Well well well, it's that time again. I can only marvel at your stamina as a reader and how you blindly walk into the dark depths of literary torture, and continue to put yourself through such mental pain. I can only say that you shouldn't feel obliged in any way to read this, nor should you read this just because you feel sorry for me.

I'm sitting here eating carrot cake, which I should not be doing at the computer, but oh well. I don't know why I am eating carrot cake, I can only conclude that I am hoping it will bring forth the small and over-taxed creative juices in my possession. I only hope it works, for your sake at least.

And I owe Mary-Jane's horse's name to Jane, so thanks Jane. Except Jane wanted me to call the horse this elvish name that basically meant 'lake of birds'. No thanks for that suggestion. Any complaints about the name need to be addressed to Jane, and NOT me. Thank you for your time.

Here we go:

Chapter 9:

The riders wheeled around with astonishing speed, accompanied by many cries of 'what the.?' from the horsemen. They circled in on the company, ever closer and closer, until they suddenly halted, and one hundred and four spears were pointed at the four members of the company. A man dismounted, obviously the leader of the touchy bunch. Legolas had been right: he was tall. He glared at the intruders as if they had just gate crashed his party and put worms in all the drinks. The latter they had certainly not done, as for the former - who knows how the crazy horse-lords celebrate, perhaps they do go gallivanting around the countryside with spears and on horses. Perhaps the idea of a great party in Rohan was based on the amount of spears they got to use, and how muddy their horses got.

In short: they were not impressed.

'What are you doing in this land?' the tall dismounted horse-lord demanded.

'We were hunting orcs, a bit of fun you know,' started Gimli.

'They captured our friends, we were being heroic and rescuing them,' Aragorn corrected Gimli.

'Hmmm,' the Horse Guy was not impressed by their try-hard heroism. 'What are your names, and what gives you the right to go tramping through this fair country?'

'Tell me your name first,' said Gimli stubbornly.

Aragorn glared at him. 'I am called Strider.'

'No, no, your real name if you please,' the Horse Guy was getting impatient.

'I am also known as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isuldur Elendil's son of Gondor,' said Aragorn, seeming only too pleased to give his full title. 'This is Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood, son of King Thranduil, Gimli son of Gloin of the Lonely Mountain, and Namigaal.'

'I am Éomer, son of Éomund, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark,' said the tall Horse Guy. 'What or who gave you right to enter these lands?'

'I said before that two of our friends were taken captive by orcs, we wished to save them,' answered Aragorn. 'We had no choice but to go on foot, as you see us now. We would cross any lands in our chase if we hoped we could save our friends.'

'Hope no more,' said Éomer, 'we killed all the orcs, and found none others with them.'

'These were but children to your eyes, hobbits, the halflings they talked of in Gondor. They too were wearing cloaks such as these, cloaks which you missed us in, in the broad light of day.'

'Perhaps we could have missed them.' said Éomer doubtfully, 'but I am confident in the thoroughness of my men.'

'Then there is hope yet, Éomer son of Éomund,' said Gimli shortly.

Éomer looked at the dwarf as if he had just discovered a rather slimy, and rather dead rat on the bottom of his boot. 'Don't be rude, little man, or I shall take your head off, or would, if it were a little higher off the ground.' He said icily.

With hands faster than sight, Legolas fitted an arrow to his bow. 'He stands not alone,' Legolas said, his beautiful voice touched with menace, 'you would die before your stroke fell.'

Éomer's eyes blazed in sudden fury, he drew his sword and advanced on the elf. Things were getting rough, it was time for Mary-Jane to step in. She sprang forward between Legolas and Éomer. 'You have established that we are no enemies but to that of the Dark Lord, please help us in our quest, not hinder us. My companions are tired from a long journey and their harsh words are those of weary travelers.'

Wow, that was the best speech she had ever given in her life. Something had inspired this talk, like some sort of eloquence was hidden in her brain and was only set loose in such times of peril, when nothing but her tongue may get her out of it.

'Harsh indeed were the words of your companions, Namigaal, daughter of.'

'James,' she offered. In fact she didn't know her father's name, she never did. He had fallen into a lake and drowned about one hour after she was born, but she didn't feel that it was the time to explain all this. And she didn't see why she should be known as someone's daughter. 'But I prefer Namigaal,' she added.

Éomer looked at her strangely. 'Indeed, he muttered. 'Thanks to your persuasive words you have saved your friends from the consequences of their words. You may take the three spare horses. May they bare you to a better fate than that of their previous owners. But you must return them, otherwise my actions will be called into question. Do not fail.'

'We won't,' said Aragorn firmly, worried that Gimli might launch into one of his 'we're all failures' speeches.

