The troop of Rohirrim rode up to the missing bridge promontory just in time to see the small body tip off the cliff and plunge into the swirling waters of the river forty feet below. While the Belfalas team of thirty men and women struggling to haul the thick suspension chains across the chasm watched in shock, Eomer commanded the nearest to tell him where the easiest passage down was. He could already see the dark head bobbing along with the swiftly moving flow, arms flailing and just missing large logs and detritus seething downstream after the big rains which had prevented the Rohirrim from fording at their usual crossing.

Once a laborer stammered out directions in Westron to a horsepath a mile downstream, Eomer kneed Firefoot to sprint along the cliff downriver. More used to running on the open plains, nevertheless he was a warhorse and well used to twisting and turning over foes. In this case, the foes were overturned trees and downed branches, stationary and easier to anticipate than an Uruk-hai swung halberd. Still the river-swept laborer, having grabbed a hold of a swirling uprooted tree, was slowly outpacing the horse and rider.

Over a log, under a low hanging branch, swerving out to the very edge of the cliff and over a root, Firefoot galloped as fast as he could go, Eomer shifting forward over his withers to help their speed as much as he could. They finally reached the horsepath and thundered down the slope. The switchback lost them a few yards, but then they were on smooth packed dirt and quickly caught up to the swimmer's log.

The woman, for now Eomer could make out a pale face and long black tangled tail of hair, was not looking for help at riverside, but instead was busy hauling herself along the length of the log towards the roots. He yelled several times, but it was not until he let out a piercing two-fingered whistle, that she sent a quick wave over her shoulder. When she clambered astride the log, Eomer suddenly understood what he needed to do.

The river itself was only fifty feet across here, moving slightly slower than it had at the twenty foot bridge crossing. Bobbing and twirling around the thick knot of roots in the middle of the flow, the log was fortunately not rolling. Eomer might just be able to use the lariat trick Aragorn had shown him on Brego, although he had not yet attempted it on a galloping horse. Certainly it was worth trying before he chanced Firefoot to the water.

The first throw dropped into the branches behind the woman, but he was able to yank the rope free, unfortunately sending the entire log into another tailspin. While it spun, she continued to scoot along the trunk towards the more stable roots. The second throw landed on the trunk directly behind the woman, but slid off before she could turn for it. The third throw landed perfectly over her shoulders just as she had reached up to pull her ponytail back over her shoulder.

Eomer wasted no time pulling the rope tight while Firefoot planted his feet. Hand over hand, he quickly hauled her across the water and right up in front of him on Firefoot. She weighed no more than a year old sheep, and although she had flailed a little at the initial dunk off the log, she had quickly grasped the rope and kicked to aid his fast retraction.

However, as soon as he had loosened the rope loop and she lifted the rope over her head, she balanced herself on two hands and shifted astride. Now nestled into his lap, she yelled over her shoulder in Rohirric. "I almost had them! Follow that log!"

Eomer stewed in confusion for long seconds, using the coiling of the rope as a chance to catch his breath. The break did not help his comprehension of the dripping and increasingly antsy woman bouncing on his lap. Firefoot pawed the ground, blowing hard, also confused by the strange dancing weight in front of Eomer.

"What? Why?"

The tiny woman vibrated, slapped his leg, and shrieked, "The chain locks! Go! Go! Go!"

Eomer set Firefoot to a canter downstream, but still did not understand the woman's impatience. After about two hundred feet, when it became clear that Eomer was not going to speed up, the impatient little woman, whose fine drawn features reminded him of the elves, twisted around. Levering herself off his shoulders she somehow managed to pull her feet in enough to turn one-hundred and eighty degrees until she was now straddling his lap. The cold dripping had saved him from making a fool of himself before, but now he was fighting off the urge to pull her closer and let her bounce in his lap again.

Instead the woman set her hands behind his head, half pulling herself up, half pulling him down to stare intently into his eyes. She hissed at him. "Without the chain locks, we cannot set the suspension chains. Without the chains, there is no bridge. Without the bridge, we cannot quickly aid the peninsula towns during corsair raids. Without our aid, the corsairs pillage and burn all the towns' stores. Without those stores, we have no extra to supply you with, my good Rohir. So let us get those chain locks before they go over the cataracts and we have to wait another six weeks for a convoy to bring us replacements!"

Fully convinced now of the urgency, Eomer lightly swung the construction forewoman behind him, pausing just long enough to allow her to grab his belt. Flying along the path, he scanned the turbulent waters for the errant log. Before long, the distant roar of the cataracts could be heard over the pounding of Firefoot's hooves. There! There was the log that the woman had ridden.

Unspooling his rope, Eomer wondered what the hell he was going to do if he actually could catch the tree. He estimated it at over forty feet from root ball to crown and at least a couple feet in diameter, easily outweighing the three of them by an order of magnitude. Fortunately the slight woman saw the dilemma as well.

"There is a large iron post just above the cataracts. If you can catch the tree, we can use that as an anchor.

Two times, three times, four times, Eomer cast his lariat in vain. Each time his loop would slide aimlessly against the trunk just above the root ball. Before he could throw again, the woman caught his arm.

"How long is your rope?"

"About two hundred feet."

"We have about a mile before the post. Let me swim back out and grab the chain locks. There is no guarantee the rope could hold the tree anyway."

