Aragorn:
Thousands of miles have I walked in my years of wandering; up hills and mountains, through forests and along rivers, in stinking fens and dreadful marshes. Places where a horse would do me no good or bring too much attention.
But running is not something I enjoy, least of all chasing after a swift and tireless Elf. It brings memories of my childhood years in Rivendell, hopelessly racing after my long-legged brothers, thinking I might catch them. It did not take long to learn that I could never best them. Not in running, nor the sword, the spear, the bow. Perhaps in temper and that only Elrohir.
But running is a necessity now. Gimli, Legolas and I are compelled to chase a swiftly moving enemy along this endless plain, frustration and tedium growing with our every step. The only glimmer of hope we have sits in my pocket—the brooch we found driving us on amid the deepening despair.
The days pass in like manner-pushing ourselves while the sun is in the sky, moving swiftly in these green fields, pausing only for fresh water and to renew ourselves with fragments of the lembas of Lothlorien. Night brings us to a grudging halt—the weak light of the new moon does us no favors in this terrain.
It troubles Legolas—the forced standstill I bring us to as nightfall comes—but I cannot risk it.
Even his eyes will not catch small hobbit footprints in this deep grass. Legolas does not reproach me or even question my decision but I do not miss the crease that forms between his brows as his gaze travels over the silent plain.
Unease shadows me. I have traveled through this realm before, in years long past and again in more recent times. The Rohirrim live further south but in my memory these lands were always rich in roaming herds and the herdsmen watching them were plentiful.
It is empty now, as far as the eye can see.
Legolas sighted an eagle wheeling high above us two days past but we have seen no other birds or beasts since then. It is unnatural, the silence that surrounds us.
It reminds me of Hollin and that does not bode well for us.
As with the falling of every dusk, we halt. Gimli's face is creased with weariness. Our pace has been punishing and he takes the respite readily, gratefully sinking down in the soft grassland. Cool water and a fragment of lembas bread—the generosity of Galadriel has proved our salvation yet again.
Legolas never rests. Pacing back and forth, the tension is evident in the set of his shoulders and I suppress a sigh. He will tell me soon enough what troubles him; it will not do to irk him further with questions.
My wait is not long. He rounds on me, eyebrows drawn together in a fierce scowl. Gimli sits close enough to overhear us but, in his agitation, Legolas makes no attempt to keep his voice low or use the more private Sindarin he usually favors when he chastises me.
"Now I wish I had not agreed to these nighttime rests, Aragorn! I begrudge our every halt," he says. "These Orcs have not paused, not even for the noontime Sun. It is as if their masters whip them into frenzied flight." He curses under his breath and then continues. "They are sure to have reached the forest by now and we are leagues behind."
Gimli speaks before I can reply. "You believe all hope is lost, then? Our travail has been in vain?"
"Hope dwindles, that is certain but what we have done is not in vain," I say, when I can finally manage to get a word in. "We have come too far to turn back now. We must see this to its end."
My descent to sit upon the ground is heavy and without grace. My knees draw up, arms coming to rest on them before my head, heavy with the fatigue of days in pursuit, drops onto them. "But I confess I am weary." The stars are dim yet, the crescent moon newly rising.
I do not like this place. It is too silent here, too empty.
My inner thoughts I keep to myself: our enemies find renewed strength while I find myself losing heart.
"I have known this since we first encountered them, Aragorn," Legolas continues, standing over me. "These Orcs are unnatural, more unnatural than any I have encountered in my long life. They are not rabble. They press on as if pursued by very whips of flame." Looking around us, he surveys the dim, deserted plain. "The land itself is ill at ease, their passing silencing all in their way. It weighs on me, a malice lurking hidden."
It weighs on me as well. "Saruman," I whisper. "These are his doings. But we must not falter. The clouds may gather but we must press on. Our road lies north when day graces us again."
"You will halt us for the night, then?" Legolas asks, shoulders slumping when I nod. "I will abide by your decision, Aragorn, but these hours of delay hinder us. You know this." He moves away when I do not answer.
