I have to bombard you with a really long author's note before we begin, so brace yourselves.

First, I'm incredibly sorry that this took so appallingly long to update. I was swamped with school and church stuff for two weeks, and then I wrote the chapter but absolutely despised it, so I had to come up with some ideas for fixing it… anyway, it ended up taking a really long time. I apologize profusely and beg you to count your blessings: in my last story, one of my chapters took four months to post. Consider yourselves lucky.

Secondly, I have a bit of a problem. There's something that was supposed to be clearer last chapter than it ended up being: Andrin and Thylian are the same person. Fifteen years have passed, and Thylian (Andrin) has assimilated into Rohirric culture. Remember how he introduced himself to everyone in Rohan as "Thylian?" Well, now he's left "Andrin" behind and he even refers to himself by his adopted Rohirric name. Trust me, I had a devil of a time trying to decide whether I should call him Thylian or Andrin: both seemed appropriate in some ways and inappropriate in others. As my readers, you are also in a way my editors, so your opinions and critiques would be very welcome on that point.

On the other hand, Thylian and Teolir are NOT the same person. Thylian is Andrin: Teolir is the son of Halin and the Prince of Rohan. That one was entirely my fault—I made the names too similar.

Alright, now that we've cleared that up (and if it still doesn't make sense, feel free to tell me), we can proceed with the actual chapter, which, in fact, isn't about any of the aforementioned characters at all.

"We'll have to sell the mule."

The man sank wearily into a rickety wooden chair, the only furniture in the room other than a thin straw pallet in the corner. His head sank into his hands as he repeated his words helplessly. "We'll have to sell it."

"The mule is all we have," answered another voice. This one belonged to a woman, entering the small room with a basket of clean wool borne on her hip. She set it down and stood behind her husband. "If we don't have a mule, we'll have to plow the field by hand."

"So be it," he answered hoarsely. "We will work day and night if we have to, but the field must be plowed, and the mule must be sold." With a heavy sigh, he stood up and crossed to the mat in the corner. "We have to get a physician here, and there's only one way we'll get enough money for that."

He knelt down slowly beside the straw pad. With loving tenderness, he reached out a gentle hand and placed it on the forehead of the small girl who lay there. Her skin was pale and shiny, and though she was asleep, she tossed fitfully under her father's touch. Her blond hair was a tangled mess on the pallet, lank and damp with sweat.

"Quenne," he whispered soothingly, "Quenne, it's Papa. Can you hear me?"

Her eyes flickered open, but they were glazed over, delirious with the fever. He laid his hand against the side of her face, but she did not seem to recognize him. "Quenne…" he said softly, and he bowed his head, whether in anguish or in silent prayer, his wife could not tell. She set her basket down in the corner and joined him beside the girl, trying not to allow her own tears to fall as she watched his splash to the ground.

"I'll go fetch Eiliel," she whispered. "I set her to work clearing a corner of the field because she kept hovering in here, torn between misery and helplessness, in no way helping, but she's the only one who Quenne seems to respond to."

There only seemed a fleeting moment between when she disappeared and when Eiliel entered. She had the radiant look of a girl barely become a woman—around twenty years old, with a full face and graceful walk. Her golden hair was braided in a long plait down her back, quite a contrast to the usual flyaway curls that she preferred to let hang loosely around her shoulders. Her face was tearstained, and her hands shook slightly as she knelt beside the man.

"How is she?" she asked tremulously, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

He seemed unable to speak for a moment. When he did, it was an effort. "We need to get the doctor in here. Her fever is worse."

The tears stung Eiliel's eyes again. "Worse," she repeated hollowly.

"Aye."

"We can't afford a doctor."

"We'll sell the mule."

Eiliel felt a sob escape her throat. "How are we going to bring in a crop? We won't be able to plow the field early enough—it will freeze before it's ready to harvest."

He shook his head grimly. "We'll have to do what it takes," he said quietly. "We'll get by, I promise." He stood up abruptly. "I'll have Khale take the mule into town and sell it, then take the money and ask the doctor to come."

A moment later, Eiliel was alone with Quenne. With some effort, she moved her sister's head into her lap and began to softly stroke the curls.

