scolded. "I think it's perfectly normal not to be engaged yet."

Sam nodded in agreement. "It takes a special sort of courage to ask a girl to marry you."

"Sam would know," said Pippin, snickering. Frodo shared it, but schooled his face into one of innocence when the Hobbit in question glanced his way.

"No, you're right," Éohild told Sam. Now she was curious about who it was he wanted to marry from their home. Their height made her view them as children, and it was difficult to imagine them otherwise. "But there is no time for betrothals in the Mark, especially for a Rider. These days are often beset by Orc attacks in our lands."

Frodo's eyebrows furrowed. "Do you think we'll encounter many Orcs?"

"Facing them is inevitable, I suppose, if we are to come close to Mordor. But not to worry. You have swords and axes and my blades to protect you. And your friends, of course," said Éohild, motioning to the other Hobbits. Merry and Sam wore proud stances.

"And an Elf's bow," said Pippin, brightly.

"Yes, his bow," sighed Éohild. Then, uncurling her lip, she turned to Sam, who was very happy to have had the attention diverted from him. "Shall we?"

Éohild accompanied Sam to one of the Hobbits' quarters, which had a small balcony with a nice view. It looked even bigger with Sam moving about in it, though he seemed to have already packed. He was an earnest Hobbit, and such a mellow, bashful thing before taller races that it was contagious when he smiled, and certainly attention-grabbing when he spoke up as he had in the Council.

As she helped him search for his skillet, which had somehow found its way under the pillows, Sam eased if only a little around her, telling her about Bill the Pony and a gist of their journey from the Shire. Strider – or Aragorn, as he was now known – had helped them escape Sauron's Ringwraiths.

Even she had never fathomed those things until he spoke of them, and to find that the Hobbits had survived such an encounter without the trauma that often returned with some soldiers after one Orc raid was humbling. And he was shorter than she had been at twelve. They were not children at all, innocent though they were.

"Bill will be joinin' us on our expedition," said Sam, now making the bed. He was much better at it than her and Boromir. "Gandalf said so."

"That is…precious," said Éohild, though she wondered if the pony was fit for such a taxing trip. "Boromir and I lost our horses during our sojourn here. Well…I lost them, during an Orc attack. Set them loose to protect them."

Sam frowned. "You don't think the Orcs will attack poor ol' Bill, will they?"

"We are a slightly larger force this time around," said Éohild, hoping to assuage his worries. "I am certain he will be protected. But our priority is to protect you, Sam, and the others."

"I can protect myself, too. And Mr. Frodo..." Sam took a shortsword just his size from his pack. A barrow-blade, he called it, though Éohild did not ask why.

"A fitting weapon," she nodded, but noted that he did not wield it as well as he should. "You must be lighter on your feet, so you can deal quick attacks and retreat immediately. Do you know how to use it?"

At this, Sam lowered the weapon. "Well, you see…"

"If you wish to protect Frodo, I can teach you how," Éohild offered. It was a curious blade of a make she had never before seen. Not quite special, but different. "I am quite adept with shorter blades like this, and was so even as a child."

"Oh! I, I wouldn't want to be a bother, Miss Éohild," said Sam, stuffing the blade into his pack.

"No bother," she shook her head. "I doubt we shall always be under attack. You will have time to learn before we reach Mordor. And you'll be much more at ease knowing you can defend yourself."

Before Sam could answer, there came a knock at the door. "What is it?" asked Éohild, who looked up from fluffing the pillows just in time to see Legolas invite himself in, though he only stood past the doorframe.

"Gandalf wishes to discuss our plans in a moment," he announced. "We shall meet in the Hall of Fire."

Sam jumped at the mention of Gandalf. "We'll come right now," he said, glancing at Éohild. "Shouldn't we?"

"…Go ahead, Sam."

With a nod, Sam departed the room, but Legolas remained at the door. He looked at her curiously, like it was the first he had ever seen of a human girl, or perhaps she was fluffing the pillows wrong. Having become conscious of the act, Éohild set down the pillow as the Elf said, "Boromir was looking for you, last we spoke."

Éohild stared at him for a beat until she finally managed to answer with a semblance of a smile, "Thank you." She did not hear him leave, all too busy rebuking herself for looking more of a fool than she was certain was possible. Still, Éohild attempted to brush him and the polite smile he had given as he spoke out of her mind as she left the room. Knocking on Boromir's door, she entered even before he could answer.

