They found the answer to this and much else in Isengard, but as Gimli had said they could not tarry long. The parley with Saruman had gone as well as could be hoped. The Three Hunters had finally overtaken their quarry; the hobbits had weathered their ordeal with the orcs better than humans might in such circumstances. King Théoden had also learned of allies he did not know existed: the ancient guardians of the forest, roused to wrath against Isengard's furnaces. The ents, left out of all his designs, had proved to be Saruman's undoing. They had torn through his outer defenses like the sea through a sandcastle, flooding the ring of Isengard with the river it was named for, and slaying every orc. They would have slain him too, but the tower of Orthanc had withstood even their rootlike fingers and toes, which could crack ordinary stone in minutes. All the surround was reduced to rubble, steaming and bubbling under lingering waters; ents kept patient vigil on the tower that was Saruman's self-chosen prison. Théoden could ride to Gondor with assurance that no threat was left from that quarter.

First, however, he and his company were returning to the Hornburg. They had camped briefly in the foothills south of Isengard, but near midnight their slumber was broken by the evil voices of wraiths skimming the treetops, flying towards Orthanc. Doubtless they were seeking tidings of Rohan's defeat. Very soon, the Dark Lord would realize that one of his claws had snapped. Gandalf had gone immediately and in haste, taking one of the hobbits with him; as so often the wizard was racing towards peril on the wings of the storm. Théoden would follow him east as soon as Rohan's strength could be mustered, accompanied by Aragorn and the elves of Lórien.

The tides of the world were converging upon the White City. Those who knew Minas Tirith could not help but remember its perilous position, a spur of defiance at the far end of the mountains from Helm's Deep, separated from Mordor's towering gray crags by a river and fifteen leagues, or a few miles at most if the enemy gained the opposite shore.

Aragorn confided to his friends as they jogged near the king, I wish I were truly Thorongil, as they used to call me.

What's that? Gimli grumbled, bouncing along behind the elf with a stout grip on the back of the saddle. You pick up nicknames and elf-trinkets like a raven lining his nest.

The elf spoke clearly over the swish of wind. The Eagle of the Star. What need have you for him?

That I might have friendship with eagles. Dim shapes of the world rushed past them, and all was bounding movement as they tore across the Gap, but the man's eyes remained still and fixed on the unbroken silhouette of mountain peaks stretching eastward. Alas, only Gandalf can call the wind-lords at need.

There is time, Legolas reassured him, or Mithrandir would not have risked dabbling his toes in the puddles of Isengard.

Merry was riding before Aragorn, and had been listening eagerly to Gimli's tales of their adventures in Rohan, at least until he nodded off in the saddle. Aragorn had a hand on his shoulder to keep him from slipping. Now the hobbit stirred awake as his friends' voices floated around him. How far is it to Minas Tirith? he asked anxiously.

The man sighed. Over a week's ride, although Gandalf and Pippin may reach it sooner on Shadowfax.

Meanwhile, Théoden had been deep in conversation with Éomer since they had crossed the Fords of Isen in the coldest hour of the night. Ten days ago, many men of Rohan had perished there in battle, while their king sat withered and witless in Edoras under the insidious leechcraft of a mole in the pay of Saruman. It was that battle which had cost the king's son his life. So when the Rohirrim passed the circle of spears and the mound of Théodred's fallen warriors, although their need for haste was great, the king had halted in the darkness with his riders gathered around him. And yet Saruman lives, Théoden had said finally, rousing himself. Afterwards he had spoken little, pressing forward with a pace that was grueling even for younger men.

Listening to his captains tell him of the battle at the fords, Théoden had been too preoccupied to notice his guests for some while. But abruptly he broke in upon the conversation between Aragorn and his companions. The king turned his head, regarding the the ranger warily. There was a foreigner by that name in Rohan when I was a lad, and he served my father for a while. Then he disappeared. Afterwards rumor came that he had won great renown away south in Gondor, beating back the pirates of Umbar.

I have heard those rumors, my lord. Aragorn's teeth flashed in a crooked grin. However, just as abruptly, his smile vanished. Legolas, what is it?

The elf was sitting straight and tall in the saddle, keen eyes scanning the mountains ahead of them as if searching for eagles.

Dreaming with his eyes open again, the dwarf muttered at the elf's shoulder.