Legolas' words are sharp and echo my own misgivings. I have battled with myself each day, as night draws near: should I call a halt? The fear of missing a fallen clue in the dark, overlooking a diverting trail, overwhelms me and each night I halt our progress to assuage it. Legolas has indulged me thus far but his patience is obviously waning as our pursuit becomes ever more hopeless.
My exhaustion plays its part. I cannot maintain the pace he sets without a break. I tell myself I do it for Gimli, for the lost clues, but I do it for myself as well.
He has the tirelessness and perseverance of the Eldar, which Gimli and I cannot hope to match. Legolas has so far been tolerant of our shortcomings, more tolerant than I expected. I envy his indefatigability. He could have gone on his own and likely reached them by now, if we were not slowing him down. Perhaps I should have let him do that but despite his protestations even he is no match for an Orc band of this size, no matter how stealthy and skilled he is.
Even now, after days on the run, in the midst of abject despair, Legolas is all beauty and grace. He would not sink to the ground in a jumbled tangle of disjointed limbs, as I do. He stands now, tall and straight, the breeze stirring a strand of his bright hair. There is not a single move he makes that is unwieldy or clumsy. He could sink beside me, in one fluid, graceful motion, and not disturb a single blade of grass.
He has been considerate of Gimli's fatigue but can he not see my own? Does he see how each decision burdens me further? Perhaps his frustration is as much with me as with our situation.
Sleep comes slowly to all of us. The whispered words of Elf and Dwarf drift over to me, too indistinct to make out. The rumble of Gimli is met with a snort of Elven amusement.
It causes me to open my eyes to regard them. They are not far, dim shapes sitting shoulder to shoulder, their murmurs rising and falling, as Gimli's tones grow sharper and Legolas' soothing voice overwhelms the gruff retort.
I do not understand this affinity that has grown between them. Glances exchanged, entire conversations taking place around me that I cannot decipher. I am used to being alone. But I did not expect to feel so in their company.
I roll in the other direction and firmly shut my eyes. This stop was at my request—I best make use of the respite.
Loneliness is familiar to me. But for perhaps the first time in years, I did not feel it with the Fellowship. We were all odd men out, in our own ways. Wizard, Elf, Dwarf. A hobbit bearing a heavy burden, with an inexperienced and naïve companion at his side due to sheer loyalty alone. Two Men burdened with their own tangled destinies and outnumbered by the rest.
And our two youngsters, far too young to be a part of such an undertaking but keeping us on our toes with their unquenchable spirit, jolly banter and mischievous pranks.
It had never been like that for me before. I was loved in Rivendell—of that there was never any question—but I was not 'of them', the difference all the more striking as I grew.
Even among the Dunedain, my own kinsmen; I was not 'of them' either. My manners were too Elvish, my discourse too refined. My lineage was an unseen but always present barrier that kept others at a distance—all save Halbarad.
It was no different in Gondor. My Sindarin was flawless, my skills with sword and bow and lance unmatched, my strategy beyond reproach; but I was still too provincial, from the uncultured wilds of Eriador.
Too learned for my companions in the barracks. Far too rustic for the Lords. Much too reticent for the intrigue of society functions. Too skilled in strategy and too well esteemed by Ecthelion for the Steward's heir. Caught between worlds, as always.
And now once more, I am the odd man out between an Elf and Dwarf, who find more kinship in each other than with me.
There had been a glimmer of camaraderie, a shared kinship with Legolas that had taken root early in our travels. It was heady, to feel as if I had finally found a friend.
Gandalf was a mentor, an esteemed companion and guide, someone who I revered for his learning and his lore, his shrewd wit and incisive mind.
But Legolas—his Elvenness was a familiar comfort to me, far from those I hold so dear. I grew to rely on his eyes and ears, his steadiness in the face of challenges, his cheerful banter lifting my heart.
He has been my stalwart comrade after Gandalf's fall, supporting me in every choice and giving no rebuke. I trust him and my trust is not given lightly. I have not had the time or inclination to make friends along the way—secrecy and subtlety have been my constant companions. But this time, I was willing to try.
