Chapter 1 - A Simple Request

I heard my father's voice in the hall and rose from my seat at the loom. His presence in the workroom was unusual enough; the question he asked me next was even more surprising.

"Elfled, can you travel to Fossdale?"

"I would need to speak to Goda about the tapestry loom, and I have a length warped on my own as well," I said. "Why do you ask? What's amiss?"

He drew me aside into the corner. "Your uncle has sent to ask for you. Leofwyn is ill with shaking fever, and with the shearing and lambing none of the household is free to nurse her."

I hesitated, torn between affection for my uncle's wife and the need for every pair of hands here. "I could leave in the morning," I said slowly, calculating how long it should take to finish my work. "But you know we are behindhand with the weaving, since so many of the women have left Edoras. Are you certain that Leofwyn needs me?"

"Speak to the man Elric sent, and judge for yourself. But for my own sake, daughter, I wish you to go there where it is safer."

"Safer? Truly? You have warned oft enough that Saruman may no longer be trustworthy, and Fossdale lies close to Isengard."

My father sighed. "I do not know whether any part of the Mark will remain safe for much longer; but even if Saruman does betray us, in the end our true enemy is in the East. The heaviest stroke will come from there, and it will fall on Edoras. I want to see you far from here before that day comes."

"I would far rather stay, and face whatever fate may come with you and Halred. Edoras is a strong place, and has seen many battles."

"It has, yet all strong places may be overthrown. Your brother and I must ride out to defend the Mark in the last battle, whenever and wherever it comes; it would comfort our hearts and strengthen our arms to know that you were safe elsewhere. You are no longer of an age to be commanded, Elfled. I can only ask. Will you go to Fossdale, and stay there until I summon you to return?"

To hear Hàma, Doorward of Edoras, plead in such a tone was unknown; I could not stand against my father's wishes any longer. "Since you ask it, I will go in the morn. If Leofwyn has the shaking fever, at least I shall be of some use there."

"It is hard to send you away, Elfled." He gripped my shoulders and pulled me into a fierce, brief embrace. "I would that you could remain with us too, but the world cannot always go as we would wish. Give my greetings to your uncle and aunt. Farewell, take care, and may we yet live to see the Mark at peace and the King's honour restored."

* * *

It was late in the evening, and I worked long by lamplight before my task was done. I was too far into the length of wool I was weaving to let another finish; the line where hands had changed would look unseemly, so I hurried to complete it before the lamp guttered out. Then I untied the warp from the top beam, folded the length and set it aside with the other woolen cloths waiting to be fulled.

The great tapestry loom I could not unwarp, but that task must wait anyways; everyone would be far too busy with plain weaving to spare it a moment for many weeks to come. Only the ice-blue sky and the snow-covered peaks of the mountains were visible yet; but when finished the cloth would show Helm Hammerhand standing frozen on the Dike. I yawned and picked up the lamp to light me to my chamber.

Passing through the great hall, I slowed as always to brush my fingers across the tapestry of Eorl. This was the last hanging that my mother had wrought before her death, the first that I had helped her with. Together we had drawn the pattern, woven it, and chosen the best place in the hall for it, where the afternoon sunlight illuminated but would not fade it. I stroked Felarof's streaming tail one last time and went to pack my saddlebag for tomorrow.

It seems passing strange to me now that the Great War entered my life with a simple request and a short journey; at the time I thought it more of an inconvenience than anything else.

* * *

And so I was ahorse early the next morning, riding for Fossdale with my brother and Siglaf, my uncle's messenger. Though the Eastern marches were much troubled by Orcs, an uneasy peace still held in the Westemnet, so that a woman and an old man could travel safely with but one armed companion.

We rode at a steady pace all that day, following the horse road that hugged the slopes of the White Mountains on its way north to the Deeping and Westfolde, and stopped at a lonely farmhouse for the night. On the second day, a few hours after noon, we reached a broad wooden bridge over a quick-running stream flowing down onto the plains. Here we turned aside from the road, and followed the water upstream on the left bank.

