Aragorn rallied all aboard the ships to him, his vessel reaching the quays first. They did not take the time to lower the boarding ramp, instead climbing to the rails and jumping off and onto the docks. The Rohirrim on the shore cheered as they joined them in the battle. The enemy, having expected their own to be arriving, and not a handful of Dunedain warriors and men of Gondor coming on their own ships, began to run. They had nowhere to flee but into more Rohirrim. The clash of steel on steel and shouting from both sides was deafening.

Daeril had trained for battle much of her life, but nothing could prepare her for the real thing. There were corpses everywhere, of men and orcs and horses, the grass turning black with blood. In the heat of battle, it did not seem real, it did not bother her. There was only her sword, and a mass of vile creatures blocking their way to the city. Her blade began to dance, hacking and slashing, ringing on metal until her arm muscles burned and her breathing became quick and shallow. This was not as the old songs made battle seem, heroic and epic and beautiful; it was loud, and exhausting, and everything smelled of sweat and blood and smoke.

Halbarad was charging just ahead of Daeril, fighting one handed as he held aloft the banner of Aragorn. Daeril rallied to him, fighting any orc or enemy man who drew too close. She lost sight of him as something hit her hard in the back, driving her roughly to her knees. She regained her feet, spinning around to confront her challenger, a man twice her size, a Haradrim, face covered in a dark cloth leaving only his black-rimmed eyes visible. He swung his scimitar again, which Daeril blocked with her own sword. The big man did not relent, pushing his weapon against Daerils as if if she weren't holding it back with every fiber of her being. She was not weak, but she knew when she was outmatched, and this was an opponent that she could not hope to beat with strength alone. She charged sideways, breaking the contact with his blade, ducking down as his swung where her head had been previously. She was breathing hard, shaking, but mind completely in the fight. She swung her sword in a wide arc, turning into the swing, hoping the momentum would take him down. Her aim was true, but the man was already dead, an arrow protruding from his eye socket. Daeril's head snapped to, finding her savior, the Prince of Mirkwood. She nodded a thank you to the elf, and he beckoned her to him.

"How are you with that?" He asked, indicating the bow strapped to her back.

"Decent," She replied.

"String it, and stay with me."

She sheathed her blade, taking the bow out its bindings and covering down on Legolas as she strung it. It was no elvish longbow, but she knew it's draw and could aim well enough. She kept close to the elf, Gimli keeping sweep behind them with axe-work. Between the two archers, they were able to pick off many foes on horseback, clearing the way for Aragorn to get to the leader of the Rohirrim. When Daeril ran out of arrows, she retrieved any that she could while Legolas covered her, bringing back a mixture of his arrows, her own, and even some of the enemy. One black arrow she had not realized was coated in a black tarry substance until Legolas took it from her grasp and threw it to the ground.

"Did you touch any of that?"

"No! I didn't!"

"That is poison on the tip. I recommend you avoid those."

She knew then not to pick up anymore black arrows. And to not be shot with one, perhaps, was important too. The day drew on, the enemy putting up a relentless fight. The Southrons and Easterlings would not yield, choosing death before dishonor in battle. There were orcs upon orcs, and uruks, and troll half-breeds. Massive dead carcasses were strewn about, war trolls and what Legolas identified as Mumakil. Daeril had doubted their existence, her brother having been the only person she knew who had claimed to see one, and yet there they were.

Daeril was seperated from Legolas and Gimli when her brother appeared, rallying the Dunedain to his side. They had been at battle for hours, and it was well into the afternoon. Daenir had lost his helm at some point, and had a bleeding gash on his bald scalp. Other than minor cuts and bruises among the Dunedain, nobody was injured enough to take them out of the battle. Halbarad, however, had been slain. The banner now was posted in the field, back towards the ships, and many men fought by it. Daenir led those he had gathered back to the banner, fighting foes along the way.