It is hard to be alone for so very long. It was comforting to think on this journey I would not have to be. But, as always, home and comfort are not meant for me.
I have only felt at home with my adopted family but I have not had even that luxury for years. The spectre of Arwen's choice lies between me and my foster father. My brothers will not speak of it, not anymore. It lies between us too—a gossamer veil that casts a shadow on our hearts.
Except on my Arwen. If there is a home for me, it is wherever she is. There I am not found lacking or overbearing. I am simply Aragorn, to whom she has given her heart, and she is the one who holds my own.
I need not measure up to anyone, not for her. She sees me for who I am—not the flawed heir of Isildur, nor the grim chief of the Dunedain, not the scruffy, shifty Strider, not even the wide-eyed, naïve Estel.
She has a faith in me that is unshakeable, stronger even than my own. There is no need to prove myself, just be myself. In the steadfast surety of her love I am stronger. She is what keeps me on this path, gives me strength to go on, fortifies my resolve whenever I am in doubt.
The stars above me shine over Rivendell tonight as well. Even over the distance we can share the sky above us. I cannot reach across the miles but the thought that she is there comforts me.
We wake to a red dawn. Legolas' agitation is palpable as he harries us until we are afoot again. The pace he sets is brutal and even I must strain to keep up.
He goes this way until nightfall.
The downs are not far now, the grass shorter and drier here. But this trek has taken its toll as my stride falters. Legolas is radiating frustration but he surprisingly stays silent. Catching him eyeing Gimli I know why he does not speak.
Gimli goes sluggishly now, his strength of will all that is keeping him on his feet, head down, shoulders slumped in weariness. Steadfast as stone he may be but we have kept a grueling pace for days on end now. His heart is stout but the tendrils of despair are gaining. My pace slows further to match his own.
Legolas still ranges ahead of us, his step graceful, his head unbowed. But even his boundless energy is sapped by the growing hopelessness that shadows all our hearts, as dusk draws near again.
"Let us climb this hill," he calls out, voice still light, and swiftly he glides to the top. Feet dragging, we follow in his wake.
The mountains in the distance seem like shadows in the setting sun. The emptiness surrounds us and the chill wind whips at our cloaks.
Gimli sidles up to me, darting glances to where Legolas stands at the far edge of the hill. "He does not sleep," he mutters.
"He has little need to do so," I reply.
"He should take his rest," Gimli says forcefully, frowning now in Legolas' direction. "I told him so."
"And he assured you he would not?" I know Legolas. Far better than Gimli realizes.
Gimli's scowl is directed at me now. "Speak to him, Aragorn! We rest and he does not. He cannot keep this up."
A sigh escapes my lips. There is little I can do to coerce a recalcitrant Silvan to take his rest, but Gimli will not let me rest until I do something. As I start to move towards him, Legolas turns to face us.
He has been listening. Of course, he has been listening.
"Gimli, you should not pester Aragorn like this."
"If you would listen to reason, I would not need to drag him into it," is the growled reply.
Legolas turns to me. "Aragorn, tell him."
"Tell him what?"
"Tell him I do not need to sleep. He seems determined not to listen to me. I told him last night and the night before—I can go many nights without needing to sleep as you mortals do." Legolas inclines his head toward Gimli. "Tell him," he says to me again.
"Gimli," I begin, only to be cut off as Gimli rises to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Yes, yes, he told me that he can go for weeks on end without a full night's sleep but there is no need for him to do so, Aragorn. We are here for each other—he should take his rest as we do and he should not skimp on food either!"
I rub fingers on my aching forehead and regret my foolish loneliness of the night before. Things never fail to get tangled when Legolas is involved. A thousand nights alone I have spent in the Wild and at this moment I would gladly have the solitude of that than spend any more of our precious rest time mediating a squabble over sleeping habits and food distribution between a cantankerous Dwarf and an unreasonable Elf. I had thought the need for arbitration was over, with their new-found bond. My assumption was wrong.
It was far more peaceful when they were leaving me out of things.
