They had been traveling for four days. In that time, Rowan had learned all she cared to know about the plain-looking ring that she now wore on a string around her neck. Strider had told her the tales of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor, who had tricked elves, dwarves, and men by secretly making a ring, her ring, that would rule over theirs. On the second night of their journey, the story of the war that caused Sauron's downfall entranced her, as she heard of Isildur's triumph over him and his own weakness while he possessed the One Ring, which Strider had begun to call it. By the third day, Rowan had gathered the courage to ask about who exactly pursued them with such ferocity, and the Ringwraiths first entered her imagination — the men who had first held the nine magic rings that Sauron controlled, and whose lust for power had been transformed into their utter loss of free will. She stopped her guide from describing them in too much detail, and did her best not to think about them when they stopped to sleep at night.
By now, the half-elven woman was exhausted. Her bed at The Prancing Pony had been far from luxurious, but sleeping on the ground still took some getting used to. Traveling in general was a completely new experience, and she often felt ashamed at her inability to help Strider more, even though he was clearly perfectly capable of finding food and shelter for both of them. Despite their four days together, he was still something of a mystery. He seemed to never tire; they stopped to rest at places he carefully chose during the day, but although Rowan never complained these times of rest came almost precisely when she thought she could not walk much longer. She also could not tell when he slept. She fell asleep each evening watching his back as he sat and gazed steadfastly out at the horizon, or into the surrounding forest, and she had yet to wake in the night and catch him with his eyes closed. The night after she learned of the Ringwraiths a horrible nightmare had taken her, and she had woken with a start, red hair sweaty and sticking to her face and neck, to find Strider's firm hand on her shoulder and his equally firm eyes meeting hers. Neither of them had spoken, and his hand had remained on her shoulder until sleep took her again.
The ring around her neck made her uneasy, especially the fact that hiding it from possible passersby meant it had to rest against her skin. Nevertheless, she exerted every effort against the urge to touch it, and even avoided playing with the string absentmindedly as they walked. Ideally, the awful thing would be at the bottom of the pack she carried, but the fear of losing it kept it on her person and out of sight at all times. Strider had convinced her soon upon leaving Bree that she would have to keep it for the time being: magic rings, he'd explained, are unpredictable when they change hands, and her possession of it for so long made her the safer bearer of the two of them. She could not really argue.
After Rowan had asked where exactly they were going, Strider had replied "nowhere." They were attempting to trace an untraceable path through the land east of Bree, moving in erratic and unpredictable ways with no one destination. The most important task at the moment, he had explained, was to confound the Ringwraiths and force them off of their pursuit, at least for a while. Content with this answer only for a day, she pressed the Ranger to tell her where they would go once this task was done, since even she knew that they could not spend the rest of their lives zig-zagging across the country forever. After a silence, he replied that they would go to Rivendell, in due course, to seek Lord Elrond's council about the ring's fate. Rowan had stiffened and simply replied, "I'll see the elves." Strider glanced at her briefly, but thoughtfully.
"It will not be how you imagine, you know. Do not forget, I was raised there and I know Elrond's people. It will not be as the man at the Prancing Pony told you."
With a shock, Rowan remembered her sense that someone had been watching during that dreadful conversation with Morton on her last night in Bree. A twinge of embarrassment made her chest tighten, although she was not sure why — it was Morton who ought to be ashamed. She could not find any words to answer Strider's reassurance, and to her relief, they became unnecessary.
"I cannot convince you, I know, so we shall see what you make of them, on your own, when you meet them. Even I cannot tell exactly what their reaction to you will be, but you should know that it will not be one of hatred, at least." He ended this last sentence with a smile that Rowan found as inexplicable as most other things about Strider. Not wishing to think about the prospect of meeting an entire city of pure elven-folk, she turned her attention to the road ahead and saw a magnificent hill in the middle of a plain whose top was circled with ruins.
"Does that hill have a name?" she asked.
"It's Weathertop," said Strider.