So, fun story, I went back and read all your reviews for the last chapter and was super touched and watery-eyed with a renewed desire to write things about this thing I have created and then I went and typed this chapter in two nights. Okay.

That night Miraleth dreamed of a woman. Fair skinned, with light hair and lovely blue eyes. She was a beautiful girl—it was only that she was so sad and desperately human that stole away from the warmth of her cheeks. Miraleth's heart hurt to look at her. And that was all she did; get a look at her. The woman did not do anything, nor did she say anything, nor did she really interact with any of her gray surroundings. She was only there for what seemed like a split second before Legolas was there to wake Miraleth.

Miraleth blinked against the light on her face, raising a hand to cover her eyes. She mumbled something unintelligible.

"Good morning to you too," Legolas murmured before offering a hand to help her to her feet.

"Morning…" Miraleth frowned once she was standing. "Are you alright?" She reached out for Legolas' worried face, pulling her fingers back awkwardly as she realized another centimeter would bring them to his skin.

He nodded towards the horizon, either willfully ignoring or simply not noticing her brief stumble. She followed his gaze. The sun that was rising was redder than she'd ever seen it before. The color bled into the clouds and the sky and told tales of violence. Goosebumps crawled up her arms, and she shuddered before looking away.

"What's wrong with the sky this time, eh?" Gimli demanded, walking past from rousing Aragorn. "Going to try and tell me so many clouds is bad luck?"

"A red sun rises," Legolas turned away from the sight, discomfort evident in the tenseness of his shoulders. "Blood has been spilled this night." The dwarf scoffed and grumbled something about no-good, superstitious elves under his breath.

Miraleth worried her bottom lip between her teeth as she pulled her small pack higher on her shoulder and followed. "Do not be so quick to dismiss the cries of the earth, Gimli."

"A little more of the red spectrum never hurt anybody, lass."

This continued until near midday: Miraleth and Legolas offering all sorts of Elvish beliefs and customs, and Gimli debunking them (so he thought) in five words or less. Just as Legolas was offering to show Gimli some of their funeral traditions first hand, there was a shrill whistle over the plains and the party stopped in their tracks for the first time that day. Aragorn whirled around to try and find the source. "Something's coming," he muttered, and waved his arm towards a large rock formation. "Quickly!"

Gimli had only barely made it to the cover of the rock before the thunder of hooves and men reached then and a horde of riders came over the crest of the hill, spurring their horses on with such solemn graveness on their faces Miraleth was half tempted to pull Aragorn back when he sprung from the rock, recognition on his face. "Aragorn—"
He was already in the open, though, and shouting. "Riders of Rohan! What news from the mark?!" Miraleth, Legolas, and Gimli followed slowly and cautiously, stepping into the pink sunlight just in time to see the man at the front of the horde make a roundabout motion with his spear to signal to his fellow riders. They began to circle around.
"How sure are you of your friends' intentions, Aragorn?" Miraleth asked as the riders galloped towards them at breakneck speed, which would have been alright with her until they began to circle the party of four as if they were prey—and that was when Miraleth found a hundred spears pointed directly at her face. She grasped for the hilt of one of her blades, Aragorn raising his hands in a surrendering gesture the only thing keeping her from drawing it and hacking off the nearest man's right arm as a warning.

A man broke through the inner circle in a canter. "What business do two elves, a man, and a dwarf have in the Riddermark?" His voice was sharp, aggressive. "Speak quickly!"

Gimli bristled as he appraised the rider. "Give me your name, Horse-master, and I shall give you mine."

After a moment of staring at the dwarf, the man dismounted, slowly making his way over to where Gimli stood, making a point to look down at him. "I would cut off your head, dwarf," he gritted out. "If it stood but a little higher from the ground."

Legolas suddenly sprang into motion. His bow was drawn and an arrow was nocked and aimed straight at the rider, whose brethren instantly trained each of their spears on Legolas. Miraleth could see one of the points grazing his hair and she reached out to tug on the hem of his sleeve, her breath shortening. "You would die before your sword fell."

"Legolas," Aragorn's clipped tone was a warning, and he put a hand on Legolas' bow to lower it before stepping between him and the rider, his gaze tired. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Gimli, son of Glóin, Legolas of the Woodland Realm, and Miraleth of Imladris." Miraleth did not dare dip her head. "We are friends of Rohan, and of Théoden, your king."