The sliver of the moon is higher in the sky by the time I have finally sorted them out. Gimli grudgingly agrees to rest but only after he has watched Legolas crunch his way through a generous fragment of lembas. Satisfied, he rolls himself in his Elven cloak and burrows into the soft grass. His snores finally come and Legolas smiles to himself at the sound.
It is Legolas' voice, softly singing to himself, that finally lulls me into dreamless sleep.
The wind has picked up even more by morning and a grey light filters through clouds as we wake. Scanning our horizon from our elevated vantage point I see it.
In the distance there is a blur of darker grey but it is not downs or scrubby brush, for it moves and undulates in our direction as I watch. Pressing my ear to the ground the muffled thunder of hoofbeats traveling through the earth reaches me.
"Riders!" I exclaim, rising to clap a hand to Legolas' shoulder.
He is shading his eyes with his hand, gaze directed at the sinuous, shifting shape not so many leagues away. "I count one hundred and five. Their spears are bright and their leader sits tall at the head of their company." There is a mischievous glint in his eye as he shares this information.
Gimli laughs and I cannot help but roll my eyes at Legolas. Of course. He probably could tell me the color of their eyes if I did but ask.
But it is good to see them both in brighter spirits, if only for a moment. Smiling, I ask "Shall you tell me if they are bearded or clean shaven?"
"You know I can," Legolas replies. "Although they are closer now so it would not be a challenge to do so. Try something harder, Aragorn. Five leagues are child's play."
"They will be upon us soon enough," I reply. My spirits rise at Legolas' words. His lightheartedness cannot be quenched, not even by the arduous trek and surliness of his companions. His teasing calls to mind my brothers; all that is missing is Elrohir's lazy drawl and Elladan's exasperated eyeroll at my Mannish inadequacies.
Gimli's grunt cuts through my reminiscing. "We are exposed on this hilltop and cannot escape them on this plain. Do we set off again or wait for them here?"
"We wait. They are the first living thing we have seen in these lands. I am weary of the chase. These horsemen are riding back along the Orc trail. Perhaps we may get news from them," I say.
Gimli grunts again. "Or become too closely acquainted with the tips of their bright spears."
"There are three horses without riders but I see no Hobbits in their company," Legolas says.
"Their news may not be good. Even so, what we learn will either set our hearts at ease or aflame. But I cannot outrun these Riders, so we will wait to hear it, foul or fair," I say.
Scrambling down the hilltop, in far more haste than we climbed it, we manage to seat ourselves at the northward slope with our cloaks tightly wrapped around us to cut the biting wind.
Gimli shifts restlessly at my side. "What do you know of these Men, Aragorn? What sort are they? Do we court our doom, waiting for them like this?"
"Once I knew them well," I say. "They are a proud sort, but brave and true. They are not makers, like your folk, Gimli; nor are they builders and creators, like the Men of Gondor. Books are rare in these lands but they are rich in song and story." I frown. "But it is years since I roamed these lands. The Rohirrim were ever friends of Gondor. I do not fear for our lives. They may be suspicious of us but they will not harm us unprovoked."
"Gandalf spoke of a tribute to Mordor," Gimli says.
I shake my head. "I believe Boromir had the right of it—these Men are not in thrall to Mordor." I leave unsaid the question of Saruman, for I do not know what he has wrought in these lands.
"We will know soon enough," Legolas says. "They are almost upon us."
The sound of voices raised in song reaches me, the drumming of the horses' hooves on the hard ground a rhythmic accompaniment. It is not long before they arrive at our small hill.
These Men are swift and tall, helms and mail shining in the weak sunlight, the horses powerful. They do not halt or falter as they pass us by, close enough that we can see their grim faces, their flaxen braids, the glittering points of their long spears.
But they do not mark our presence for they file before us without pause.
Standing, I let my voice ring out. "Riders of Rohan! What news from the North?"
Their horsemanship is unmatched. The entire company wheels around until we are surrounded on all sides, the horses cantering in a running circle, dizzying to the eyes. Legolas and Gimli press closer to me as the horsemen draw nearer.
The Riders come to a sudden halt, spears pointed in our direction, no space between them as they form a wall around us. The twang of bows being strung and arrows being nocked is all that can be heard in the sudden stillness.
