A/N: Ach! Another slow-in-coming chapter. I have a million excuses, but you don't really want to hear any of them, so I'll just say that I was busy and distracted and lazy. Anyway, thank you to those of you who reviewed the last chapter, and hopefully the next one will be written in a more timely fashion.

The scorching heat and beating sun made it feel as though Khale and Eiliel were traveling through the lair of the Devil himself. They had brought precious little food, and their only source of water was a remote tributary of the Anduin that was nearly half a league away from the road, a detour they did not have time to make as often as they needed it. They would have followed the stream instead of the Great West Road but for fear of missing Edoras when the water turned north.

It seemed an eternity before the blazing sun began its descent towards the western horizon. The summer heat began to recede with the coming of dark, and their eyes, sore from the sweltering day, were given a much-needed respite.

It wasn't until the moment just before the sun set completely that they caught a glimpse of their destination. The plains rolled in large hills, and as the road crested one of them—

There it was, the city of Edoras, a black mass sprawled across a dark hilltop some three leagues away. Exchanging a glance, Eiliel and Khale spurred their horses into a trot.

There was silence for a long while as, finally, the light of the sun succumbed to that inky, black canopy, the tattered blanket through whose holes gleamed silver stars. Finally, Khale spoke, and his tone was slightly sullen. "I don't know how you plan on pulling this off, Eiliel."

"I've got to try, haven't I?" she answered grimly, gazing towards the distant city. "It's too late to go back now."

A noise from deep in his throat indicated his grudging consent. She did not understand; he had been glad to have her come, but now he was acting as though it had been against his better judgment. She glanced at him; his gaze was locked straight ahead, towards Edoras, but his eyes were slightly glazed, as though his mind was elsewhere.

Irritated enough to remain in hostile silence, Eiliel drew a deep breath and tried not to think about her brother, but before she had managed to put him out of her mind, he spoke.

"Really, though, how are you going to get away with this?"

She shrugged. "Stay inconspicuous, don't speak too often…."

He snorted. "This war could last months, and you think you're going to fool everyone you see into thinking you're a man for that long?"

"Well, what do you suggest?" she asked hotly. "What else can I do?"

He refused to meet her gaze.

"You want me to go back, don't you?" she demanded quietly.

Finally, he turned towards her, and she saw an emotion in his eyes that she was not accustomed to in her brother: fear.

"Eiliel," he whispered hoarsely, "what if you're killed? I'm already losing Papa and Quenne. I'd die if I lost you as well."

Her heart melted as she realized the real reason behind his malcontent, and she was touched by his humble candor. She smiled gently at him, but the comforting words she wanted to assure him with did not want to come. Something deep within her recognized the truth in his fears, and its weight pushed her into silence.

It was fully dark before they reached Edoras, and the tip of the moon was barely beginning to show. Eiliel wished she could see more; she wanted to be able to see if Edoras was as mighty as it was described by travelers coming through Aldburg. As it was, all she could make out were the two enormous stone pillars flanking the gates and some of the wall on either side of them.

"Hail! Who goes there?" a voice shouted from above.

They exchanged glances. After a moment, Khale cleared his throat and called back, "Khale and… Radathil, sons of Dilvraen, here to join the king's éored!"

There were muffled voices overhead, and then a loud creak, and the gates began to swing open.

With another glance at each other, they moved forward, spurring their horses towards the street. A soldier in full armor was approaching them from near the wall, and he held out his hand, indicating that he wanted them to stop.

"If you've already got your equipment, you can go straight to the Hall of the Éored. If you need armor or weapons," he added, eyeing Khale, whose plain tunic and lack of a sword had caught the soldier's eye, "the armory's but a hundred yards from the Hall." Khale thanked him, and they moved on towards the imposing building he had pointed out, one very near the top of the hill. Eiliel was about to follow him into the armory, but he told her that he could handle it very well on his own, and that she could go directly to the Hall. She still sensed a note of hostility in his voice, but she made an effort to forgive him, trying to remind herself of what he was feeling.