I do not know, replied Legolas thoughtfully. It is like smoke, but it does not rise, and it fills the Deeping Coomb.

The king laid a hand on his sword-hilt, and Éomer on his right rose in the stirrups, straining in vain to make out a hint of whatever Legolas had seen.

Even as the elf spoke, from afar came a sound more felt than heard, a low thrum that beat on their ears like air through a bird's wings. It was so faint that, had the sound not been seared forever into their memories by that fateful dawn two days ago, few would have recognized the horn of Helm Hammerhand rippling across the wide plains of Rohan. The Rohirrim cried out in dismay.

Aragorn nudged Brego a few paces forward and turned into the king's path. Wait, my lord. I do not think it is the fume of battle.

The riders muttered to one another, not all of them looking south. It was the third time that the ragged stranger had implicitly challenged their king, and although he had proved his worth in more than arms at Helm's Deep, even Éomer was looking at him somewhat askance.

Legolas declared, oblivious to the jostlings of men. His eyes shone. It is a gray fog, as if the mist of the forests were spilling out into the world. There are shapes moving within it, and they are tall.

exclaimed Merry. That's the Huorns, Strider, just as I was telling you! They are the wild woods that Treebeard warned us about.

Théoden's hands relaxed upon his reins, and he gazed out across the gray lands before them. Aragorn dropped back to his former position on the king's left side, opposite Éomer.

More sorcery, the old king muttered. And why? Did Gandalf not say the tree-shepherds take little interest in the affairs of men?

Aragorn concurred, resting his fingers in Merry's hair, but I think their eyes have been opened by others. They are watching your northern borders now, Théoden, not just for the sake of the trees. In this case, however, it is not your affairs they are minding, but those of the Golden Wood.

Théoden followed the ranger's gaze to the aloof elven captain riding in the second rank. Timdaur had come with them to witness the parley with their enemy on behalf of Lórien, but had not said a word during the journey. Nor did he speak now. His eyes, however, were fixed upon the same patch of darkness that the Mirkwood elf could see.

The living shadow grew more distinct as night's gloom began to recede. Éomer counselled that they should go a little out of their way to avoid it, but Théoden was in no mood to move aside for anything, certainly not trees within his own borders. Beside the mouth of the Deeping Coomb they drew even with it, and the rushing of wind in branches, the indistinct tramp of huge feet, the groaning and swaying of great trunks were like creaking ships moored in a rising sea. The riders of Théoden reined close together, afraid and awed, as the shrouded host passed them only a few yards away on their left. There were twinkles of light within it, and occasionally a glint of metal, yet it seemed as if an enchantment had fogged their eyes. At most they could make out indistinct forms of broad trunks and striding figures, some giant-sized, others no taller than men.

But Timdaur leapt down and strode to the very edge of the gloom, calling out in a loud voice. Suilad, Onodrim a Galadhrim! Man siniath*?

To the wonder of most of the observers, the rushing darkness slowed nearly to a standstill at his hail. Stepping out from the shadows came a mail-clad figure, followed by a slender ent whose white bark gleamed like the moon in the light of the lantern the elf carried. It was Rúmil. He inclined his head to the riders and the king, then turned to address his kinsman in a low voice.

Éomer came forward, face grave. Rúmil of Lórien. We bid you safe journey, or what safety you can find in our troubled lands. Is there anything you need?

Timdaur spoke in the younger elf's ear, translating, then conveyed the curt reply. Nothing save speed, horsemaster.

Éomer raised his mailed glove in salute and withdrew. Timdaur laid both hands on the fair elf's shoulders in farewell. Then Rúmil stepped back into the shadows with the ent and was lost from sight as the last of the column passed by.

Legolas was watching the trees raptly, and in fact only Gimli's growl kept him from riding headlong into the sweeping shadows.

Éomer gave Gimli a wry look. Few mortals escape her nets, as I told you, Master Dwarf. Nay, do not reach for your axe! I begin to see why sometimes it is not so ill to be one of the fishes.

*(Greetings, Ent-folk and Tree-folk. What tidings?)

The sun was in the sky, but not yet upon the land when they came back into the vale of the Deeping Coomb. Some of the men cried out and pointed as they drew near the fortress. The wall was being repaired, but its hastily-hewn blocks were the least of the changes that met their astonished eyes.