The rider considered him for a moment before drawing a breath. "Théoden no longer recognizes friend from foe. Not even his own kin." He reached up and pulled off his helmet, revealing a hardened but honest face, and long, fair hair. His skin was dirt-stained and Miraleth thought she spotted a patch of dried blood on his neck. As if a signal had been given, the riders raised their spears, backing away to give the group room to breathe. But while Legolas exhaled and re-shouldered his bow, Miraleth was staring at the man. She had Seen him. "Éomer of the Rohirrim," she wondered aloud, her voice surer and steadier than she'd thought it would be.

The man—Éomer—gazed at her, taken aback. There had been the woman with him when Miraleth had Seen him; the fair woman with light skin and lighter hair. She was nowhere to be seen now, and Miraleth did not dare ask about her. But Miraleth knew who he was all the same, and with a jolt of sickness she wondered why he would be leading his riders around the outskirts of Rohan, nearly leaving the borders altogether. Her brow creased in worry. "You do not belong on these plains, Éomer of Rohan."

Éomer's jaw tightened as he looked away. "Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over these lands. My company are those loyal to Rohan," he said pointedly. "And for that, we are banished." He stepped closer to the party, eyes suddenly narrowed, challenging. Miraleth saw Gimli stiffen. His voice lowered. "The White Wizard is cunning. He walks here and there, they say, as an old man hooded and cloaked. And everywhere, his spies slip past our nets." Miraleth could hear the unspoken question. Are you his spies? Are you trying to slip past our nets?

Aragorn voiced what she did not. "We are no spies. We track a band of Uruk-hai westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive."

Éomer shook his head once. "The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night."

Gimli moved forward two steps. "But there were two Hobbits. Did you see two Hobbits with them?!" He held up two fingers.

"They would be small." Aragorn held his hand at his waist. "Only children to your eyes."

"Please, they would not have been able to fight, they would have been bound." Miraleth's voice was a breath of desperation. In her mind's eye she was having horrible images of Merry and Pippin, her little Hobbits, caught up in the terror of battle, being mistaken for orcs—a half-blind Rider of Rohan slamming an axe into their heads.

Éomer shifted, something in his expression moving in apology before shaking his head. "We left none alive."

Something in Miraleth grew cold and dropped to the pit of her stomach. "None?" She felt weak, and was vaguely aware of Legolas slipping an arm around her waist to hold her up.

"We piled the carcasses and burned them." Éomer pointed to a billowing cloud of smoke over the crest of the next hill.

Merry and Pippin. Pippin and Merry. Her little Hobbits. Alive and well, not dead, never dead. She could not picture their faces cold and pale, something in her mind would not let her. "No…no, there must be some mistake."

Gimli stared at the man, shock lining his face. "Dead?"

Éomer nodded and looked down. "I am sorry." After a moment of consideration, he whistled over his shoulder. "Hasufel! Arod!" Miraleth did not want horses. She wanted Merry and Pippin. She wanted them here, now, alive. But Éomer, it seemed, could only offer her the former. "May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters." He nodded once to Aragorn. "Farewell." With that, he pulled his helmet back on and mounted his white horse. "Look for your friends…but do not trust to hope." He hesitated, meeting Miraleth's eyes. "It has forsaken these lands."

"We ride north!" He called out as he signaled for his riders, and Miraleth was left holding onto nothing but a small, leaf-shaped clasp and the reins of a horse with a dead master.

When they arrived at the source of the smoke Miraleth blanched and felt her grip on Aragorn's shoulders weaken as she resisted the urge to lean over and vomit. The very air had become the smell of burning flesh and dead things and she doubted for a moment that the area would ever be cleansed of it. Gimli was the first one to jump from his horse, followed quickly by Aragorn and Legolas. Part of Miraleth—the selfish part—wanted to stay on the horse, turn it around, and ride all the way home, where Elrohir and Elladan would be waiting for her with all the love in the world. Even Arwen might be there.
But when Gimli began to sift through the pile of charred remains, Miraleth imagined him finding Merry and Pippin's little faces, and she jumped from the horse to run after Aragorn and Legolas, not wanting the first thing Merry and Pippin heard once they were found to be that Miraleth had stayed on the horse like a silly damsel in distress.

She hadn't even noticed when she'd caught up to Legolas and Aragorn because she hadn't been able to take her eyes off the ground, watching her step as she dodged between half-burned, half-eaten carcasses (the crows had jumped up and flown away upon the party's arrival) and dulled weapons. It was only when Gimli paused in his sifting that the lack of sound caused her to look up. When she did, she suddenly found herself wishing she hadn't.