Now we rode more slowly, with loose reins, giving our horses the freedom to pick their own footing on the trail. Though well beaten, it became narrow and rocky as we rode higher, where the stream had bored and twisted its way through outcrops of granite.

So early in February, spring had not yet come to these lands, higher in the mountains than Edoras. Dark pine forests clad the upper slopes, but the birch trees growing beside the stream were still bare of branch. The pale snowdrops starring the ground beneath them were the only sign that a milder season was on its way.

We followed one more bend in the stream, and at last the narrow walls of the dale opened out into a wider valley. There was uncle's steading, tucked under the mountainside; I could see kitchen smoke rising from behind the palisade, and people passing back and forth across the open gateway. Before us, the sun had turned towards its setting, and as we came to the gate its light shot past the mountain peaks in a last burst of fire, kindling the smoke and the farmyard dust into a burning haze before my eyes.

My uncle Elric greeted us briefly before handing me down from my horse and ushering me into the farmhouse so quickly that I had little time to note any changes to the farm. New thatch on the stables and a pump by the watering trough in addition to the old well seemed to be the only details that my six-year-old self would not have recognized.

We passed through the hall, my riding boots drumming a quick pattern on the flagstones as I tried to keep up with Elric. Nothing at all had changed inside; the same hangings on the walls, the same wooden trestles and benches polished by long use sat next to the hearth. Then we passed into the rear chamber, where a low bed pulled close to the fire was layered with blankets and coverlets, and the illusion of timelessness vanished the moment I saw my aunt's face.

Leofwyn was well-named, for everyone loved her, and in her youth she had been accounted the beauty of the Westemnet. My uncle thought himself fortunate indeed when she agreed to marry him, though as a young widow with a son she might have been considered a less desirable bride.

When I first met her, she had been a statuesque woman, crowned with a wreath of braided hair the colour of ripe wheat. Now she was so thin that her body barely lifted the covers; her cheeks were gaunt and there were blue hollows under her eyes.

I had to bend close to hear her voice, weak and raspy from the racking bouts of coughing. "Elfled. thank you, child. I wish your visit could be happier. How long will you stay with us?"

Taking Leofwyn's thin hands in mine, I smiled at her, hoping the shock I felt was not visible. "Halred must go on in the morn, but I'll stay until you've tired of me, aunt. What can I bring you? I think a little comfrey tea would soothe your throat."

* * *

In the morning I rose early to bid farewell to Halred, who was in the saddle and eager to be off. This was the first long journey he'd been fit to make since being wounded in the Eastemnet three weeks ago.

"Ride warily," I told him, clasping his knee. "Your shoulder is still healing - you cannot wield a blade for long."

Halred laughed. "You are too anxious, Elfled. I bear messages, not arms, on this journey. I'll be back at Edoras without drawing sword from sheath, worse luck."

Automatically I crossed my fingers to avert ill-wishing. "May you speak truly. Give father our uncle's greetings, and tell him I shall stay at Fossdale until I hear from him."

Halred lowered his voice. "Will Leofwyn live?"

"I trust so," I answered as quietly. "She is very weak, but she does not have the worst kind of the shaking sickness, or she would have died ere Elric had time to send to us."

I lifted my hand from his leg and stood back. "Ride in health and honour, Halred."

"Farewell, sister!" Halred urged his horse forward at a quick trot, raising his uninjured arm in salute without looking back. I stood and watched until he disappeared behind the trees.

Note: Leofwyn is an Anglo-Saxon name which translates roughly to "loved one".

Chapter 2 - Gathering Fernheads

More than a sennight later, Leofwyn was past all danger, though still mending slowly. Now that she needed little nursing other than much sleep and nourishing food, I found myself with time heavy on my hands, for as a visitor I had no part in the neatly apportioned tasks of the normal farm routine.

I moved the loom out of Leofwyn's bedchamber, so that the clacking of the warp-weights would not disturb her rest, and took up finishing the length she had left half-done. That still left hours with nothing for me to do, especially in the late afternoons, when the light was too low for weaving and yet too bright to waste lamplight within. And so I began to roam the dale again, as I had not been free to do since the long-ago summers of my childhood.