"Quenne," she said in a low voice, trying to hold back the barrage of tears that threatened to burst the bounds of her self-control. "Do you want to hear a story?"

There was no answer, but the girl's shivering spasms seemed less violent now.

"When you were first born," Eiliel continued, kissing the sweaty brow, "not an hour old, I told Mama, 'Quenne is mine.' You got a fever shortly thereafter, worse than this one is, and they didn't think that you would make it through. But I told them—I told them every hour that I needed a sister, and I couldn't just let you go. You were going to live, if only for me."

She smiled sadly. "I have Khale, but brothers aren't the same as sisters. I was ten years old when you were born, and I was tired of only having boys to talk to. It didn't bother me that you couldn't speak for the first few years anyway—I talked to you nevertheless, and it always seemed like you understood me better than they did, even if you didn't know what I was saying."

"Eiliel?"

She looked up as a shadow fell across the door. A man, older than she by about two years, stepped into the room. She smiled weakly at him. "Hello, Khale."

Her heart went out to her brother upon seeing the expression on his face: it was one of complete and utter helplessness. Poor Khale, so used to being strong and smart enough to do anything that was asked of him, found to his dismay that his physical and mental abilities could not fight the illness that was killing his sister. He shied away from the corner in which she lay, as though unequal to seeing her in such a weakened state. "I—I just wanted to ask, is there anything you want me to take care of while I'm in town? Papa wants me to sell the mule."

"Aye, I know."

"Anything I can do for you there?"

She glanced at Quenne. "Do you think I could come with you?"

He shrugged, an attempt at calm nonchalance that was a mask for his feelings of tension and despair. "Why?"

She felt the tears trying to force themselves past the lump in her throat. "I need to get out of the house," she said hoarsely. "I can't stand just sitting here anymore, doing nothing."

He looked grateful to know that he was not the only one suffering such emotions, and in response, he reached down to help her up. Papa entered with a fresh pail of water just as they left the room, and Eiliel asked whether she could go into town with Khale. He looked torn; he knew that Quenne needed her sister, but he also knew that if he forced her to spend any more time in there, it would drive her mad. Only after securing a promise that they would return as quickly as possible, did he give his permission.

Khale tied a halter around the old donkey's neck and slapped its flank to make it move. They began walking swiftly up the road, spanning the half-mile to the town in less than a quarter of an hour. They talked, approaching every subject but one that might lead to Quenne or to the coming planting season. Neither was one that they wanted to think about.

The center of Aldburg, as with most Rohirric cities, was a bustling marketplace. Goods were traded, bought, sold, gambled over, and occasionally stolen. Khale, one hand holding the lead rope and the other thrust nervously in his pocket, made his way towards a merchant who might buy the donkey off of him.

Eiliel watched him for a moment, but she was quickly distracted by the sound of pounding hooves. The crowd was parting to make way for a magnificent black stallion bearing a tired and dirty messenger. Leaving her brother to haggle over the price of the animal, Eiliel moved interestedly towards where he had halted in the middle of the marketplace.

Silence prevailed over the group immediately surrounding the messenger, who seemed to be trying to catch his breath. After a moment, he straightened up on his horse, raised his fist, and cried out in a ringing voice, "Gondor has chosen to make war against the Mark!"

Anyone who had yet failed to notice this newcomer could no longer remain ignorant; a hush swept over the crowd as the news was passed to the corners of the square. Eiliel felt something clench within her chest. War? War would mean giving up her father and her brother, just at the time when they were needed most. They would ride away to serve their king, and then only she and her mother would be left to care for Quenne and plant the fields. A feeling of despair and bitterness welled up inside her: how dare they call for men to leave their families in desperate need? She knew it was irrational and selfish—soldiers were needed to defend the borders against the Gondorians—but she could not bear thought of losing either Papa or Khale.

"Gondor has chosen to make war against the Mark!" the messenger repeated, and this time he had the full crowd's attention. "King Halin has sent a request for any able-bodied man to report to Edoras as soon as possible!"

Eiliel's eyes sought Khale out in the throng, and when they found him, the same hopelessness she felt was mirrored in his face. She was hit by a wave of anger towards the king—this man who had never met them demanded that they send their men to fight for him, when they were needed more at home. Trying to quell her rage, she made herself listen to the messenger's next words.