There was a thin ribbon of silver on the gray cliff behind the Hornburg. Trickles of melting snow were what gave the Deeping Stream its voice, but there had not been a waterfall tumbling down to meet it before, nor a small round lake further back in the Deep on the lefthand side, nor a forest of slender white birches clustered in a wide ring on one of the lower slopes above the lake. When the riders halted with their king a league out from the causeway, they could hear a music of falling water and the untroubled voice of the Deeping Stream, its bed now as clean and clear as if orc feet had never fouled it.

All traces of foes, their armor, their weapons, and their machines of war had vanished from the gravel-flats before the walls. By the foot of the causeway, there was a great mound topped by the spears and banners of Rohan standing like sentinels in the gray dawn. The riders did not sing, as they often did upon returning, nor murmur the names of those who lay beneath the fresh green turves. In silence they rode up the causeway, and the hooves of the horses rang loudly in the stillness. But horns sounded on the battlements, and Théoden entered the fortress amidst great rejoicing, for only now did his people have leisure to celebrate their king's deliverance from the turncoat wizard's curse.

As they dismounted and retired to their quarters within the keep, his company heard whispers and rumors of a shadow that had come in the night and left the Deep changed. So Théoden had one errand first, before he slept. With Éowyn his niece leading the way up a path that no other human feet had dared tread so far, he climbed to the green shoulder of the mountain where the young forest had sprung up overnight. In its midst was a long grassy mound sprinkled with countless white and yellow flowers. Saplings of birches were planted around and over the great barrow, their new green buds furled in promise of spring. There was no stone or marker to indicate who lay buried there or how many. There was no need. Harpers in the keep were already making songs for the elves as well as for the heroes of Rohan. Haudh in-Edhil, they were calling it, using a language few had known three days ago. Some were even calling the smaller mound before the causeway Haudh en-Firiath.

Westu hal, Théoden prayed, staring up at the niphredil that winked in the first shafts of sunlight. And the king wept.

Legolas was finally resting too, in the manner of his kind. He had scaled the slopes behind the tower for a closer look at the waterfall, and had found an old watch-post tucked against the cliff. It was little more than a ledge of hard-packed earth, damp now from the spray drifting up from the tiny cascade as it came tumbling down. There the elf could survey the keep and the tower, garth and battlements, the Coomb and the Deep, and yet stand alone and undisturbed. He stood in that high place with thought turned inward and outward wandering the paths of dream and open sky. Now and again he sang, and when his voice drifted down to the men in the bailey repairing the gates, their hands and faces would go slack, the weight of heavy timbers forgotten. They whispered to one another that Helm's Deep was under a spell from the Golden Wood.

Legolas' thoughts came back to waking, roused by a sound at his back. Brows furrowed, he turned swiftly and found a small figure seated on a rocky ledge not far below where he stood. It was Haleth. Cheek propped on one arm, which was wrapped around a small spur of rock, she seemed asleep. But he knew she had not been there long.

That is no safe place to doze, he chided.

She stirred and looked up. I might say the same, she observed wryly. But not to an elf.

He looked her over. She wore no mail now, only a fresh gray cloak and the garb of Lórien; he could not see whether she bore any wounds of note worse than a crushing bruise spanning the side of her face. Her hair was combed and gathered at the nape of her neck, still covering her ears; its color was the pale brown of fallen beech-leaves. Humans would call her rounded features , but the stubborn jaw and short nose made her ill-favored by elven standards. And yet there was something of them in her pale blue eyes, which were clear and untroubled now.

I heard you from below, she confessed. I wanted to be sure it was your voice this time, and not some Vala bidding me quit the world.

You were hurt, the elf stated, half a question.

Well, I shall think twice again before using Uruk-hai as a blanket, Haleth said cheerfully. She stretched and straightened, as much as the precarious spot would allow. Somewhat scuffed around the edges, my lord. An elf would not feel these few scrapes and bruises at all.

You are not elf. And I thought you would be returning to Lórien with your company.

Her eyes twinkled. My company are elves. Am I not one of them? You speak in riddles, Prince Thranduilion.

he corrected her.

She raised an eyebrow but acquiesced, or at least attempted it. Laegelas? Surely, you are not—

He chuckled. No, Greenleaf, but as the wood-elves say it.