The first few days of my free time I reacquainted myself with the farmstead and its people. I remembered old Siglaf as one of my uncle's shepherds, taking the flocks up the mountainside every summer. Now he was too old and bent to sleep in the high pastures; his son, my old playmate Sigelm, had taken his place.

Another day I spent watching the men work on the steading's wall. Fossdale had been peaceful as long as I had known it, for it lay close enough to Helm's Deep to be sheltered from the raids the Dunlendings indulged in near every summer. But my uncle did not intend to rely on the Deep's protection alone, now that there were rumours of a full Dunland army on the move.

Every moment that could be spared from the shearing and baling of fleeces, he and the farm men worked on the palisade. New pine logs were felled, stripped, and driven in to replace weak posts and strengthen key points. The cut ends at the top were rough-hewn into harsh, splintery spikes. The gate had been reinforced, and now it was kept shut even during the day, something I had never seen before.

The next day I was at loose ends, my feet fell onto the path upstream, and I wandered far beyond the small home fields and pastures to the wilder, wooded end of the dale.

Here the dark stream ran chuckling over stones in its shallow bed, then suddenly fell silent when the water widened into a deep brown pool. The sound of the high falls at the head of the dale was a constant presence in the background, like a strong wind rushing through the trees even on a still day.

This had been my favourite place as a child, and I was glad to see little change. The white birches that lined the pool were taller, of course, and a fir tree had fallen, lightning-struck, to lie aslant the bank.

I sat down on the dead tree, sifting my fingers through the thick drifts of dead brown needles that had fallen from its branches. Spring was coming at last. The narrow blades of iris leaves were beginning to poke out from the earth, and the buds on the ash trees were soft and black as a horse's muzzle.

I closed my eyes and let the silence sink into my bones. It was so hushed that the sudden sound of sobbing seemed as loud as a shout.

I looked over my shoulder. The sound seemed to be coming from my old hiding place –who might have discovered it? Stepping quietly on the layered pine needles, I approached the wall of the dale.

Close against the cliff, a massive pine had died and rotted slowly away from the center, still standing but only as a shell of bark. The hollow trunk had been my childhood stronghold, where I could lay hidden from everyone, especially my younger brother. Now I could hear more muffled sobs coming from within.

I hesitated, unsure whether to disturb whoever was inside. After all, I had come here in the past for solitude; whoever had sought out this bolthole now surely didn't wish for company or sympathy.

While I debated, the choice was made for me. A small face popped out from the dark opening in the bark and I saw that it was Hereward, Leofwyn's son.

"Hello, Hereward. This used to be my hiding place a long time ago, when my family lived here every summer." I could see that he had been crying from the clean streaks down his dirty face, but I had never been at ease with children, and didn't know whether I should ask what was troubling him. "I'm going to sit by the water for a little while. You're welcome to join me if you wish."

Before I could reach the pool, I heard the crash of a young body hurtling through the brush behind me. "My mother's dying, isn't she?" He glared at me. "Isn't that why you're here?"

I stopped. "Hereward, no! Your mother's been very ill, but truly, she is recovering. She needs rest now, that is all."

His face crumpled. "I didn't know! All the women shooed me away from her room – I heard them whispering – and, and I couldn't ask Elric–" He turned away from me, his back heaving.

Treating him like a skittish, half-broken colt, I laid my hand very lightly on his shoulder. "Elric may not be your father, Hereward, but he loves you. He should have told you about Leofwyn without your asking, but his days have been full with shearing and setting the farm's defenses in order. I'm sorry that you were frightened for your mother. Believe me when I tell you that she is in no danger of dying now."

"But they all said – it's the same thing Elfrith had. I heard them."

I took a deep breath. "Yes, my mother died of this sickness when it passed through Edoras five winters ago, and so did many others. But many people recovered from it too– my brother, my father, even the King, all took ill and lived to be healthy again." Though Théoden, at least, never fully recovered… but that was nothing Hereward need be concerned about.

He twisted around to look at me, more clean patches showing on his cheeks where he'd rubbed off grime along with the tears. "What about you? Did you not get sick?"