Alone now, she made her way to the Hall of the Éored. The legendary Meduseld, the seat of kings where friendships had been made between Gondor and Rohan, now seemed more like a herald of war than an ensign of peace. Eiliel, who had heard tales of it since she was a girl, felt oppressed by its appearance; it was mightily imposing, rather than, as she had imagined, ornately magnificent. It suddenly struck her how sad it was that the noble alliance between the two kingdoms must disintegrate into this, an ignominious end to such a historic moment. She had had little education past the practical applications necessary to a farmer's daughter, but she had learned enough of history to know of the mighty alliance that had been forged between Aragorn and Éomer, the first kings after the infamous War of the Ring. She had heard that their friendship was more than just political; they had been like brothers to each other, fighting side by side in the almost-hopeless battle against the Dark Lord Sauron.

What would they think, if they could see what their kingdoms have come to?

With an emotion that now bordered on disgust for the necessity that humans made of war, she reached the Hall of the Éored. Outside, fully armored and standing beside saddled horses, was a group of about thirty soldiers who appeared to be about to leave. She nervously dismounted, left her horse beside one of the hitching posts, and slipped through the giant double doors unnoticed.

Inside were about fifteen other men, some sitting around a table, others lounging against the wall. Two had spread out their bedding and were little more than incognizant lumps huddled beneath their blankets. Three or four looked up as she came in; only one paid her any attention more than a passing glance. That one stood up and crossed to her.

"What do they call you, lad?" he asked gruffly.

"Radathil," she answered rather apprehensively, giving him the name that Khale had used for her.

He grunted and motioned to the other men. "We're going to be part of the second éored to leave, tomorrow morning at dawn. The first one is just getting ready now—you probably saw them out there." He surveyed her, his brow furrowing. "Do you have any supplies?"

"Outside," she said hoarsely.

"You have a horse?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," he said brusquely, turning away. Eiliel stood there for a moment, unsure whether she was supposed to follow him, and then, making a tentative decision that she was free to do as she pleased, she went back out to her horse. She retrieved her bedroll, stroked the mare's mane gently, and returned to the hall spreading her tattered blanket out in a shadowy corner that was isolated from the other men.

Khale arrived not long after, receiving the same briefing from the same man and then coming to sit beside her. He had been provided with armor that was even shabbier than his tunic, which he laid aside in mild distaste. His sword had seen a lot of wear, but it was of good, sturdy make; it would do, he told her with a slight smile.

All that was left for them was to settle down and await the coming of dawn.

-- -- --

The past two days had not been easy on soldiers in the king's original éored. Aside from their normal training, which was more rigorous than usual because of the imminent war, they had had to prepare the city for the influx of Rohirrim that would crash over them as soon as the message was relayed throughout the kingdom. The armory had to be organized, the horses readied, their personal affairs set in order. The watch all over the city was doubled as a precaution against Gondorian spies, and it seemed like none of them got a moment's rest between their duties.

Thylian knew he should have been exhausted, but he barely felt the pangs of weariness. He would have liked to continue helping, but Moran, captain of the guard, had ordered him to his chambers, insisting that he needed his rest if he was to leave at dawn the next morning. Grudgingly, he had complied; now he lay in bed, tossing fitfully, sure he would not be able to sleep.

The pitch-black night grew slowly brighter as the moon emerged from its hiding place below the horizon. Thylian's eyes were fixed on the window, watching the silvery light grow from a small fragment into a full crescent and then recede again as it rose above his window's view. Teolir was leaving with his éored tonight, traveling with full speed towards the border to gain the advantage over Gondor. They would scout out the area and perhaps send a few spies towards Osgiliath in hopes of intercepting some information.

He pictured Teolir, leading a band of scouts past the Gondorian border, following the Anduin; perhaps, if luck was with him, he would send soldiers as far as Minas Tirith—

He pushed himself abruptly out of bed and wrapped his arms around himself, crossing pensively to the fireplace where the embers from that evening still glowed dimly. He rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the image of the city that he tried never to let himself remember.

He leaned against the mantelpiece for several long minutes, his forehead pressed against the cool stone, silently berating himself for his lack of self-control. It had been years since he had allowed his mind to wander that far; he tried never to let it reopen the wound and renew the fear of his past.

It was not that he was unhappy with his life in Rohan. King Halin had taken him into his own house, given him everything that he could possibly want: a home, an identity, an education—everything.

It was just that, deep within him, he felt that something of his old life had not quite died.

He still felt the barrier that separated him from the rest of the Rohirrim. It was not his dark hair or angular Gondorian face, though among strangers those characteristics certainly alienated him. Even amid those he knew best, the ones with whom he had spent the last fifteen years, he sensed that he was strangely apart. He did not—could not—feel like one of them.