"Let me help you," Éohild offered. Boromir was fixing his sheathe and apparel, having stripped down to his inner tunic to rest in his room after the Council. She picked up his vest and helped him into it, just as she had done for Théodred in the past. Their time together felt years ago, now.

"What did you need?" she asked, buckling his vest and picking up his belt sheathe. They would not need weapons for the meeting Gandalf wanted, but as she wasn't certain when they would leave, she took it anyway.

Boromir sighed. "I must - apologize, Éohild."

Éohild quirked a brow. Her friend was the not the kind of man who took pleasure in apologizing, and so he hardly ever did so. This was curious. "For what?"

"My manner. Last night, and just this morning, before, during the Council. I was not myself," he reasoned. "Thoughts of what might happen with the Weapon plagued my mind – but I understand that it must be taken to Mordor."

Éohild tied his belt closed and looked up to him. Boromir was an earnest man. It was something her cousin and brother had always stressed, and she had experienced it herself during their journey together. She could never be upset with he who was like family to her.

"I do not much understand the power of the Ring," she replied, "except that it captivated us all at the Council. I even thought..." Éohild paused. It was probably best not to think of the Council when the memory was so fresh, lest the desire rise again. "Still, I wish you could have shared your burden with me, my friend. You know if it was ideal, I would support you in your venture to take it to Gondor. My Uncle…could not wield such a thing now."

"Forgive me," Boromir murmured. "I understand that you have your own worries, and I've thought only of mine."

Éohild grinned, trying to lighten the mood. Although nothing worried her more than the fate of the Mark, she remained confident in the abilities of Éomer and Théodred. If Wormtongue was only removed from the position in which he had overstayed his welcome, things might be better. "No matter," she said, patting Boromir's chest. "There. You look ready."

Boromir easily returned her warmth and looked to the door. "Yes?" he asked, quirking a brow. To those who did not know him it might have looked intimidating. "Merry, wasn't it?"

Merry watched them with what appeared to be suspicion. Éohild stepped back, in case his thoughts had wandered to Pippin's silly questions earlier. But the Hobbit said pleasantly, "Gandalf is calling us already, Boromir." He added as an afterthought, "You too, Éohild."

"Mustn't keep the wizard waiting," said the Gondorian, heading for the door.

"Why?" asked Merry, falling into step between the two of them.

"I know not; perhaps it is that my brother would not," was Boromir's answer, so Merry shrugged and proceeded to relate to them Gandalf's stopovers in the Shire. He was a frequent visitor there, and entertained always the children, though in Bilbo's last birthday party – Bilbo was the old Hobbit she had seen before, if the way she interpreted his description was correct – he and Pippin ended up washing the dishes at his behest. Merry added later that it was only punishment for setting off a great and beautiful burst of fireworks, but overall he painted a better picture of Gandalf than Éohild expected. Soon they arrived at the Hall of Fire, where a flame burned perpetually.

Unfortunately, it was currently empty, save for the Fellowship: Gandalf, talking with Aragorn over a map at the head of the table covered in some books; Legolas tracing the arch of his bow; Gimli peacefully smoking a pipe; Frodo and Sam quietly discussing something; and Pippin, unsurprisingly, asleep on the table. Suddenly it felt less like a fellowship than a band of random strangers thrown together for an impossible task, but Éohild fought to keep her faith in them.

Gandalf acknowledged their arrival by commencing the meeting. He discussed the particulars of their coming journey such as taking shifts when it came to resting, the formation they would take in case battle came upon them, even though he knew such a thing would fall apart once the fighting began.

There was also the matter of Bill – Gandalf expressed doubts about bringing him, but Sam was resolute and even insisted that Bill would follow them whether or not he was allowed to come along. A silly suggestion, but Gandalf only exhaled and said very well.

When they were finished, the Wizard looked at them expectantly, as if waiting for them to ask protest or ask a question. Pippin leaned over to Éohild, who moved closer upon his prodding. Yawning silently, the Hobbit whispered, "What…?"