I shrugged. "No, some folk never did. I was one of them, and the King's sister-daughter another. A good thing, too, or there'd have been no-one to empty the slop buckets – which is what you are supposed to be doing right now, isn't it?"

He grimaced in disgust, distracted from his fears as I'd hoped.

"After supper and your chores this evening, come to your mother's room. I promise she will be well enough, and very happy to see you."

* * *

The next day, I awoke before dawn for the first time since coming to Fossdale. Late nights spent at Leofwyn's bedside had left me sluggish and slow to wake in the mornings ere now, but today I felt as fresh as water bubbling up from a spring.

The morning air was brisk but not cold, and I decided it was a fine opportunity to search for the first fern shoots of the year, in hopes of tempting Leofwyn's recovering appetite. I was about so early that not even the man posted at the gate was awake yet; smiling at the sight of Siglaf snoring on a stool beside the wall, I gently shook him awake.

"I'm going to gather fernheads, Siglaf. If anyone asks, I'll be back in time to see to Leofwyn's breakfast. Do you need my help to close the gate?"

"Nay, mistress Elfled, we'll leave the gate be for now. Any moment Sigelm and his dog'll be along to take the shorn ewes and their lambs up the mountain."

I found a damp and shady spot I knew of far upstream, where the water ran close to a great brake of blackthorn bushes. Beneath their spines, the tight spirals I was in search of grew sheltered from the farm's roving goats and other hungry grazers.

I had to pluck the tender shoots directly into my gathered skirt, for I'd forgotten to bring a basket. I had almost filled my makeshift bag when the odd quiet in the dale struck me; there was no sound but the rush of the water over the falls. Surely by now I should be hearing the sheep bawl as they were herded into the shearing pen? The ewes disliked being separated from their new lambs, and always set up a din in futile protest.

I straightened up and looked down the dale, shading my eyes against the rising sun with my free hand – and felt sickness churn in the pit of my stomach. A thick ribbon of black smoke twisted slowly into the sky from the place where Fossdale stood, hidden by trees. Fire? How could the steading so suddenly be alight?

I heard animals bleating at last – coming closer – then the small herd of brown-spotted goats my aunt kept for milk burst over the hill and scrambled up the streambank towards me. How in the world had they gotten loose? What was going on?

Then a runner burst into view, chasing them up the dale.

He stopped short as soon as he saw me standing between the thornbrake and the stream. My grip on my skirt loosened as I stared back at him stupidly, and the fern shoots fell to the ground at my feet.

He was a Dunlending, by the dark hair and eyes and the blue tattoos spiralling around his bare arms, and he was looking for spoils. He carried a long knife at his belt and a spear in his hand, and his whole face below the eyes was blackened, in the manner of their warriors when they go raiding.

My whole body shuddered from head to toe, as if I were feverish. The raider saw my fear and grinned, his teeth flashing white between the dark painted lips. Clearly he'd decided that the goats weren't worth pursuing any further. He said something that sounded like Cha isnyik forgoilya and made little herding motions at me with his spear, shooing me away from the stream.

I stared at him, frozen into stillness like a deer who hears the hunter's footfall. He came almost within a spear length of me before I suddenly woke from my stupor and flung myself to the left. Caught off balance, the Dunlander hesitated for one thumping heartbeat – barely enough time for me to dive headfirst under the tangle of thorn bushes.

A hand clamped around my ankle, and my breath escaped in a sharp shriek. I flailed further into the stabbing hedge of thorns, kicking and twisting, trying to scrape off that implacable grip.

Here at ground level, most of the branches were dry and dead with hardened thorns as sharp as steel needles. I tore off the longest one I could reach and lashed out behind me blindly, too terrified to look back and see how close he was.

I must have hit him somewhere, for he shouted and released my ankle, and I shot forward into the midst of the thicket.

As I crouched panting in the tiny hollow in the centre of the bushes, thorns bit into my arms and tore my skirt. I could hear the man's harsh breathing and frantically tried to remember whether he had carried an axe as well. Surely he wouldn't blunt his knife trying to cut through the tough brambles?

