An elf riding across the land like the wind of a storm is spurred on by need and anger. The earth seems to rise to the hooves of the elf's horse, and hurry the beast along to its destination, so horse and elf arrive at their home sooner than any could believe. Old forests, old stones, old water, mourn the passing of such a creature as an elf towards the shores of Middle-earth. For old forests, old stones, and old water all know that when an elf rides like the wind towards the sea, no arms could hold him back, no voice could call him from his task.

Many who saw the passing of Legolas across the plains, towards the south, thought he was lost spirit, caught up in the wind and dancing across the scape of their eyes to remind them of some race long passed. For it is common knowledge much adhered to among common Men, that elves had long since journeyed beyond the seas to their eternal home. In any event, what cause would have elf have to come so swiftly riding from the north?

None but one know.

*

The people of Edoras watched their queen, arrayed in her white gowns of silk and beads, falling to her knees in the mud. She clutched at the earth like a woman possessed, and the tears that fell from her stormy eyes were like the waves of an ocean. Her cry reverberated against the wood and stone dwellings of her people, whose hands flew to their mouths in shock. Many women cried as well, as they saw what happened next.

The Queen stood slowly, her hands and knees dirty and black, her deathly face streaked with ceaseless tears. She lurched painfully to the left, a rip opening loudly in her dress at her right knee, pulling from where her foot had caught in her hem. She stood biting her lip for a lifetime it seemed, before she covered her face in her hands, and uttering the most piteous cry ever heard by man, flew from the audience that had gathered, disappearing into the twisting lanes of the city, but leaving behind the lingering stigma of her cry.

While at that same moment Hurien sat at the edge of the great steps of Medulsed, looking out towards the north as she did every morning. Hurien did not notice her mistress running from through the alleys of Edoras towards Medulsed. She was too transfixed by the great black clouds that where gathering in the north, mounting a great battle against the early sun where it rose in the eastern sky. This would be a storm to remember.

*

She could not think. Could not keep her hands from shaking. Could not keep her teeth from chattering in her mouth, nor the words of Legolas pushing themselves against the corners of her mind. She collapsed against the clean sheets of the bed in her dressing chamber, thankful that Eomer had insisted on her having a private chamber "to think in". Her tears did not stop, but they were no longer cold on her cheeks, no longer accompanied by a dying cry. Her tears were warm, thick, measured. The collapse of her mind was giving way to a plan, a desire beyond any she had ever felt before, which was moulding it's self into a cold and calculated plot that left no detail untended.

She rose slowly, removed her clothes carefully, so calm she even though to write a note to Hurien saying that should she wish to mend the dress, Hurien should consider it a gift to be kept. She bathed slowly, scrubbing the night's grit from her skin, and mud from her knees and palms. She stopped to finger the small scar on her palm where her ring had cut into her skin oh-so-long-ago in Lorien. Legolas has the same scar. Even though she did not speak the words, they caused a tight ball of anxiety to form in her chest. And all the while, as she washed her hair slowly and meticulously, the tears mixed with the stone-cold water, and the plan in her mind grew into a sapling of cunning and grief. She knew what must be done.

*

Hurien went about her duties slowly, wondering at the lack of haste in her movements. She delighted in the sound of the first drops of rain hitting the roof above her as she walked slowly down the corridor towards her mistress' chambers. It was strange that the Queen had not yet called on her...very strange.

She opened the door to Altariel's private chambers quietly, assuming the Queen was still asleep. She was stunned to find Altariel sitting by the window, fully dressed and quickly braiding her hair tightly together. Her confusion deepened as she noticed Altariel's dress. It was a travelling dress, light and plain. And lying beside her on the bench below the window was long , extremely worn riding cloak and ladies' overcoat.

" I do not think riding would be advisable today, my Lady." Hurien said. She tried to keep the tone of her voice happy, but suspicion tinged the edges. " Have you not seen the weather. It is foul. Altariel?"

Altariel stood and pulled on her overcoat. Hurien was momentarily distracted by the coat. It is elfish dress. It's long, sweeping bell sleeves came to just below Altariel's knees. It's colour was the deepest purple, shot with red and blue, hemmed at the floor, and at the high collar around Altariel's neck with tiny stones. It was beautiful, and obviously very old. The cloak, on the other hand, was another story. Its colour was undefinable, and it was obviously made for a man, who had seen many a long day in it. The only concession to beauty that the cloak made was a small silver clasp in the shape of a mallorn leaf at the neck. Though, shabby as it was, Altariel wore it proudly.

Altariel came to stand close to Hurien, and Hurien noticed for the first time the tears that rolled down Altariel's pale cheeks. Altariel smiled suddenly, and gave a sharp little laugh. " After coming so far...for the rain to stop me! No, Hurien, no weather is foul enough to stop that journey which I have halted for to long already."

" What journey?" Hurien said with wonder, for the light within Altariel's eyes was half between scaring her and making her smile.

" I have found my path, Hurien," Altariel hissed " I will not ask for luck, for the favour of some higher power, I feel is against me. All I may ask is a favour."

" Anything, Your Majesty." Hurien said quickly.

" Care for Eomer, he will rage when he finds...the truth. Tell him this, and only this: Altariel has loved him with all the stars in the sky. But she has been lost while wandering, and shall never be found again."

The Queen of Rohan kissed the forehead of her maid and friend, and ran down the corridors she had called home for so many months. None saw her go, not the guards of the Gates, not the wardens of the Doors. At least in escaping on her horse, she was in luck, if nothing more.

*

Fabled among the creatures of all lands, are the Maedros. They are the horses of the ancient horse lords, friends, and not servants to the most valiant of the Rohorrim since the days of old. And while their numbers dwindle, there are few that hold the line. These horses are prized, valued among all other beasts for their speed, their grace, their intelligence, bravery, and the lengths at which they will travel without pause. Gandalf the Grey once stole the heart of Rohan from the King Theoden, before the War of the Ring. And fro Shadowfax the Great, when he was returned to his horse lords, came a thin line of kin, Niphredil the mare of the Queen being the last and final of that line.

That horse, that - it was told in later days - bore her mistress across the leagues of the land, into the far south, through waves of rain so thick as to drown all of Middle-earth. Through night unguarded Niphredil rode, pausing only briefly for rest, on through the grey, rain scared day that followed. So they passed into the south in only two days and nights, like a phantom.

The story of such a passing was told over a pint and a pipe in many parts in following days. Some did not believe the story that a Queen so noble and great among her people would fly from her home in such a fury of grief. Other's told of her parents, "queer folk from Gondor" they said, not knowing how close their words came to the truth.

For only one now knows the origins of the woman 'Altariel', though even he does not know why she fled.

***