Author's Note: With this I have caught up with myself, so updates will slow down, but I hope you find them worth the wait.

Acceptance in Rohan

Rohan – Hísimë 3018 of the Third Age

Smoke rose to the sunny blue sky above, uncaring of the screams erupting below its lazy swirls and eddies as the wind moved the air in playful swoops. On the ground, weapons flashed in the sun as blood seeped into the ground. Colors faded to dull browns and rusty reds as her steps carried her further into the village. She looked around to see a black stream flowing from the hills through village to the river, carrying death and destruction over all it touched, but instead of water, this stream seemed to be an army of hill men, the Dunlendings. Something seemed to shadow them, some darker force impelling them onwards, but it remained hidden.

Then a spark, a glimmer of light drew her attention and the sound around her died to nothingness.

A child – the mere wisp of a girl about ten years of age – sheltered under an overturned wagon. Her features remained shadowed, preventing any kind of recognition, but rather she seemed a symbol of the village as a whole. The girl seemed to gather herself to move, to try and escape into the tall grasslands beyond the village.

"Do not move!"

The scream went unanswered as the girl darted out, sprinting for the nearest field. A howl of triumph shattered the silence. Terror lent speed to the girl's steps, but it made her clumsy as well. She tripped, falling to the ground. Dark men surrounded her as she tried to struggle to her feet. Hard hands, hands coated with blood, reached out to grasp, to tear, to violate, to destroy.

Lothíriel sat up in bed, her own shriek of denial echoing the girl's screams.

"My lady!"

Her door burst open and three figures barreled in, each bearing a threshing flail. Eadmund and his sons, Cerdic and Wulfric, scanned the room before lowering their weapons. They stared at her for a long moment before Eadmund looked over his shoulder. "Ætta!"

His wife bustled in, her footsteps taking her straight to the still-shaken Lothíriel. "My lady?" Her voice held a note of inquiry as she reached a calloused hand to tuck a lock of red-gold hair behind Lothíriel's ear. "Bad dream?"

Lothíriel shook her head and looked up to meet Eadmund's gaze, a single tear tracing a line down her cheek. "They are coming."

Eadmund took a deep breath before turning to his eldest son. "Go, Cerdic, tell the elders to gather the village in the square. Let them know that our spákona has given warning." His eyes shifted to Wulfric. "You and I will start putting things in order here." Wulfric nodded and left the room. A thought seemed to occur to him and he glanced at Cerdic once more. "Along the way, you best give warning to Æmma and Cwen's families."

"Yes, Da," Cerdic agreed, appreciation in his eyes as he nodded to his father.

"Go on then," the older man tilted his head to the door. "Let the girls' families know they can join ours for the journey to the caves if they wish."

Cerdic left the room with a rapid stride and his father followed him, letting Ætta do her best to help Lothíriel prepare for the day's troubles.

For her part, Lothíriel could only wonder at the acceptance of the family. Only her brothers had ever been so quick to take her word on approaching danger. No one else, not even those she grew up with, could say the same. Too many times she had been met with suspicion and distrust – often accompanied by murmurs of witchcraft or fouler arts. To find a family who accepted her abilities as a gift had been astonishing enough to the young woman, but then came the village…

Lothíriel had met the members of this village when she rode in and, without stopping to speak to or acknowledge anyone, continued straight to the river. Her quick actions that day saved the village children from a flash flood. None of the parents thought twice about letting their children swim on that hot, sunny day, but further upriver, beyond sight of the village a sudden rainstorm had swollen the river's waters and sent them cascading towards the unsuspecting villagers. When she started hauling children out of the water, outraged parents protested – until she told them of the coming disaster.

They did not believe her.

Ætta later told her they thought her agitation and passion meant she was quite mad as a matter of fact. When asked why they went along with her, the farm woman laughed. "Better to go along with the harmless whim of a madwoman long enough to get her to leave. To argue with the mad is to be one of them."

When all of the children were out of the water, Lothíriel continued to wave people up the banks and back towards the village. By now the entire population seemed to be watching her, some shaking their heads and others pulling their children away.

Then came the floodwaters.

To say the villagers were shocked would have been an understatement.

She still felt awe flow through her at how the village embraced her instead of casting her out. They named her one of their own, giving her the title of spákona, apparently the Rohirric name for a prophetess, and asking her advice. When she warned them about the limits of her ability, they shrugged.

"My lady, it is not ours to ask why a gift is this or it is that," the village chief, Sigeweard, informed her. "We shall be grateful for any warning you choose to give. If you receive no other warning than that which brought you to us, we will still forever be in your debt. You have saved our children, our future." He looked around the village, gesturing at the people gathered before them. "You will always have a place with us."