I ducked my head, trying to see underneath the branches, and bit my tongue as my head was jerked back – my braid had caught fast in a tangle of thorns. Sobbing and whispering curses, I yanked at it until a clump of hair tore away and I was free to lay my chin on the earth and peer through the lowest branches.

There were his feet, shod in dirty leather boots. Some of the mud looked strangely red, and glistened. I shut my eyes and swallowed.

He kicked at the ground and shouted, "Forgoil bitch!" Then he trailed off, muttering Dunlendish under his breath, mixed with oaths in the tongue of the Mark.

I waited just long enough to make sure that he had not merely feigned to leave in order to draw me out. Much as I wanted to hide in the thicket's relative safety, I could not sit and wait, like a shaking rabbit in a snare, to see whether he would return – perhaps with more raiders – to burn me out.

I dropped flat to the ground and squirmed out on the other side of the thicket. Passage in this direction was slightly easier, but my hands and face were still painfully stabbed by dozens of little needle thorns. Once out of the blackthorn brake, I ran into the shelter of the deeper woods and dropped behind a fallen log to gain a space to think.

I did not know what to do. Even were I a shieldmaiden, one against a Dunlending reiver band would be a hopeless stand, and the solid black pillar of smoke meant that the whole steading was likely on fire by now. Yet I had to know whether any of the farmfolk still lived.

Chapter 3 – Smoke and Ashes

In the end I approached cautiously, at first through the forest and then hugging the cliff wall where gorse thickets clung to the rock. By the time I reached the open ground before the steading gate, I felt certain the raiders had gone – no sound came from within except the rustle of fire. Smoke and the stink of burnt meat hung heavy on the air.

Blood from one of the scratches on my forehead kept trickling into my eyes. I wiped it away again and squinted into the shadows behind the open gate. Nothing moved within the farmyard but currents of smoke.

How had they gotten in? The wall still stood, and the gate was ajar but intact, with no signs of force. Then I remembered Siglaf's casual words to me as I left. The raiders had likely simply walked in, with no need to force the gate, and all my uncle's forethought was undone, a bitter jest.

* * *

They had not even taken much. A couple of the pigs and sheep were gone, no doubt killed and carried off to be roasted over a campfire tonight. The others were a charred and smoking mass under the fallen roof timbers of the sty and sheepfolds.

They had tried to fire the woolshed too, but it is not easy to set densely packed fleeces alight. One corner of the stack was smouldering – the source of much of the heavy black smoke I'd seen – and I pulled it off and kicked at it until the red coals faded, then went searching for anything that might still live.

I began in the stables. The Dunlendings love not horses as we do, and use them little – the farm's one draft horse had been taken, the few others, including my Faeger, killed. Elric's mare, heavy with foal, had been slashed across the belly and left to bleed to death. As I slipped past her body to peer into the last stall, her ear twitched, and I leapt back like a pony startled by a snake. For a moment I stood with my eyes shut, repeating over and over it was only a fly…

It wasn't. When I finally nerved myself to look again, I saw that despite the sticky pool of blood soaking the dirt, she was still alive; her filmed eyes followed my movements.

Strangely, the steel kitchen knife Fossdale's cook was so proud of had not been looted, likely because the raiders had surprised Eadgifa before she could reach for it. I had to step over her body to fetch it from its case, suppressing a mad urge to apologize for taking it without her permission.

After I killed the maimed mare, I turned my thought to the human bodies. I did not want to leave them for the crows and foxes, but I had not the time or strength to bury them. The only thing I could do alone was use fire, and so I searched the steading and dragged all I found into the mostly intact stable.

My uncle had fallen defending Leofwyn. Both their bodies lay in her small chamber at the rear of the hall.

A few folk were missing. I could find neither Hereward nor Sigelm, nor their bodies. Remembering Siglaf's words, I hoped that his son might have already climbed high enough on the mountainside to escape the raiders' notice. And Hereward – could he have hidden in the hollow pine?

When I had done, seventeen bodies lay on the dirt floor – Elric, Leofwyn, and most of their kin and household. The oldest was Siglaf; the youngest was Eadgifa's baby son. I laid him in the crook of her arm and tried to arrange it so that his cracked skull could not be seen.