Gimli was holding up a familiar woven sheath, charred and rusted after the fire. His eyes were shining and when he spoke, his voice was the softest Miraleth had ever heard it. "It's one of their wee belts."

Legolas bent his head, his eyes falling onto the ground. "Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath…" Miraleth did not join in on the prayer; she did not think her tongue could form words if she willed it. Legolas repeated it, as if saying it again might make it final; might make it real. "Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath."

May they find peace in death.

Aragorn, meanwhile, kicked a helmet away from him as far as he could before letting out a scream that brought him to his knees. He slumped there on the ground, his hands in his lap and his hair falling in front of his face.

Gimli dropped the belt. "We failed them."

Aragorn shifted, sitting upright as he turned his head to look at what had caught his attention. He leaned forward to run his fingers over a spot of dead grass. "A Hobbit lay here." Another spot, a few feet away. "And the other."

"Aragorn…" Miraleth was not sure whether to stop him or let him go on. On one hand, she needed something else from Merry and Pippin; some last actions or words or any existence that they'd been here and alive at all. On the other hand…she knew where this ended. They all did.

But instead of his face saddening further, Aragorn's brow creased. "They…crawled. Their hands were bound." He got to his feet, his eyes not leaving whatever marks he was reading from the dirt. After a few feet, he leaned down again to pull a frayed length of rope from the grass. "Their bonds were cut." His pace quickened as he sidestepped and turned this way and that, finding the shapes of little Hobbits in the grass that Miraleth could not see as she and Legolas and Gimli followed him over the burned ground. "They ran over here," he pointed. "They were followed." Aragorn was jogging now. "The tracks lead away from the battle!" He pointed again. Miraleth's heart rose in her chest as their footsteps fell heavier, quicker, until they stopped dead. Her heart sank again. "…Into Fangorn Forest."

The line of trees they had reached was a thick, dense boundary separating the world of the living from the thick, unmapped realm of the dark. The trees here were gnarled and twisted and Miraleth took a step back when she got too close. These trees did not want their border breached by anyone.

"Fangorn," Gimli's mouth hung half-open. "What madness drove them in there?"

Just as Miraleth was about to voice that maybe entering Fangorn wasn't such a good idea, Aragorn tightened one of his gauntlets and headed, determined, into the treeline. She nearly sighed, but found herself being the first to follow instead.

Fangorn? Dangerous? Of course.

This entire quest, possibly the most dangerous thing she'd ever done in her long life? Absolutely.

But Merry and Pippin were somewhere in that forest, and Frodo and Sam were off in the long dark depths of Mordor, and suddenly danger seemed such an inconsequential little thing. So she lowered her head and fought through the brush, keeping a hand on one of the hilts of her blades for good measure.

It wasn't long into their new trek that the sunlight was lost in the higher branches of the forest. The canopy above them was so thick and so unforgiving that not even a single ray could get through, and Miraleth wondered briefly if it was nighttime on the outside already, or if it was only that it was always nighttime here. They were quiet except for the grunts of Gimli and the heavy, labored breathing of the others as they slapped bugs away and wiped at their brows. The humidity was already making a sheen of stickiness on their skin.

Gimli reached out and touched one of the trees. He drew his fingers away from the leaves sticky with a thick, black substance before bringing it to his lips to taste and promptly spitting it onto the ground. "Bah! Orc blood."

Aragorn had knelt down to study some markings in the soil, shaking his head. Confusion crept into his face. "These are strange tracks," he muttered to himself.

Gimli wiped off the blood on a nearby leaf and looked around him, making a face. "The air is so close in here," he complained.

Legolas hummed in acknowledgement and took a careful step forward, his eyes scanning the trees around them. If Gimli could tell something was wrong with the forest, it was a more powerful place than he'd thought. "This forest is old. Very old." His voice lowered as he felt for the trees' presence around him. "Full of memory…and anger."

That was when they noticed the groans. Deep, heavy groans and wailing sounds that reverberated through the ground and the tree trunks. A closer creaking made Gimli jump and brandish his axe.

Legolas spun around. "The trees are speaking to each other."