They took the horses offered to them. Aragorn and Legolas seemed thrilled with the offer, Mary-Jane and Gimli were not so sure.

'You can ride with me, Gimli,' said Legolas.

Mary-Jane felt a pang of jealousy. Where did that come from? She thought. She didn't like this freaky-eared, overly nice, sensitive, kind, perfectly proportioned guy now did she? That would only complicated things further.

'I assume you can ride,' Aragorn smiled down from his mount at Mary-Jane.

'A - a little.' Stammered Mary-Jane.

'This is Lindon,' one of the horsemen introduced Mary-Jane to a petite gray horse.

She looked up at it and gulped, she had ridden a horse once in her life, and that was when she was six and didn't know to be scared, and it was a tiny little pony that needed to be convinced to move at all. Lindon had a fire in her eye, and a spirit that emanated from her body. Mary-Jane could tell that this horse would rather be galloping across wide plains than be ridden.

'She is gentle and easy to handle,' said the horseman, noticing Mary-Jane's fear. 'She will bear you any place you wish her to. She has a fiery spirit but without malice, she is truthful and honest, be not wary of her.'

With that Mary-Jane mounted. She sat in the saddle a while, taking in the size and power of the horse beneath her. She shifted her weight tentatively, Lindon stood there, patiently waiting for instruction. Legolas mounted his horse, Gimli behind him. Aragorn turned his horse toward a smoking hill in the distance. Mary-Jane squeezed with her heel experimentally. Lindon moved forward, Mary-Jane guided her to stand next to Aragorn, and halted. It was much less frightening than she thought. It was as if instinct had taken over, as if she had done this before.

Then they were off. Mary-Jane felt the air rush past as she urged her horse faster and faster. The power of the animal was phenomenal. Yet she didn't feel daunted by it, the power was there, but she could control it. The thrill of the ride was amazing, she felt free, free like she had never felt before. It was like flying, as if Lindon hardly touched the ground as she galloped across the plain. Mary-Jane guided her lightly, though Lindon hardly needed it.

The three horses bore them swiftly across the plain, and all too soon they came across the battle scene. There was a mound of ashes, still smoking, where the bodies of the orcs had been piled up and burnt. There was also a mound, marked with fifteen spears to mark the fallen Rohirrim.

A little way from the battlefield they made their camp. It was sheltered by a tree that seemed to lean over them. Gimli went to fetch any wood found on the ground, as they did not dare do harm to the trees.

'Explain this one to me,' Mary-Jane said, 'why are we afraid of the trees? Do they bite back or something?'

'They may well, but I don't think they would bite, still, there is a brooding and sinister air about them,' said Aragorn with surprising earnestness.

Mary-Jane wasn't put on watch. She was thankful: she didn't understand why they would need a watch, or what to watch for if she was put on. She soon drifted off to sleep where she was haunted by pleasant dreams of cantering over endless green fields, she cantering on Lindon alongside Legolas. Oh dear, she did fancy him.

Legolas was also asleep and dreaming. He was walking through the cool shades of Mirkwood, but a Mirkwood in the days of old, when no evil thing dwelled under its bows. He was singing to himself, the Song of Nimrodel. He came to a stream; it was beautiful, merrily playing over rocks, its current singing a song of its own. Then, on the other side of the river was a person, clad in a soft green. She had dark, flowing hair that covered her face. She was wading into the stream, singing to herself, a fair song, but not in elvish. She turned towards him, her faced still screened by her hair. Still she turned, he was captured in a spell, he was curious to know the face behind the screen of hair.

A sudden movement roused him from his sleep. Aragorn jumped up from beside him. He sprang up, silently, fully alert. Mary-Jane sat up, her mind racing.

'Well, what can we do for you?' Aragorn addressed someone. 'Come be warm by the fire if you are cold!'

Mary-Jane turned to see an old man, wrapped in a cloak, leaning on a staff, a large hat covering his eyes. Aragorn's welcome was marked with accents of suspicion. Something was not right. Then she remembered what Legolas had told her about Saruman and the Treason of Isengard. Fear crept into her heart.

Aragorn strode forward, but the man was gone.

'The horses!' Legolas cried. Then, in case no one had heard him the first time, he cried again: 'The horses!'

'Well, they are gone,' said Aragorn, 'we can't do anything about them until the morning. Hopefully they will come back on their own will, but if they don't we'll just have to do without.'

Mary-Jane felt crestfallen. The loss of her horse meant more to her than she cared to admit, even to herself. She knew in her heart that they would not return that night.

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Well, that's it. I have nothing more to say. Need I remind you to review, that's the only way I can know whether to continue torturing you with my literature, or if I should kill off Mary-Jane and end the fic already.