A lone rider advances on me, his spear within a hands-breath of my chest. Legolas mutters furiously next to me as Gimli grunts in indignation and I must summon all my calm as I elbow them into silence.
Confound them both! We are in an untenable situation, with a hostile force outnumbering us. Diplomacy is required, not ire.
"Who are you?" The Rider demands, tone brusque and full of suspicion.
"I am named Strider," I say, holding my empty hands out in front of me. "I hail from the North. I am hunting a party of Orcs who passed this way."
The Rider passes his spear to one of his companions, then drops off his horse. He draws his sword and comes to stand directly in front of me.
"I had thought you were Orcs but I see I am mistaken. You are not well versed in Orc hunting, if you go about it with such small numbers and in this fashion. They were many and well-armed." He narrows his bright blue eyes at me. "Your name is uncommon and your clothing too. How did we not see you as we passed? Are you fey Elven folk from the Golden Wood?"
Ignoring the splutter of indignation from Legolas beside me, I am determined to keep my face and tone pleasant as I answer his question. "No, only one of us is of the fair folk of Mirkwood. We have passed through the Golden Wood and received shelter and aid there."
The Rider's face twists into a grimace. "The Lady of the Golden Wood is known to us in rumors and in tales of old. A sorceress is she and few escape her webs of deceit. But who are your silent companions? Why do they allow you to speak for them?" He turns his glare to Legolas and Gimli.
Gimli's stance does not bode well. He glares up at the Rider, hand white-knuckled on his axe handle and feet spread wide in a fighting stance. "Give me your name, horse-master, and I will give you mine, and more besides," he says, before I can elbow him into silence. A groan escapes my lips at his words.
The Rider looks at Gimli strangely. "It is customary for the stranger to speak first," he says. "But I will do you this small courtesy, for you are obviously foreigners in this land." He meets Gimli's scowl. "I am Eomer, son of Eomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark."
Eomund's son. The name takes me back, back to the days I rode in these lands in my youth. The days when I too was a Marshal of the Mark. Eomund had been but a child then, a boisterous boy, always underfoot, and always in the company of young Theoden.
This Eomer has his father's blue eyes though they are far flintier than Eomund's wide-eyed gaze. But the snub nose is the same, the effortless seat on horseback, the rashness of his speech.
Eomund never could keep his thoughts to himself, not even in the presence of the King. It used to make Thengel laugh, to hear the child's unbridled commentary. Such a contrast to Theoden's quieter demeanor—every remark thought out before it left his lips, measured and mannered.
The years weigh on me suddenly.
My momentary distraction has allowed Gimli a chance to speak again and to my horror he is taking a tone with Eomer that can only be described as belligerent.
"Eomer, son of Eomund," Gimli says, "Third Marshal of the Riddermark you may be, but let Gimli, Gloin's son, caution you to mark your words. You speak of much that you do not know and you speak unwisely. Your ignorance is all that can explain your villainous words against the Lady Galadriel."
So much for diplomacy.
Eomer's eyes spark and his company crackles with fury around us. He steps closer to Gimli, eyes narrowed into slits. "I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground," Eomer says.
"He stands not alone," Legolas says, his bow whipping in front of him, an arrow already pointing at Eomer's chest. "You would die before your stroke fell."
Leave it to these two to make me long for the days when their animosity towards each other was far stronger than their regard.
May the Void take them both!
Shoving my way between them before Eomer can put his sword to use, hands raised, palms forward I stand in front of my quarrelsome companions in an attempt to shield them from Eomer's wrath. "I crave your pardon, Eomer, son of Eomund. When we have told you of our travails you will comprehend what has so enraged my companions. We seek no quarrel with you and mean no harm to you or your people. Will you not hear us out?"
"Strange travelers in unfamiliar lands should keep a civil tongue in their heads. It would do you well to watch yourselves in these dark times." Eomer's face is grim and I hold my breath. "But I will hear your tale and your rightful names as well. These are strange times and I cannot tarry long. Be quick."
"In good time," I say. "But before I do so this I must know—who does Rohan serve?"