Éohild grinned until they noticed Gandalf grumbling in exasperation, then they pretended to be very interested in the books Aragorn had been perusing earlier. Luckily, the Wizard's attention had shifted to an anxious Frodo.

"When are we leaving, Gandalf?" asked the Ring-bearer.

"Before dark, later this day," answered Aragorn. "We should leave under the cover of night, and travel then as much as we are able."

"The Orcs will spot us faster in the night, won't they? Better than we are able to spot them, at least." asked Éohild.

"The Enemy's spies on foot and wing will soon be abroad. Of the sky above we, too, must beware," said Gandalf. "Aragorn is not mistaken."

Éohild suddenly understood that the Orcs could capture them in the night as well, but couldn't help the shake of her head. As if he read her mind, Boromir spoke. "I believe it matters little now."

Aragorn lifted an eyebrow, which could only mean, elaborate. Éohild felt indignant at the action but remembered that he was kindly. When he asked, "In what manner?" she felt compelled to answer. It was like he could do something about it though she knew he could not.

"On our way to Rivendell, we were attacked by Orcs in the sunlight," she explained. Gandalf, Legolas and Aragorn shared grim glances, while the Hobbits looked confused. Gimli frowned.

"Surely they were slowed down. In some manner of pain," said Gandalf.

"Not at all," said Boromir. "They engaged us in battle at the Gwathló before we crossed into Tharbad. It had only rained and the ford was cloudy with fog, but they operated well enough. It was as though they had been taught to move about in the sunlight."

Aragorn frowned. "Whence did they come?"

"We cannot be certain," Éohild answered. All eyes were on them, now, but she had not yet grown accustomed to the attention of their future companions. She was especially conscious of the Elf's gaze. "But they had been trailing us since we crossed Isen."

"What does that mean for us, Gandalf?" asked Merry.

Gandalf took a deep breath, and in the lull, Legolas asked, "Did you defeat them in battle?"

"All of them," Boromir replied, when Éohild paused to review her answer. "They seem to have been tasked to follow us."

A pause in the room, worries exchanged, and then, "We leave tomorrow, at dawn," Gandalf muttered. "If it makes no difference. And it will be a time before we leave the forest. Is there anything else?" Éohild shook her head. "Then let us meet again tomorrow."

Dismissed, Legolas and Aragorn left the hall, talking like old friends. Éohild wondered how long they had known each other and would not doubt if it was a long time, since Aragorn appeared to be very comfortable with Elves. The Hobbits scurried out, too, worried about Orcs, and Boromir went to pack. Gandalf had slipped away without a word, leaving her with Gimli, who was smoking a pipe.

Éohild watched him for a bit before she thought of saying, "Hello."

His eyes shifted to her before his head did, as though wary, and then he blinked, speaking with the accent she worked hard to decipher. "You don't happen to be the lass I gave a little shove…are you?"

Éohild wondered if her face was so forgettable. She believed she had been the only lass in the Council, and that tackled was more the word than a little shove. Still she answered, "Yes, that was me."

"Oh. Well," he blew a cloud of smoke in the air, "my apologies, lass."

"Apology accepted," she said, sitting back in her chair. "It was a confusing moment. You might have been aiming for someone else."

"No," he shook his head. "Fairly sure I was headed for you when I saw you ambling toward that Evil Thing."

"Oh." She reiterated, "It was a confusing moment. I didn't—I don't want it." When he sent her suspicious, squinted eyes in reply, she raised a hand as if under oath. "I would never act against the Council's decision. And we were all drawn in, I think, but our heads are clearer now." It was something of a bluff, but Éohild hoped he believed it.

She couldn't tell if the Dwarf was smiling at her from behind his beard, especially since he was smoking, but he put down the pipe after another whiff. Then, regarding her quietly, he finally asked, "What are you doing here, lass? Are you sure you want to get involved?"

"Why do you ask?" Éohild returned, relieved of the change in subject. "Do Dwarf women not fight?"

Gimli may have smirked. "Have you ever seen a Dwarf woman?" Éohild shook her head—she had never seen any Dwarf until then—and he gave an expression that made her think it was a gesture frequently given in answer. "That is because when Dwarf women go on a journey, they are so like the Dwarf men that nobody can tell them apart!"

Éohild looked contemplative. "I was told I was grizzly enough for a man, when Boromir and I first arrived."