Eadmund and Ætta took her into their home as they possessed a spare room with its own door. The room had belonged to Ætta's mother before her death the previous spring. The woman possessed a strong steak of independence, but failing health required her to live with family, so Eadmund created a second door for the hut to entice her to accept their invitation. Now they let Lothíriel use the room and she attempted to repay them by helping Ætta around the house. During her months with them, she learned much of Rohirric customs and society.

It also helped her with the language – at least they no longer looked so amused at her accent.

Lothíriel gave herself a good shake and forced herself to focus on the here and now. They had been receiving messages of various attacks against different places throughout the Riddermark, and each time the fear and anxiety would increase another notch. People began to watch her for any sign of trouble and she hated being unable to give them an answer either way. Now…now she knew the trouble waited on the horizon and it would come like the floodwaters, with her warning being the only sign. The villagers needed to evacuate – and not to the caves. If her vision held true, the coming attack would leave nothing for them to return to – and winter was coming. No, this evacuation would have to be much more long term. They would need to be prepared to be gone for months – at least until spring.

The family gathered in the village square within the hour. Cerdic had done his work well – it looked like most of the village waited for them. Lothíriel squared her shoulders and approached Sigeweard. He gave her a shrewd look. "We must go, my lady?"

"Yes," she agreed, her voice soft, but carrying to the edge of the crowd. "And not to the caves." Mutters and exclamations filled the air and she stiffened, forcing her hands and voice to steady. "If you return too soon, there will be nothing left to see you through the winter. Those who are coming intend to destroy everything. If you would survive as a village, then you must leave your home until spring heralds a rebirth."

Sigeweard turned to the elders and they spoke amongst one another for several minutes. Lothíriel waited, hoping they would listen and expecting them to disagree.

Ætta stepped up beside her. "Are you sure?" the farm woman asked, her gaze calm and understanding. When Lothíriel nodded, Ætta turned and gestured towards Eadmund. "Then we shall take the wagon. It won't take long for us to be ready to go."

"Agreed," Sigeweard commented as he joined them. He patted Lothíriel's shoulder. "We thank you for the warning, my lady," he told her. "We have asked for your advice and only a fool ignores a spákona's visions." He turned to the square. "The elders have decided. We shall make our way to Helm's Deep." The crowd murmured, but quieted as he raised a hand. "I know Edoras is closer, but we do not trust the stories we have heard of the king's advisor. While our loyalties belong to Théoden, we must consider what is best for our people. All of you – return home and prepare to leave at first light tomorrow." His voice took on a hard note. "Any who remain behind do so against the advice of the elders and we will not be held accountable for their fates." His eyes shifted to Lothíriel for a moment. "And neither shall the spákona – she has given us fair warning. Our fates are now our own."

Lothíriel could only watch in amazement as the entire village seemed to leap into action. Everyone scattered to pack for their flight. Widows and the elderly received aid from the second sons and daughters of other families while smaller households shared wagons and supplies. The elders of the village prepared their own families and then visited every household to make sure people had the help they needed. Sigeweard possessed two wagons, one he used for his family, but the other he turned over to be used to transport the sick and infirm among them.

When the next morning dawned, the entire village followed their leaders on the long march towards the great fortress of Rohan.

Two days into their journey a cry went up from the men on patrol. Everyone grew tense, wondering what might be happening, but then word spread through the caravan – the patrol had spotted men on horseback headed towards them. It looked to be a large force, which could only mean Riders. People relaxed, laughing as the procession came to a stop. The Riders would stop them, questioning their movement, so they might as well go ahead and stop now. It was about time for a break anyway.

Lothíriel waited with the elders, Sigeweard in the lead, as the Riders drew closer. She felt something hovering over her like a wave waiting to crest and flow up the beach. It seemed to grow stronger as the Riders rode up to them. Her eyes began to scan the men, looking for who or what pulled at her senses. What did it mean? She had never felt something like this before. What change would it bring?

"Who is leader of these people?" A tall rider separated himself from the company and rode up to the small group of elders. His helmet, decorated with a tail of white horsehair, encased his face and hid most of his features – except for his eyes. Light brown eyes swept over the train of people before focusing on the leaders, looking over each face.

Lothíriel's breath caught as his eyes met hers. Here, her mind whispered, here is the reason you came to Rohan. Light brown eyes locked with her gray and lingered, suspicion melting into bewilderment as whatever pulled at her seemed to reach out to him. She could not turn away, even as she felt the elders around her stirring.

"I am Sigeweard," the village chief replied, drawing the Rider's attention, "chief elder of the village. Which captain do I have the honor to address?"

The Rider let his gaze return to Lothíriel for a moment, then, with a swift motion, he dismounted. "I am Éomer, son of Éomund."