"Your King realizes that coming to Edoras will take you away from your families. It is spring, and there will be planting to be done as soon as the last frost passes. Your wives and your children need you, but your kingdom needs you as well. As compensation, therefore, every man's expenses will be paid while he is under His Majesty's service and a monthly salary of ten lisy'i will be distributed to the family of every man who enlists."

Khale and Eiliel exchanged a look. Ten lisy'i was not a fortune, but it would buy a doctor. Twenty, between Papa and Khale, would secure the rest of the family for as long as they were gone.

"King Halin asks that every man report to Edoras by sundown four days hence—earlier, if possible. You will be issued weapons upon arrival if you have none. Please ensure that this news gets spread to everyone in Aldburg."

The messenger dismounted, heading for the inn, and the crowd dissolved into chaotic noise. Eiliel fought her way towards Khale, who impatiently closed up the deal with the merchant and came out of it with three lisy'i.

"I tried to get five," he told her dejectedly, pocketing the money as they walked away, "but it was hard work to get three. He wasn't very keen to part with his gold."

"I can't say I blame him," Eiliel said bitterly. "That mule honestly wasn't worth more than three."

"Three is something, though."

They walked in silence for a while, tracing their way to the doctor's home with mounting fear that their meager sum wouldn't be sufficient. It was Khale that finally broached the subject that both were keen to talk about but neither wanted to begin.

"I'm going to go," he said quietly.

"I knew you would," his sister answered hollowly. "Papa will, too. He doesn't have much of a choice, anyway. They called for all 'able-bodied men.'"

"Think about it, though, Eiliel," he said, and though it was overlaid with worry and fear and sorrow, she heard the barest edge of excitement in his voice. "Twenty lisy'i every month. That will get you through without even having to plant a crop this year and pay for a doctor. You might even have extra."

"What I want to know," Eiliel muttered darkly, "is how Halin is planning on paying thousands of families ten lisy'i a month."

"He levied a higher tax on the richer people about a year ago, and he's probably been stashing that money away for something exactly like this. You have to admit, he's a smart man and a good ruler."

Eiliel didn't want to admit this; she felt irrationally inclined blame the king for everything her family was going through, and it was a lot harder if she had to think of him as a good ruler.

They reached the doctor's house in silence, Eiliel allowing her anger to fester and Khale trying to decide what to say that might make the doctor accept such a nominal fee. He knocked on the door, and it was a long time before the man answered it, his face strained and weary. "What do you want?" he asked rather harshly.

"Sir, my sister is delirious with fever, and she needs a doctor."

His hard expression softened slightly. "I'm sorry, lad, but the fever's breaking out all over town, and I've got too many patients to tend to already. You could bring her here—"

"I'd have to carry her half a mile! That could kill her, and it wouldn't exactly work wonders for my back."

He shook his head slowly. "I can't come. Not when I've got others on the verge of death."

He turned away, starting to shut the door, but Khale blocked it with his arm. "Please, sir," he said, the desperation evident in his face, "she's but a girl, she'll die if she doesn't get help."

"Understand this, son," he said angrily, "I am just one man. I cannot help everyone in Aldburg. Now please, leave my home."

"Will you tell me what I can do for her, at least?" Khale demanded.

The doctor let out a long sigh. "How much money can you give me?"

"Three lisy'i," Khale answered, flushing. He knew the scorn that would follow from only being able to afford such a small amount.

The doctor looked coldly at him. "You expect me to sell my secrets for a measly three coins?"

"I expect you," Khale growled through gritted teeth, "to work in the best interests of humanity, rather than in the best interests of a greedy doctor, especially when you have enough of a fortune to support yourself comfortably for the rest of your life. If you can't do that, then you are no better than the scum of the streets."

This hit a raw nerve. "Fine," he said haughtily. "Give me the money, and I will give you the recipe for a tonic that helps ease the fever."

The exchange was made, and, with barely concealed contempt, the two men shook hands.

Eiliel congratulated herself on having controlled her temper so well. She had been ready to kick the doctor until he was black and blue.