Long they fought, Halbarad's body still lying beside the banner as they defended it. The battle began to quiet through the afternoon, and by the sunset, blood red over a field of death, all enemies were slain or driven off to die. Aragorn returned to the Dunedain, bidding them retrieve the horses from the ship and rally to him. The boarding ramp was now down, and they once more returned to the ship. The horses were more than happy to get out of the smelly, dark and cramped livery below-decks, yet most of them patiently walked as they were led off. Daeril's horse, however, was beside himself. He climbed the ramp to the deck, prancing as he always did when nervous. When they walked on to the ramp, he charged forward, leaping forward into the air. The reins were torn from Daeril's hands, the horse knocking her backwards. She reached fruitlessly for the ramp as she fell into the water, her armor pulling her straight down.

Gilon sprung into action, catching the girl's wrist as she thrashed in the water, and pulling her up with a swift yank on her arm. She came up sputtering and coughing, but was able to latch onto the side of the ramp. Daenir ran forward, grabbing the back collar of his sister's leather cuirass, and pulling her up the rest of the way.

"You are alright?" Daenir queried.

Daeril nodded, still coughing the water she had inhaled. Those that had witnessed it, now knowing she had not been harmed, began to laugh. Daeril walked back onto shore, sloshing and feeling weighed down by soaked clothing and armor. Her horse was now standing with Thannor, ears forward and blowing at everything he could see and smell. Daeril took his reins from Thannor, thanking the older ranger.

"At least you washed the blood off," Thannor joked. "You look far prettier than any of us, save for the elves among us."

Daeril's nose hurt from water entering it, her ears were full of water, and every single inch of her was drenched to the bone. How she looked was the last thing on her mind. Once all of the horses were off the ship, they mounted up and rode towards the city gates following Aragorn, Éomer and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and their captains. Of the rangers, three including Halbarad had fallen in battle. A few were wounded, but not fatally, and could still ride. It was a long ride across the field, and they passed much carnage on the way.

Rocky lost his mind once more at the sight of a dead Mumak, and Daeril had to pull out of the group by Daenir's leave. One of Éomer's men came to her aid, his own steed calm and collected despite the thing that Rocky found so terrifying. The others continued on, leaving Daeril struggling with the horse. Rocky was up on his hind legs, pawing at the air in front of him as Daeril clung to his neck shouting elvish curses at him. The rider of Rohan came beside them, speaking calmly in accented common tongue.

"Give him his head," He spoke. "If he bolts, do not panic. We will catch you."

Daeril tried to sit deeper, making sure her feet were securely in the stirrups before she let the reins loose. The horse came back down on all fours, and sprung forward, bolting as she had expected. She expected him to keep running, but he stopped when he realized the other horse was matching his pace. Rocky came down to a walk, still prancing and blowing.

"We will walk by it again," The man spoke. "Do not pull back on the reins."

The last thing she ever expected to be doing after a long and arduous battle was training her spastic horse, but it was a welcome distraction from the death that surrounded them. The other horse, a beautiful smokey grey, was walking towards the great dead beast as though it were just an everyday object. Rocky kept in step with him, and did not give a repeat performance of his acrobatics.

"What is your name?" The man asked her.

"Daeril," She replied. "And yours, sir?"

"Aldrych," He gave her a casual salute. "I did not know Lord Aragorn had shield-maidens among his people."

"Shield-maidens? I have not heard of that term."

"Women who are trained warriors," He explained. "All women of Rohan know how to wield a sword, if the need arises. None fight in our army, however."

The two riders made a full perimeter of the carcass, and Rocky finally became accustomed to the sight. It was as if it had never bothered him to begin with. Soon the riders moved along, looking for the group they had been separated from. Aldrych talked of his son, who was also one of Éomer's captains, hinting that he was Daeril's age and unmarried. Daeril could only laugh that the older man was playing match-maker in the aftermath of a battle. Within the hour they came upon the rest of the Grey Company, heading towards a relatively clear section on the battle field where a camp would be set up. Aldrych bid Daeril farewell, riding back to his men. Daeril corraled Rocky with the other horses, and got to work with her kinsmen, setting up the large war-tents that had been brought from the city. By late evening they had tents up, some furniture brought down from the city to fill them, and a large bonfire going to cook their first meal of the day on. Everyone was drained from the battle, and grieving losses, but spirits were still kindled by the victory they had earned.

"How are you still wet?" Aeldis asked, grasping at Daeril's cloak as she sat by the fire. "Come, let's get you into dry clothes."