Gimli scoffed. "Then if I should give you some advice, lass, it's not to trust the eyes of an Elf." He sat back. "But I don't see it happening with Men. Your face is too clean-shaven."

Éohild rubbed her chin. "My cousin dons no beard."

"Oh?" Gimli grinned underneath the hair. "Is he as pretty as our Elf companion, then?"

Éohild scowled almost immediately. "Even I am not as pretty as our Elf companion…"

Gimli howled with laughter and almost choked on his pipe. Éohild thought to cross the table and help him amidst her own chuckling just as he managed to cough it out. "Don't fret, lass. It's not like you're going to marry him!"

Éohild coughed now, too. She tapped at her throat in embarrassment and made a face upon answering. "Perish the thought, Master Gimli."

"Lass," said the Dwarf, "If we're going to be traveling together, we might as well be friends. Gimli."

"Éohild. But what of our Elf companion? He will be traveling with us too," she reminded him.

"Bah," Gimli grumbled, smoking again. "I'll have someone toss me before I become friends with that Elf!"

Many of Gimli's comments begot Éohild's laughter as she spent some minutes with him, but the Dwarf seemed content simply smoking by himself. They parted soon enough. Éohild opted to tour as much of Rivendell as she still could before they set out, again, though it felt like it had already been a month since she and Boromir arrived. It was how she had spent the previous day. Looking through empty rooms and gardens and following the river around the haven, she saw Bilbo and Gandalf stepping out from the former's room.

Bilbo had asked Gandalf if he should be the one to take the Ring to Mordor, it being his fault for bringing it back to the light of the world to begin with, but the Wizard refused. It wasn't Bilbo's burden, he said, not anymore. Éohild did not join their conversation, and only smiled politely as they passed. Bilbo was kindly enough to return the pleasantries of a stranger, and Éohild wondered again, walking away, how a Hobbit could have gained possession of such a powerful weapon. Their small but hardy-footed race continued to surprise her.

Soon, though she believed there were multitudes of halls and gardens still left to see in Imladris, Éohild stuck by the waterfalls again. This time, she did not stay there until sunset, as she and Boromir were summoned to dinner by the Hobbits – meaning Pippin – where she was introduced to Bilbo. What would Éomer say if she told him that? Would he believe her? All this talk of 'magic' and the joining together of the races was something so detached from the worries of the Riddermark that it was like a different world, something out of tales lost even to time.

Éohild got up early the next morning, still quite disoriented, though she hadn't exactly slept well in light of their impending journey. When she was dressed, blades sheathed and clothes prepared, she made for the small clearing before the bridge, seeing Aragorn and Elrond in heavy conversation as she did. The rest of the Fellowship was already present with their friends. Gimli said goodbye to his father while Legolas bade his companions farewell. The Hobbits were gathered round Bilbo, who seemed especially sorrowful at their departure.

"Don't look as though you go to your doom."

Éohild turned at Vinariel's arrival. "No…" she said, feigning a smile, though after deeper retrospection she realized that was exactly what they were doing, drawing close to the Enemy himself, though she tried not to dwell. It would only affect her performance in battle. "I am only loath to leave Rivendell so soon."

"Then return, when it is all over," said Vinariel. "You will always be welcome here."

"Perhaps. But will you still be here?" asked Éohild. Sam had mentioned during dinner how he and Frodo saw Elves traveling to the West.

Vinariel's gaze was on Arwen, who watched them all from the stairs. Her attention was strongest on Aragorn and her father. "We must hope."

Vinariel smiled kindly, clasping Éohild's hands in her own. It was the most motherly affection she had received in what felt like ages, though she did not know Vinariel well enough for that to happen. Perhaps it was that she missed Éowyn, Théodred, and Leófe of the Mark, and knew she would feel the same about the Elf soon enough despite the short time she knew her.

"Safe journeys, my friend," she said, and they spoke for only a little while longer before Elrond arrived and they were ready to set out. It was all a blur, though she remembered something about an oath later – and held fast to Vinariel's words. We will meet again. For it meant that she would see the Mark, too, when they finished it all.

"Hold to your purpose," said Elrond. "May the blessings of Elves and Men and all free folk go with you."

At that, the Fellowship stepped out of Rivendell and turned left.