They arrived home just before sunset, and Khale explained what had happened to their parents. He gave the slip of parchment with the potion recipe on it to his mother, the only one in the household who could read. She instantly set to brewing it as Khale and Eiliel exchanged a nervous look that did not escape their father.

"What is it?" he asked slowly, after they didn't offer an explanation.

"A messenger rode into town while we were there today," Eiliel said after a moment.

"Was it public news?"

"He came from Edoras," Khale continued when Eiliel didn't answer. "He brought tidings of Gondor."

"What about Gondor?" prompted Papa.

"They've declared war on Rohan."

"King Halin wants every able-bodied man to report to Edoras as soon as possible."

Papa leaned back against the wall, his eyes closing. "Why now?" he muttered helplessly. "Now, of all times…"

"Papa," Eiliel said softly, "they're offering a ten lisy'i compensation for the families of every man who goes."

His head shot up. "Ten?".he repeated hoarsely.

They nodded.

"I'm going, Father," Khale said after a long silence.

Their mother, who had done her best not to react to the news, suddenly sobbed. She put her hand over her mouth in an attempt to stop it, but she could to naught but succumb to the tears that splashed into the old, rusty kettle over which she stood.

"Mama, don't cry," Khale said helplessly. "I have to, and you'll get enough money to pay for a doctor."

"I have to go as well," Papa said grimly, and his wife's sobs redoubled. "You won't regret it, love, not when Quenne has recovered because of the constant care of a doctor. Trust me."

He stood up to make his way over towards Quenne, but he suddenly stopped. His face twisted in consternation as he fell to his knees. Eiliel screamed: Khale rushed to his father's side.

"No," Papa grunted, "I'm fine, I'll be alright, just a moment of dizziness…"

But he could not stand up. Mama laid a gentle hand on his forehead. "It's burning hot," she whispered. "This is how it happened with Quenne, too, she just… collapsed…"

Eiliel dipped a rag in the pail of cold water beside her sister's bed and laid it against her father's brow. They helped him over to the pallet, where he lay, breathing hard. "I'll be fine," he insisted, but his voice was getting weaker. If it followed the pattern it had with his daughter, he would stay awake for half an hour, then go to sleep and never really come out of it, succumbing to the delirium that the fever brought on. Eiliel couldn't believe it; how could things have gotten worse than they already had been? Numbly, unable to think, she helped Mama make the recipe that the doctor had given them. It wasn't finished until after midnight, and by then, they hardly had enough energy to administer it to their father and sister. Finally, exhausted, they allowed themselves to sleep.

Sometime in the early morning, Eiliel jerked out of her slumber. She wasn't sure whether it was an actual noise or just her dream that had awakened her. She glanced nervously around, looking for something that might have made the noise. The dark around her seemed menacing, and the moon cast its eerie light through the cracks around the door.

Don't be ridiculous, she snapped at herself. You're not a child anymore; you should not be afraid of the dark.

Settling back down onto her bed—or rather, the thin blanket on the floor where she slept—she let her mind wander off. Maybe it was her dream that had started her out of sleep. It had been a strange one: Quenne, perfectly healthy, was waving Khale off, and Khale had been saying, "Don't worry, little one, I'll bring back the army to make you better." Then Eiliel had joined them, bedecked to ride to Edoras to join the King's éored as well, saying that women should be allowed to fight alongside men—

Her eyes flew open again. The idea that had just hit her made her heart pound furiously in her chest, and she was sure that Khale and her mother, sleeping in the other corners of the room, would hear it. For a moment, it seemed wildly impossible, but as she considered it, rolling it over in her mind, she thought, Maybe….

Even if Papa got better within the next two days—unlikely—he would be too weak to ride with the Rohirrim. Khale would still go, but their prospects had just diminished: ten lisy'i a month could not pay to support Mama and Eiliel and a doctor to take care of two invalids. They needed that extra ten lisy'i. They had no other men in the house, but perhaps, just possibly, they wouldn't need another one.

Adrenaline surging through her veins, she rolled off of her blanket and crawled over to the corner in which Khale slept. She laid a hand on his arm and he bolted upright, grabbing her wrist. He relaxed when he realized it was only his sister.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"What're you doing?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

She swallowed hard, knowing that if she said it, she couldn't let herself take it back. "I'm coming with you."

