She had been following them for days, as she had followed the Black Riders, though the whereabouts of the latter was now unknown to her.

Four Halflings, on a quest she had yet to discover, and their companion, a Ranger by dress and manner, yet seemingly more than what he hid under that billowing cloak. It had flashed through her mind more than once that he could be...but, no. It was a foolish notion, and Acacia was not given to foolishness, and intended to keep it so. The small company stopped to rest as soon as the sun went down-for which Acacia and her horse were glad, for it provided unusual rest for both-and seemed to be hurrying to a certain destination, though she knew not what it could be. Rivendell? They were heading in the right direction. But what would for unkempt Halflings and their mysterious friend want with the Elves?

She often wondered what she wanted with the Elves. Why did the halls of Lorien, the paths of Mirkwood, the peaceful air in Rivendell feel so right?

Acacia was little more than a half-elf, sired by a knight of the great land of Men, Gondor, and daughter of a noble Elven maiden, raised amongst the trees of Lothlorien. Her father had disappeared when Acacia was barely old enough to hold the memory of him; her mother was left behind with a broken heart and baby in her arms. He had promised the maid marraige, promised her a happy mortal life in his great home. But he had gone, gone to answer the call of the Horn of his precious Gondor, and his sweetheart had been cast from Elven favour, mother of a child of Man, born and begotten in wedlock, only halfway to mortal status. All this had been the death and ruin of the Elf-lady, and Acacia had been abandoned as a young Elfling, left to fend for herself alone.

All her life Acacia had moved from one place to another, seeking refuge amongst the wild creatures of the woods and her kith and kin the Elves, when she could. They had taught her how to shoot a bow and arrow swiftly, how to defend herself competently in hand-to-hand combat, and how to listen to the songs of the ancients and learn to understand them. But she never sang the songs...only revelled in the words, and it was the memory of the sweet chanting under the fair boughs of the Lorien trees that kept Acacia going, kept her fighting, on her journey. On her quest, whatever it could be.

What her quest was, in fact, Acacia knew not. She rode from place to place, marvelling at the greatness of Middle Earth, fearing nothing and nobody and with no company but that of her horse, if she could return to Rohan enough to trade for a new one, just once in a while.

Some said she had the skills of the most learned Elf, some said she had the ways of the bravest Ranger, and some said that she was as foolish as the simple Halflings. Whatever she was, Acacia was a survivor. A traveller. She knew as much of the world as the wisest wizards, and knew less of herself than a newborn baby.

She was special.