"Rohan serves none other than the Lord of the Mark, Theoden King. What mean you by such question?"
"In these strange times, as you say, we must be sure we are not in the company of those who serve the great Enemy, Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor," I respond.
His face flushes in anger. "We would never serve that Dark Power. War from his quarter has not come to our lands and if your quarrel is with him it is best you quit this place in due haste. We are in conflict with other, closer foes. We serve no foreign powers, bow to no distant threat. But we are a land in tumult and strangers now will find us wary and guarded in our words and actions." Eomer steps closer to me now. "But whom do you serve? Who are you, to hunt a party of Orcs in our lands?"
It is always like this. Few are the places I may go where suspicion and harsh words are not the first greeting I encounter. Or the only greeting I face. I am weary of it.
A lifetime I have spent, shielded by names that obscure my true self. Names given to me, foretold for me, bequeathed to me, shouted in derision at me. When the cloak and hood are stripped away, who is the Man beneath? The orphan, the stranger, the wanderer, the warrior?
"I am a servant of no man," I say, but my tone has shifted to match his, despite myself. "The servants of evil are my quarry in any land and few know as much of Orcs as I do. I am not here by choice but by dismal happenstance. Two of our company have been taken captive by these Orcs and they are who we seek."
It seems Legolas and Gimli's indignation has bled into me as well for I pull my sword from its scabbard and bring it into the light. Enough. It may not be the right time or place but I will conceal myself no more. The names are mine by right but never have I been free to proclaim them at my will, to throw aside all subterfuge and be who I am.
"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn," I cry. "I am Elessar, the Elfstone, Dunadan, Isildur's heir. This is the Sword that was Broken and forged anew." My voice rises as I meet his stunned eyes. "So Eomer, son of Eomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark—will you assist me in my pursuit or will you impede me to your peril?"
Gimli and Legolas move to flank me as I speak and now, from the corner of my eye, I can see Gimli's jaw drop at the revelation he knows has been kept concealed for so long. Legolas makes an indignant noise and I know I will never hear the end of this from him. But I wait for Eomer's reply.
He is shaken, pale and awed. "Strange days when legends come to life and folk from old wives' tales tread our lands." Eomer takes a step back, eyes still on me. "Your words bring unease to my heart. It is long since the horse we lent Boromir, son of Denethor, came back riderless and much disquiet did that bring to us. The Son of the Steward has long been gone from these lands, seeking news of that very sword you wield."
"War has come to your lands, Eomer, whether you have seen it yet or not. Sauron has arisen yet again and the time to declare for him or against him is upon you. I must speak to your King of this and other matters. But haste presses me now—I must have tidings from you. We pursue our friends, captives taken by the Orc horde passing through your lands. What say you of this?"
"That pursuing the Orcs is now in vain. They are destroyed," Eomer says.
"Our friends?" Gimli chokes out. "What of our friends?"
"We saw only Orcs."
"Did you search the fallen?" I ask. "We seek halflings, hobbits they are called in their own tongue."
"They are as children," Legolas bursts in. "So high," he marks the height with his hand before continuing. "Clad in cloaks like to our own. Did you not see any such?" There is desperation in his voice.
"Hobbits?" Eomer questions.
"Halflings," Gimli says. "From the West, beyond the Misty Mountains. They are from the same verse you spoke of before, the one that Boromir sought answer to—those halflings are our dear friends. They are who we seek."
The Rider next to Eomer glowers. "Eomer, what say you to all this nonsense? Elves, Dwarves, the Lady of the Wood and now tales of Halflings? Is this the Riddermark or have we fallen into a childhood tale or song of old?"
I step forward. "The tales of old are based in fact and old wives are often wiser than young warriors," I say. "Legends have always walked these lands, from Ages past to these very days. That they are revealed to you does not make them any less true."
"Eomer," the Rider speaks again, his tone urgent and warning. "We must make haste south. We cannot linger. Do what you will with these odd folk but do it now."
"Let me think in peace," Eomer says. "Leave us, Eothain. Assemble the company and make ready to ride."