She looked even more perplexed, but also amused. Now how can I call you that? Haldir's brothers are wroth with me whenever I use their Silvan speech! Not so familiar, fíriel, or we shall test your woodcraft by tying you upside-down to the highest tree.'

He searched her face closely, but if there was resentment behind her words he could not see it. You are the riddle.

With a short laugh, she reached up and pulled herself with a hop onto the ledge beside him. No, I carry no blood of Númenor, no great hope of elves and men, she said lightly. The contrast between Lórien's unhurried phrasing and the merriment in her manner was disconcerting. I am not like those heroes with whom you travel, Legolas. I am a daughter of humble men.

Then how do you come to be in the service of Lothlórien? Legolas asked, crouching down on one knee to speak with her. I have not heard that the Galadrim take Men for march-wardens.

Ask the Rohirrim, she replied with a snort. They call my queen a witch. Few mortals escape her nets', they say, and shun the Golden Wood.

Legolas fixed intent eyes on her and waited patiently.

I am a wanderer, my lord, she said at last, yielding to his gaze, a daughter of the woodmen driven out when Dol Guldur's shadow grew again. She grinned her way past some old sorrow, having the rare pleasure of catching an elf by surprise. We fled to Ithilien seeking kin, but found it abandoned save for the watch-wardens of Gondor. My brother joined their company and bade me cower in their city of stone, but that was not to my liking! I knew some of your songs— rough though they are in the woodmen's tongue— and I had caught a glimpse of gold when we took Anduin south. I had never stopped looking over my shoulder. So I kept chasing songs until I found my way there, and in. Among the Galadhrim I have learned how to move, how to use what strength I have.

Legolas listened to her with a part of his mind, the rest bent to watch her closely. It could not be all the tale. How had she earned the right to stay, let alone to serve? And age sat very lightly indeed on one who did not bear the blood of Númenor. But he read no deceit in her eyes. There was, after all, a power in Lórien elves knew but did not name, and he had seen for himself how it held the currents of the outside world at bay.

You learned well, my lady, Legolas observed. But you do not sing.

Haleth ducked her head: he had touched a nerve. I am mortal, she said. My voice betrays me. But I listen.

So I have seen.

The chill wind gusting off the mountains had the space between them for a moment. The elf watched her steadily, and the human stared down at the reflection of the green mound cupped in the lake below. There was birch bark in her hair.

I think, she whispered, letting her guard down for a moment, I was allowed to enter the wood. But only so far, and then I was hard pressed to give a good account of how I came there. She gave an obscure smile. I passed the test.

Legolas' brow relaxed. he said. That answers half the riddle.

She dropped her chin to her hand, watching him shyly out of the corners of her eyes. she murmured after a pause. Have you ever seen the Golden Wood in spring?

The elf shook his head. Long have my folk been sundered from our kin in Lothlórien. Until now I had only seen it through the same songs you have heard.

Oh, but you must, she urged, face suddenly animated. The leaves above are gold, and the leaves on the ground are gold, and the trunks between are almost silver. The yellow blossoms on the boughs catch the clear light like tiny suns. Sometimes at dawn, with the new day shining through them, I catch a glimpse of Laurelin long gone. And when the new buds come— elo, little green jewels! I can't tell you of them, for I can't sing.

He smiled. You love the Golden Wood.

'How could I not? Haleth blushed. If Valinor is fairer still, I know why Men may not go there. The joy would kill us.

The elf laughed. And there is the other half of the riddle. Now I see why Celeborn lets you stay.

Her lips twitched with a flash of gratitude. A gift I try to honor.

Legolas rose again and looked north and a little east, shielding his eyes. Far and dim beyond the murky green of Fangorn he could see a hint of fallow gold. I shall have to come there another spring to see your golden nest.

She turned her face up towards him, yearning and only a small hint of envy in her eyes. Do you think it will fade? Sometimes the elves sing of Lórien as if it were already a memory.

I cannot tell. But the world is changing, my lady.

The world always changes! Haleth said fiercely. No season is the same. But spring returns.

Legolas smiled at her stubbornness. You may not carry the blood of Númenor, Haleth, but you carry hope. Do you ride to Gondor?

If any horse can be spared.

Legolas nodded. Then come; let us find one for you. He set a hand on the lip of the rock and went down first. Unbroken she might be, but he had noticed the catch in her movements that two nights' rest had not mended. This small leaf from Lórien would not fall while he was there.