Miraleth, meanwhile, was rooted to the spot. "I can't believe it," she breathed out. Trees no longer spoke—they had become still long ago. For this forest to still be able to, to still possess the power… She had thought, before, about reaching out to touch one of the trees for some communication but she found she no longer needed to, nor did she want to, if the hatred and anger she felt standing here away from them was any indication of their feelings towards the group.

Another, louder groan sounded.

"Gimli," Aragorn hissed, a warning hand held out towards the dwarf. "Lower your axe." Gimli did so, very slowly, and very cautiously, holding his empty hands up in front of him.

Legolas gave him a long look. "They have feelings, my friend." He stepped forward to observe the forest. "The elves began it. Waking up the trees, teaching them to speak." Half of his mouth lifted up in a smile. He remembered the trees in Mirkwood, remembered Miraleth dancing in circles around them as they held conversations about the birds. Remembered the way she'd smiled.

She was not smiling now, however. She was standing on a clear patch of soil, her hands half outstretched towards the trees around her, face caught somewhere between fear and shock, eyebrows somewhere in her hairline and breath bated, lips slightly parted. He put a hand on the small of her back. As if any forest, no matter how strong, could hurt her. Miraleth, Mistress of Trees. Mistress of the Sun itself.

Miraleth was jolted from her reverie when she felt Legolas' hand on hers, pulling her fingers away from the sheath at her hip. "What are they saying?" His voice was a breath in her ear.

She shook her head, flexing her fingers and taking a step forward towards Aragorn, who had stood and was continuing on. "Nothing comforting. We oughtn't to be in here."

Gimli stood behind them still, nodding, his gaze focused on nothing. "Talking trees," he said gruffly as he began moving forward to join the group. "Hmph. What do trees have to talk about? Except the consistency of squirrel droppings."

Miraleth shot him a wry smile. "Be thankful speaking is all they can do, Gimli. You are not exactly their favorite around at the moment." She ushered him in front of her to catch up to Legolas and Aragorn. "Hurry along now."

They continued on through the forest, slightly jumpier now that they knew they were not alone.

But Miraleth's skin did not begin to prickle until she noticed the same phrase being repeated between branches, through trunks, from one tree to the next like one giant chain. "Legolas," she reached for the hem of his sleeve, swallowing as she caught the phrase again as it passed through a tree closer to them. "Legolas, listen."

He paused for a moment to do so before spinning around and studying her for confirmation. He did not need it, though, because his own skin began to crawl. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and suddenly he felt as if he was caught in a tidal wave from some far off point. This was not coming from the forest. "Aragorn, nad nâ ennas!" He jumped forward and ran past Aragorn to stand on a withered tree stump, searching the forest before them.

Aragorn joined him cautiously. "Man cenich?"

The same phrase surrounded them in the trees, the same series of groans and creaks and it intensified the longer Miraleth stood there, turning in a circle and looking for some way out of the ring of murmuring trees.

Legolas did not look away from the forest. "The White Wizard approaches."

"No, no, no, no…" Miraleth muttered under her breath. They had not come here to fight Saruman—they had come here for her little Hobbits.

The forest around them was silent, and the same tidal wave of power Legolas had felt grew nearer. Aragorn pursed his lips and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us." He curled his fingers around his swordhilt and slid it quietly from its sheath. Miraleth nocked an arrow in her bow and saw Legolas do the same, fingering the fletching and narrowing his eyes. "We must be quick."

Without any warning, there was a presence—Aragorn whirled around and brandished his sword with a cry, Gimli's thrown axe was shattered against a white staff, the man who was the source of brilliant, blinding, white light cast Miraleth's and Legolas' arrows away as if they were gnats. Miraleth saw Aragorn drop his sword as if burned.

Miraleth shielded her eyes from the light, holding a hand out in front of her as a last line of defense. Instead of death, though, there was an old, deepened voice. "You are tracking the steps of two young Hobbits."

"Where are they?" Aragorn demanded.

"They passed this way the day before yesterday. They met someone they…did not expect." The figure was still shrouded in the blinding light. Miraleth lowered her hands, glaring into it. Something was not right with the figure before them. Or rather…something was not wrong. "Does that comfort you?"

"Who are you?" Aragorn stepped back. "Show yourself!"

Slowly the light receded; the figure came forward with a single step and leant on his white staff just as Miraleth had seen him do time and time again in her father's study. Something warm flooded her insides and she felt at home for the first time since she had left Imladris.

Nad nâ ennas - Something is out there

Man cenich - What do you see

Give me reason to write. You know the way, young ones. I have faith.