When we are alone, Eomer leans close. "All that you say brings me a great foreboding, Aragorn. But my heart tells me that you speak the truth. You have not told me all of your errand in our lands and I must have that knowledge to guide my decision." Eomer's voice is low and urgent.
"We set out from Imladris, months ago," I say. "Boromir of Gondor was of our company. I was to accompany him to Minas Tirith, to bring tidings and assistance to Denethor in preparation for war with Sauron. The rest of my companions had tasks elsewhere. More I cannot say." I sigh before I reveal one more detail. "Gandalf the Grey led our company."
Eomer's eyes widen. "Gandalf?" he exclaims. "He is known to us. But be aware—he has lost all welcome in our lands. Time again he has guested with us, time and again he has brought us tidings of evil. But I have not seen him since the summer past, when things began to sour for us all." Eomer's voice drops to a whisper. "Saruman," he hisses. "That is where our troubles began. Ever was the wizard of Isengard our friend—or so we thought."
"He is friend to none but the Dark Lord now," I say.
"So it has come to pass," Eomer says. "Gandalf told Theoden he was not to be trusted those many months ago. But our King is proud and would not listen. He sent Gandalf away with curses to his name. For Gandalf took the most prized stallion of our herds, the chief of all the Mearas. He was not seen again in these lands but I will tell you now—Shadowfax returned to us, not seven days hence, riderless and wild."
"He parted from Gandalf ere we left and found his way home to you," I explain. My heart is heavy with what I must say next. "Gandalf was lost to us in the Mines of Moria. He will bring no ill tidings to Theoden ever again."
"I grieve," Eomer says. "Though you will find not all in Edoras will share my sentiment."
"It is grievous tidings to all who walk this earth," I say. "I became the leader of our band after his loss and difficult has been our journey since that time. We came through Lorien, as I mentioned earlier, and then to the Great River. But there, at the Falls of Rauros, we were assaulted by the horde we now pursue and Boromir of Gondor was slain and our companions lost to us."
"Your tidings are all grim, Aragorn. Boromir's death is dire news indeed. But we have had no tidings of this from Gondor. When was he slain?"
"It is but four days," I say. "We have journeyed since that time, in pursuit of our companions."
Eomer splutters wordlessly, his eyes darting from me to Legolas and then to Gimli. For once the two of them are mercifully silent and I thank the Valar for this boon.
"But where are your horses?" Eomer questions, eyes roaming around us as if we have them hidden somewhere near.
"We came on foot," Gimli growls and my eyes close in frustration. My thanks to the Valar was somewhat premature.
Eomer stares at him in wonder. "But that is forty leagues and five! This is a feat unparalleled! A race by the three kindreds unmatched by even legends of old. Strider is an ungainly name. It suits you little. You should be named Wingfoot for your speed."
But his face falls into seriousness again. "I must return in haste to my lord and King," he says. "I cannot speak so candidly before my men. It is true we are not at open war but I know war is coming. We shall not forswear our alliance with our friends in Gondor. When they fight, we will fight with them." For the first time Eomer's shoulders sag and his face is drawn. "But our trouble is with Saruman. He has claimed these lands and in truth war has been waged in our lands for some months now. He has Orcs and Wolf-riders and all manner of unsavory Men. The Gap is closed to us and I fear that soon we will be besieged. If Gondor calls we may not be able to heed the call, if we are torn asunder by war in our very homes. My heart is heavy with your tidings. I do not mean to pressure you but will you not come to Edoras? Will you not speak to the King?"
"We must finish the task at hand," I say. His face falls and he looks so much younger now. He is young, I remind myself. "I will come when I may, Eomer. I can promise you no more than that."
I would go with him, if Merry and Pippin were not lost to us. He is a brave man, younger than his manner belies. I cannot fault him for his initial suspicion—his lands are overrun, his people betrayed and besieged.
But he has dropped his distrust at my words—no proof have I given him but the impression that my eyes do not lie and my words speak true to his heart. There is no doubt Eomund's blood flows through his veins.
Eomer puts himself in peril, trusting us. Theodwyn's open heart and Eomund's brashness shine out in him—here is one I long to know better.