The rider from Rohan cast about for a less dangerous idea, but could only concur with her plan. He offered her the loop and urged Firefoot to a faster pace pulling slightly ahead of the log. Without ceremony she stood up behind him and dove off the still galloping horse, the rope looped under one arm and over the opposite shoulder.

Eomer watched in awe as she knifed through the water towards the bobbing log, gracefully evading the smaller logs and branches seething about. He squashed the guilty thought that perhaps she would have been better off without his abortive rescue. He could see the iron post ahead of them now, as she hauled herself up onto the log. This time her forward progress on the log was swift, the rope seemed to be giving her confidence. Within seconds she had retrieved the rings and dove back into the water.

Again Firefoot set his feet and Eomer hauled her back to shore as fast as he could. This time her kicking was directed towards keeping her head above water, the large iron rings in her arms dragging her under again and again. Without her hands easing the rope's pull, the hemp pressed tightly against her neck, chafing a deep burn into the unprotected skin there.

Time dilated - her return trip to shore seemed to take forever, every second she was in the water a possible death sentence as logs surged past her partially submerged body and head.

Once her back bumped against the bank, Eomer hopped down from Firefoot's back. He reached down simultaneously grabbing the shoulder of her shirt and the black rings she was trying to pull more securely to her chest. Standing easily, he flung the rings towards the cliff wall then lifted the bedraggled panting heroine to her feet. When her knees buckled and her hands clutched at his arms, he swept her into his arms and sat down upon the path at Firefoot's side.

"Yegads, woman, those things must weigh half what you do."

Pant, pant. "Seventy-eight pounds. More than." Pant, pant. "Thank you."

"Well as you said, this was all in my best interest."

She laughed indulgently, brimming over with triumph. "True, but you must have started out to aid me without thought to your own danger. The entrance to this road is not generally to be taken at speed."

He grinned back at her, cheerful now that the danger was past. "Never a dull moment coming to the aid of you Gondorians. Although I wonder if you might not have been better off without mine today."

Her grin softened to a deeper smile of gratitude, her silver eyes shone brightly up at him. "As at Pelennor Fields, your aid today was most welcome. Without your horse and rope skills, I would likely be clutching the rings at the bottom of the river or riding my own wooden steed over the cataracts by now."

"I have no doubt you would have persevered no matter the odds." Realizing something, he drew in a sudden, shocked breath. "Please. Please tell me that plunge into the water was not a dive."

She ducked her head and looked up at him through her lashes. "I cannot tell you that. I just... When I saw they landed on the log, I thought how generous the Valar were in granting us such luck and that if only I was bold, I would succeed."

"Bold, yes. Foolhardy, most definitely. And very, very lucky."

The woman tipped her head against his shoulder, curving into his warmth, abashed at his chastening tone.

He sighed, forgiving her impulsiveness while understanding it fully. "You may not survive this day yet, if we do not get you warm." He unfolded himself from the ground, still holding her in his arms. "Undress. I will give you my dry cloak to wrap up in."

She looked at him askance, but once on her feet, began stripping without protest. By the time she was down to her surprisingly fine lawn shift and drawers, Eomer had pulled the cloak and his extra shirt from his saddlebags. "Take off the rest and dry off first. Then wrap up. I can bundle everything together."

Without looking to see if he would be obeyed, Eomer left her to retrieve the rings. By the time he returned, she was encased in his cloak, his shirt wrapped around her head and hair turban-style, and starting to wring out her things. He took them from her and fastened a pad across his saddlebags for the rings, securing the whole contraption with the rope.

He managed to bundle her up sideways onto Firefoot's saddle without exposing her too much to the chilly day, and swiftly swung up behind her. As soon as he settled in his seat, she snuggled into his warmth again, tucking her head under his chin.

"My name is ... Thiri." A huge shiver and yawn interrupted her introduction.

"I am Eomer. Rest. I will keep you safe and wake you before we reach your crew."

The walk back took almost an hour, soft intermittent snores emanating from the amazing woman cuddled to his chest. Eomer encountered Eothain before he reached the path leading up to the cliffs. After hearing about the adventure, Eothain bombarded him with teasing comments about catching mermaids and sirens not letting their prey go free. Eomer finally cut him off, not wanting to think upon his admiration for this gallant woman. Not only was she directing a group through complex construction, she was brave and articulate and strong and a skilled swimmer. And to be absolutely honest, despite her tangled state, she was quite beautiful.

But no more - to all purposes he was already promised to Prince Imrahil's daughter whom he would meet at Eowyn's upcoming wedding. They rode the rest of the way in silence, until Eomer woke Thiri just before reaching the promontory. She was swept off his horse and away from him as soon as they encountered her people.

As cries of "Eomer King!" and "Princess Lothiriel!" rang in their ears, her eyes caught his across the crowd and shared the delight of their triumph over the river. Eomer knew that this would be a joyful moment to hold onto, a hopeful talisman against the dark battle-scarred nightmares of the long winter to come.

A/N: A take-off on the intriguing Willow-41z's "First Meetings" Chapter 7, Drabble #2.

Thanks to Glory Bee for reviewing and making me realize I was subconsciously overlaying Viggo Mortensen in "Hidalgo" with Aragorn in this scenario.