With so much tinder to hand, kindling the pyre was easy. I thrust a smouldering chunk of the sheepfold fence into the straw on the floor and stood watching until the flames had bitten deep into the roof beams. Then I turned away.

I threw water from the pump over the stinging scratches on my face, then went looking for something to replace my torn, muddy, and bloodstained dress. But the clothes presses had been tipped out onto the floor and most of their contents stolen, for the Dunlendings do not weave linen, nor spin wool finely; they wear mostly leather, and whatever they take from us.

My warm blue cloak was gone, and so were the two spare tunics I had brought with me. I snatched up a threadbare old striped shawl that had been thrown aside, and made another hasty visit to the kitchen to bundle cheese, bread, and a few of last year's apples into the shawl. After a moment's hesitation, I tossed the knife in as well. Then I ran past the blazing stables, out the gate, and away from Fossdale without looking back.

* * *

I checked the hollow tree, but it was empty.

I stared blankly at the dark crevice in the wood. Was there anywhere else Hereward might have hidden? Had he been here, and left? There were scuffmarks in the thick carpet of pine needles, but they held no message for me, unskilled as I was at reading tracks and trails.

I whistled softly a few times, hoping to draw Hereward out of hiding if he were near. Nothing answered but a lone blackbird.

The sun was already nearly at its height on this short day of early spring. To have any hope of reaching Helm's Deep before full night, I would have to set out on the mountain paths now, without searching for Hereward.

With the kitchen knife, I scored an arrow pointing to the north into the bark, and beside it the rune for E. Leaving only this feeble attempt at a message, I tied the shawl bundle across my shoulders and made for the trail up the northern face of the dale.

When I reached the top of the ridge, I turned back. From this vantage, the steading was hidden under the cliff wall; only the thin trail of smoke from the burning stable marked where it lay. I looked east, and my breath caught as I realized that the dim blots I could see far out on the plain were moving too swiftly to be cloud shadows. A strange haze rose to the northeast, as well – Isengard! Was Saruman openly attacking the Mark at last?

* * *

The sun had fallen well below the other side of the White Mountains, and darkness was pooling in the valleys by the time I reached the southern ridge of the Deeping-coomb. The high paths had been as lonely and quiet as always. Nothing stirred on the mountainside but the wind over pine and heath. Only when I looked to the east and saw the darker haze that still hung over the Fords of Isen could I tell that all was not perfectly normal.

As the twilight deepened, points of fire sprang up far out on the plains, like stars fallen to earth. My dulled wits did not recognize them as torches until they began to move in slow arcs, sweeping up the valley towards the Hornburg. The sight put spurs to my aching body, and I struggled down the last slope into the coomb, recklessly taking the straightest path down despite the darkness. I had to get within the walls of the Dike before that torchlit army reached them.

A stone slipped from beneath my shoe, and I stumbled and fell – only a few feet, but the hard stones of the paved horseroad that swept up to the Hornburg scraped my hands as I landed with a thump. At last! Now I could make more haste, and I gathered my bruised self and fled up the broad ramp to the Dike. The sound of my own hoarse, panting breath was so loud in my ears that it almost drowned out the sentinel's challenge.

"I come seeking refuge in the Deep. Let me pass!"

Chapter Four -  The Battle of the Hornburg

I stumbled past the sentry line and halted for a moment's rest before the last climb up to the Gate. Rough hands thrust a blanket around my shoulders, as the soldier muttered that it was cold in the caverns. "We cannot leave our post to help you to the Gate. But hasten, if you can! The enemy is at your heels."

I remember little of the slow walk to the Hornburg. I should have run, but I was spent; it was all I could do to keep one foot moving after the other. The long, steep ramp up to the Gate nearly undid me.

Once within I begged the sentries for a moment's rest before making the descent to the caves, and sank down on a nearby mounting block. I may even have dozed for a moment, I know not – but the loud hail of "The Lord of the Mark rides to Helm's Deep!" startled me as much it did the Riders manning the Gate. I sprang aside and watched as a long line of weary horses, led by Riders on foot, shouldered their way past.