"Come now! These Orcs you pursue bore the mark of Saruman. We overtook them two days ago, at nightfall, near the edge of the forest. Their company was greater than expected and their ferocity undimmed. We overcame them, with losses on our side, but we prevailed." Eomer shakes his head. "You will find nothing at the end of this trail but their burning corpses now."
Gimli's intake of breath is loud at my side. Eomer spares him a glance before continuing. "I can give you spare horses. There is much your sword, bow and axe can do in these lands." He turns to Gimli and Legolas and bows his head. "I seek pardon for my hasty words. I spoke of that which I do not know, as all men do in these lands. I would gladly be schooled in the truth."
"Much as I wish to come with you Eomer, we must continue to seek our friends. I cannot abandon our quest while hope still lingers." Gimli and Legolas show the same steely determination in their faces.
"Hope cannot linger," he says. "Did you not hear my words?"
"Our friends are not upon the path we have come. We can only hope they lie ahead. The Orcs have not lingered nor have they veered off the trail," I say. "There is no question we must seek them out along the way ahead of us."
"I tell you, Aragorn, we slew all that were in that company."
"Yet you did not see our hobbits among the Orc dead," Legolas insists. "They may have slipped away in the confusion."
"I will swear no one slipped through our ranks. If any living thing broke through it must have had some unknown power," Eomer says, brows furrowed.
"They were cloaked and hooded as we are," Gimli says. "And you passed within mere feet of us and saw us not."
"That I did not know," Eomer says. "Perhaps then. Perhaps. I know not what to say, when legends spring forth from the grass, Elf and Dwarf walk proudly through our lands and the Lady of the Wood gives gifts to weary travelers. Perhaps your hobbits sprouted wings and flew to safety before our eyes. I would not doubt that tale, after what I have heard this day."
"That is one thing I can guarantee did not happen," Gimli says. "But I cannot vouch that the Eagles have not snatched them up—stranger things than that have been seen."
There is a gleam in his eyes as he says this and I hear a strangled laugh from Legolas. It is a story they both know well.
Eomer looks perplexed. We have no time for tales of Dwarves and Eagles' wings. "Come, Eomer. You must do your duty to your Lord and we must do our duty to our friends. What say you? Do we have your leave to depart?" I ask.
He chews his lip in thought before he answers. "I cannot in good conscience thwart your chase. But I am in great haste or I would aid you as I could." He bites his lip again. "You may go," he says finally. "I will give you horses, food and water. Be on your way and know I wish you well in your search. But this I must ask in return. When you have completed your quest return with the horses to Meduseld and present yourself to Theoden. Then my trust in you shall not be proven in vain. You may very well hold my fate in your hands."
"I will not fail you," I say and reach out to clasp his hand. Gimli and Legolas reach out to place their hands over ours and their voices echo mine.
And so, we find ourselves on horseback, following the Orc trail as it heads towards the Entwash and Fangorn Forest just beyond.
Gimli had initially refused the offer of a steed. "I would sooner walk than climb that," he had said, eyeing the horse suspiciously, when Eomer had led the riderless horses to us.
"But you will slow us down if you walk," I had said, exasperation creeping into my voice. "We have need of haste and the road will be easier for you on horseback."
He had glowered at me and stood his ground.
Legolas had laughed and put a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "Come Gimli, we must not vex Aragorn any further. He is fit to burst as it is. Come, my friend. You shall ride with me. Then you shall not have to borrow a horse nor need to gentle one to bear you."
Gimli had sputtered for a few minutes, grumbling about falling off and overburdening the horse but Legolas had laughed again.
"You do not know the bond of Elves and beasts, Gimli. If I tell the horse to keep you safe, the horse will keep you safe, even at the expense of my well-being. Trust me, my friend. And do not fuss about weighing Arod down. Did you not see me on the snowy peak? If I can walk so lightly on the snow I will be of no burden to this horse. He will bear us both as if we are one." Legolas shot me a look then, eyebrow raised. "I daresay poor Hasufel will be more burdened by Aragorn's girth than Arod by us both!"
What is there to even say in answer to that?