Stop wallowing in self-pity, he reprimanded himself sharply. If you live in the past, your life will slip by while you mourn.

Deciding that he was not going to be able to sleep no matter how hard he tried, he pulled on a tunic and stepped into his boots. The corridors were chilly and deserted, but he paid the cold no heed as he walked swiftly towards his destination. He halted outside a small, unadorned door and knocked softly.

"Enter," said a voice from within the room.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside. These were Teolir's quarters, but no one would have guessed that they belonged to a prince; they were no better than anyone else's in the royal house. Teolir glanced up from a knot he was tying on a small bundle and upon seeing his friend, straightened and smiled.

"Are you leaving soon?" Thylian asked, gazing around the room. There was a knapsack leaning against the wall, a saddle beside his sword and scabbard on the bed, and a tunic of chain mail hung over a chair, all waiting to be taken somewhere.

Teolir nodded. "As soon as I can get off."

Thylian surveyed him silently as he finished the knot and tossed the bundle into his pack. There was a moment before the prince spoke. "You should in bed," he said quietly. "You're supposed to leave a half-day after I do, and you'll be exhausted if you don't get some rest."

Thylian let out a long breath. "I couldn't sleep." He began fingering a small ornament on the desk in the corner: a smooth, wooden horse, carved by King Halin for his son when he was a boy. He felt a sharp stab of unspeakable sorrow as he thought of young Teolir at his father's knee, and he set the figure down abruptly, rubbing his fingers together as though stung. The prince had the tact to pretend not to have seen, though Thylian was sure he had.

After a few more moments, Teolir breached the silence once more. "Have you met your soldiers yet?"

"Soldiers," Thylian repeated hollowly, and there was the barest trace of derision in his voice. He turned towards the window, facing the night sky and feeling the cool breeze on his face. "The men coming to Edoras are not soldiers," he said softly. "They are merchants, farmers, doctors, scholars, blacksmiths, horse breeders—not soldiers. Barely three hundred men in all of Rohan have been trained to fight, kill, and die for their kingdom."

Teolir's hands had paused in belting his sword to his waist. He came up slowly behind his friend. "You should not doubt the courage and loyalty of the Rohirrim."

"I doubt neither," Thylian answered. "Only their strength and their skill." He sighed and leaned against the windowsill. "As much as I admire and respect your father, Teolir, I think that not keeping an army trained and prepared was a mistake."

A hand on his shoulder made him turn and meet the prince's blue eyes. "Do not lose faith, my friend," he said softly. "There is hope yet."

He was walking back towards his pack when Thylian said bitterly, "And if we should lose?"

Teolir stopped and turned slowly towards him, his eyes gleaming. "We shall fight," he whispered, "with every fragment of valor we have within us, with every ounce of strength that we can give, and with every hope that we shall come out victorious. And if we should lose, then we shall stand tall, hold our heads high, and meet defeat knowing that we have done everything within our power to defend our kingdom and our liberty."

Wishing that he could find such conviction himself, Thylian watched as his friend finished putting on his armor and collecting his belongings. He offered to carry his saddle, and they walked together in silence towards the Hall of the Éored. Thirty men were grouped in front of it, looking rather restless and cold. Teolir placed his things beside his horse, a tall, black stallion, and addressed the men.

"Soldiers! I am Teolir—your captain and the general of seven éored. We ride tonight for Gondor's border; if we travel at a decent speed, we will reach it in two days. It is our task to scout out the area and find a suitable location to establish our army. Other éored will follow in half-day increments, and by the time the third arrives, we must have a place selected. Remember that you are in the service of your king and your people; their liberty rests in your hands. Prepare to ride!"

Packs were strapped on to horses; men pulled on their last vestments of armor; horses were mounted. Teolir turned to Thylian. No words were spoken between them, but they locked eyes and gripped each other's wrists for a moment in silent understanding: their final farewell before parting. They would not be apart more than two days, but the brotherly bond between them could not be denied a sincere, profound goodbye. Then the prince put his foot in the stirrup, swung his leg over his horse, and called out a command, and then he was gone.

As he watched him ride into the darkness, off towards a war that waited on the other side of the kingdom, Thylian felt more alone than he had in a very long time.

"Godspeed, my friend," he whispered. Then he turned away, back towards his chambers, where he would await the coming of dawn.