In the mass of sweaty horseflesh hemming me in, I glimpsed a flash of a familiar steel blue flank. "Father!" I cried.

"Elfled! How came you here?" He dropped Moth's reins, and I saw his face darken as he took in my scratched face and ragged clothes. "Are you hurt?"

I stammered out the tale of the raid on Fossdale and my journey here over the mountain paths.

"And Elric? Leofwyn?"

I am sure my face told him the answer to that question before I spoke. "They are dead. I do not know if Hereward still lives, I could not find him. But why are you here? How came the King to ride forth? Has Gríma persuaded him to seek death in battle?"

My father smiled. "No, daughter, Théoden is himself again. The bare bones of the tale are that Gandalf Greyhame returned unlooked for, with such companions as you would think me moonstruck if I spoke the truth of them. The King listened to his counsel, and Gríma was cast out and told to crawl back to his master.

"Then the King gathered an éored of loyal men, Halred and I among them, and rode here with all speed. We know that Saruman must strike at Helm's Deep next, now that he has taken the Fords and slain Théodred."

"Théodred?" I repeated stupidly. "Killed? When?"

"Six days ago." His face softened. "Elfled, my dear, I am sorry. I thought that the Westfold would have had tidings of it by now."

Théodred was dead – he who had stopped the other children from calling Halred and me "mud-eyes," and worse, when first we came to Edoras. Théodred, my first calf-love, who had treated me always with grave courtesy, even when I could hardly stutter a word in his presence. The King's heir, and one of the Mark's finest warriors.

It was then I saw that this was no longer a question of Dunlending raids, but war – and a war that would cost us dearly. Even victory now would taste bitter indeed, with so many Riders slain; and how much more likely it was that Rohan would fall so lastingly none would even remain to sing sad songs of our heroic defeat.

* * *

I had heard many times of the beauty of the Glittering Caves, but I saw no enchantment in the place that night. The air was close, and it was dark – there were few torches, and fires could not be lit since the smoke would not vent properly. I went from cave to cave, stepping over fretful children, searching for Hereward or any of the missing folk from Fossdale. None were there.

In the end I huddled in an unclaimed corner of one of the outer caves, gratefully blessing that old Rider at the Dike for the horseblanket he had scrounged up. Resting my head on my knees, I tried to sleep, but closing my eyes brought no peace.

I do not believe any of the refugees slept that night, except perhaps some of the youngest children. It was not that it was loud – indeed, the noise of the battle was only a faint roar, like the sound of a distant river in flood – but that very quiet made one strain to catch every slight change or rise in pitch.

About two hours past the middle of the night, a louder rumble and crash brought us all to our feet. An instant later, the brazen shrieks of orcs began and rose and rose into a howling crescendo. It was a terrible sound, thought-killing, panic-bringing; I wanted to clamp my hands over my ears and flee into the darkest, narrowest crevice I could find.

Then the roaring burst into the cavern like water over a broken dam. I heard shouts, screams, the clash and ring of blades. But nothing of the fighting was visible from where I was, and the stampede of terrified Deeping-folk thrusting past me to the inner caverns made it even harder to see what was happening. I heard a voice roar "To me! To me, Eorlingas!" and realized with a jolt that it was Éomer's.

Then the shieldwall was driven back among the refugees, and all was indescribable chaos. The noise redoubled, echoing off the cave roof, until the shrieking of the Orcs seemed to pierce my skull. The warriors of the Mark fought mostly in silence, wasting no breath on shouts now. The whole scene was lit only by the guttering flames of a few pine-pitch torches fixed to the walls.

I was caught in an eddy of screaming women, trapped in a shallow alcove of the main cavern. Three times the line of battle swept back and forth in front of us, so close that I could smell the foul, musky Orc-scent and see the torchlight reflected in their red eyes. I clung to the rock with both hands to stay upright against the pressure of so many bodies shoving to and fro.