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, rolling over.

"To Edoras."

He stopped rustling, and silence fell over them. "To Edoras?" he repeated disbelievingly.

She nodded.

Khale snorted so loud that Eiliel was afraid he'd wake Mama, who had fallen asleep seated next to her husband, holding his hand. "You can't be serious," he said, half laughingly. The other half, however, was nervousness, as though he feared this harebrained scheme of hers might be in earnest.

As if in response, Eiliel stood and crossed to the mantelpiece, under which was laid their meager collection of cooking utensils: crude wooden bowls, their kettle, some spoons, and a rather dull knife. She picked up this last item, pulled her long, braided hair over her shoulder, and took a deep breath. Without allowing herself to think about what she was doing, she used the blade to sever her hair. The long, golden end of the braid fell to the floor, and she shook the rest of it out, leaving her with hair that was shoulder-length. No woman wore her hair that short—only men.

Khale just stared at her, unable to believe she had done it. Eiliel laid the braid and the knife on the mantelpiece. She didn't know how to write, and even if she had, she didn't have any parchment to leave a note on, but her mother would know what the hair meant. She turned defiantly to face her brother. "I'm serious," she whispered.

She expected him to get angry at her, to try to deny her permission to come—anything but what he did. He stood up, crossed to her, and embraced her warmly. "For your sake," he muttered, fingering her short hair, "I would have you stay behind. But since you're resolved on going and nothing I say will make a difference, I'm glad you'll be there with me."

"We have to go," she whispered as they broke apart. "If Mama wakes up, she'll never let me leave."

His eyes darted around the room, looking for anything he might want to take. His eyes locked on a trunk beside the fireplace.

It was where their family kept everything that meant anything to them. An old letter from a now-deceased grandparent, perhaps, or a bridle harness that Papa's horse had worn before he'd had to sell it. Khale crossed to it, lifted the lid slowly, and withdrew five things: a tunic of chain-mail, a belt, a helmet, a scabbard, and finally, a sword. He handed them to Eiliel.

She refused to take them. "No, you can have them. Grandfather's armor would rightfully be passed to you."

He looked as though he were about to argue, but he decided better of it. Instead, he seized her up. "You can't go join the éored if you're wearing a dress," he told her.

After he had supplied her with his only spare set of tunic and leggings, they were ready. They looked around the room one last time, their eyes lingering with loving fondness on their family, grouped in the corner.

"We're leaving them in order to help them," Khale muttered, as though to assuage a guilty conscience—though whether it was meant for himself or for his sister, Eiliel didn't know. "With twenty lisy'i a month, they'll be fine."

"I certainly hope so," she answered softly.

Fifty steps from the door of the house, guided by the light of a bright moon, Khale halted. "We can't walk to Edoras," he said. "We're going to need a horse. Or two."

They looked at each other. There was only one way they were going to get a horse, and since they couldn't afford one and didn't know anyone who would give them one, that left—

"I never liked that stable master I worked for a few years back," Khale muttered, as though to justify what he knew he would have to do. "All the times he yelled at me or tried to hit me…. He was a regular scumbag, that one. Dishonest in his dealings with everyone."

"He has plenty of horses, and even if he didn't, he has a fortune," Eiliel added.

It wasn't difficult. The stables were guarded by only one man, who, fortunately, was drunk and let them pass with a jubilant, "All hail King Halin!" Eiliel had to smother her mouth to keep from laughing. They walked out leading a chestnut and a bay, fully bridled and saddled, out towards the Great West Road. Eiliel hadn't ridden a horse since she was a small girl, but Khale, who had worked for the owner of these particular horses when he was fifteen, patiently showed her how to mount and ride the bay mare. He took the wilder chestnut stallion that Eiliel was afraid to go too near—it looked like it was glaring at her, as though it would be glad for the chance to trample her underfoot.

"Horses can sense fear," he said softly as he helped her mount. "If she doesn't think you're afraid, then she will have respect for you, and only then will she bear you well."

He had her ride back and forth in front of him a few times and declared that, like most Rohirrim, she had taken very naturally to riding a horse. With one last look at each other, they set off down the Great West Road, towards Edoras.

Towards war.