The older woman led Daeril to a small tent, which they would share with others in the company. Aeldis had a pair of extra leather breeches in her pack, but not much else. Daeril cast off her armor, then her wet clothes save for her blouse, and donned the breeches which, thankfully, fit perfectly. Aeldis demanded Hador spare one of his shirts, which Daeril pulled on before he even left the tent. Hador flushed, turning away just in time, and Daeril realized changing in front of the men was probably not the most ladylike thing to do. They hung her clothes and armor outside the tent, then rejoined the company by the fire. Someone had brought a small cask of wine down from the city, and everyone around the fire passed around cups of it, all sharing due to lack of supplies.

Thannor began to sing, and the Rohirrim men that had come to join their fire listened in confused but stunned silence at the elvish dirge. It was an ode to those who had been lost, Halbarad, Golodir, and Haedirn, as well as Théoden King. When he finished, they all drank a toast in their honor, and then some kept drinking until most had disappeared off to the tents to sleep, in a battle and wine induced stupor. Daeril stayed awake, exhausted beyond measure but her mind too active to sleep. Word had come from the city, relayed by some of the soldiers of Gondor drinking with them, that the Steward, Denethor, was dead and his son Faramir was now Steward. She did not ask, she did not dare to believe what the answer may be, so she kept quiet. Boromir would have returned to the city by now, so she had thought nothing of it when Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli were found not in his company in Rohan. She had assumed he had gone on his own, but now it was evident that had not happened.

It was in the early morning hours that Legolas joined her and Gilon, who was nearly asleep as he sat gazing into the coals, by the dwindling fire. The elf sat near them, taking out one of his long daggers and beginning to sharpen it. Daeril realized her sword was probably in desperate need of cleaning and whetting, but could not muster the energy to retrieve it. She watched as he deftly worked on the edge, the silvery blade gleaming in the firelight.

"You cannot sleep?" Legolas asked.

"I don't know if I could if I tried," Daeril replied.

"Well I can," Gilon slurred slightly, standing up only a bit unsteadily. "Goodnight, friends."

They bid the ranger farewell, and he stumbled off to the tent.

"You fought well today, Rýndirien. Was this your first battle?"

"It was."

"Many do not escape their first true fight unscathed. You have been trained well."

"Thank you, my lord."

They sat in silence for a bit, the only sound the coals popping and the scrape of whetstone against Legolas's blades. Daeril gathered the courage to ask the elf of Boromir's fate, not because she feared asking the very approachable prince of Mirkwood, but because she knew it would hurt to confirm her fears.

"Boromir did not reach the city, did he?" She finally asked.

Legolas put down the knife and whetstone, looking to the girl.

"You have not been told?"

She shook her head.

"No, he did not. He was slain at Amon Hen, protecting Merry and Pippin from Uruk-hai."

Daeril had to remind herself to breathe, as her heart seemed to plummet in her chest. She knew, somehow, but this was still news. She did not cry, nor let her emotions get the better of her. Already she had lost so many close to her, and Boromir had only been a friend for a short time.

"You were a friend of Boromir?" Legolas asked.

"We talked some in Rivendell. He promised to show me the city if I were to ever come here. He loved Minas Tirith."

"Indeed, he did. Perhaps when his brother Faramir is healed, he can show you. Boromir would have wanted you to."

She knew what Legolas was saying was just words of comfort, and the elf did not know her well, but she did take solace in them. Whatever was beyond this life, everyone she had lost was there: Her mother and father, and Faron, and Boromir, and Halbarad... how many more would join them in the coming days?

Legolas soon left, bidding her find sleep before the morning was through. She tended the coals with a long stick, the fire still going as the stars above waned. She was still awake when Aragorn came into the camp, his cloak set tightly about him in the chill of morning.

"You did not wait up just for me, did you Daeril?"

Aragorn looked as exhausted as she felt. She made to deny him, but he sent her off with a wave of his hand.

"Get some rest, you need it."

It was not in her to argue with her chieftain, who was soon to be King, so alas she went to her tent and was asleep almost as soon as her eyes were closed. There was quiet in the camp, and throughout the Fields of the Pelennor, but the minds of fighting men, and women, were never quiet.

A/N: Writing a battle was more difficult than I imagined. I had to watch a lot of Game of Thrones! Reviews much appreciated!