The fourth time the Riders pushed back, the Orcs broke and fled at last. Éomer's white horsetail plume flicked me on the cheek as he turned his head in passing to shout "Well done, Master Gimli!" I blinked at the sight of a child among the warriors. But no, the chin was heavily bearded, and the face was not that of a child, even if the height was.

The Riders halted and regrouped at the mouth of the caves, and I heard the low mutter of deep men's voices as they laid their plans. Slowly and timidly, women and children crept out of the deeper caverns again like mice. The wails of children who had been terrified into silence during the skirmish now filled the caves. I crawled into my rocky corner and curled up beneath my blanket again.

When I woke, the grey light of dawn was just beginning to show at the rough arch of the cave's mouth, and the Riders were preparing for a sortie. Gamling bade all of the refugees to move back into the farther caverns, where the livestock were being kept, and not to come forth until a messenger reached us.

Most of the women and children about me had been on their feet for a day or two by now, with less sleep even than I. They moved towards the deeper caverns like sleepwalkers, their faces dull with fatigue. Here and there, though, I saw fear on the features of one more awake who realized, as I did, what this meant. The Riders expected to make a last stand.

There were no weapons in the inner caverns, nothing but a few wainloads of farm tools. If the Orcs broke through, there was no escape – we would be hunted down through the narrow passages like rats.

I took a deep breath, striving to stay calm, and thought despairingly of my father and brother. I did not want to die; but more than that, I did not want to die alone. If only I could stand with them!

Stop that! I told myself sharply. You are a woman of the Mark, not a green girl. At least I had been able to bid Halred and Father a proper farewell; I had been a Rider's daughter long enough to know what an uncommon blessing that was.

Far sooner than I expected, the sound of trampling feet echoed in the cave mouth. I steeled myself for the harsh cries of Orcs, but instead we heard shouts from the Riders returning, accompanied by a King's messenger come to tell us the great news – that against all chance, the Deep had been saved by an army of eldritch trees. Having cried his tidings loudly for all to hear, the messenger stood in conference with Gamling for a moment, and then the old Rider turned to point at me.

My mouth suddenly filled with sickly-tasting bile as I watched the messenger approach. I swallowed hastily and arranged my features into the calm mask Mother had worn on so many similar occasions. Father or Halred must be gravely wounded indeed, if someone had come so soon after the battle to seek me out.

"Elfled, Háma's daughter?" I nodded.

"Théoden King sent me to seek you out. Your father…" he hesitated for an instant, then plunged on. "Your father is dead."

"How did he fall?" My own voice sounded strange and far-away to my ears.

"I know not, though I hear that it was defending the King before the Hornburg. If you come with me, I shall take you to the King, who can tell you more."

"Take me to my father's body first." I forced the next question past resisting lips. "And my brother – Halred he is called? He would have been with my father."

"Of him I have no news."

Chapter 5 - Under the Shadow of the Gate  

The court before the doors of the Hold was paved with bodies, and Riders were at work among the slain, laying fallen men in long rows. Heel-scrapes on the bloody stones showed where the foul-smelling Orc corpses had been dragged out the gate.

The messenger guided me into the Hold itself. Father had been taken to a small guardroom just inside the doors; he lay on the stone floor, his head and shoulders covered with his shield. Someone had taken the time to arrange his sword on his breast, and clasp his hands round the hilt.

I fell to my knees and reached for the shield. "They said he had been cut, mistress – you should not–" the messenger protested nervously.

"Mother of mercy, leave me be!" I cried. "Go, find my brother, living or dead, and bring him here. Please!" He opened his mouth, but thought better of saying any more, and turned on his heel.

I grasped the shield by the edges, the iron binding cold to my touch, and lifted it off my father's face. His eyes were gone. An ear had been torn off. Cruel slashes, clotted with dried blood, marred his face and neck.

I did not know I was weeping until tears streaked the blood on my father's cheeks.

Steps echoed on the stone behind me, and I hastily covered Father with his shield again and rose to my feet. Halred pelted in from the corridor and stopped as if he'd run into a wall. "Father…" He dropped to his knees and lifted the shield, just as I had done. I knelt behind him and laid my cheek against his arm as we both gazed at the ruined face.

"We were separated in the last fight before the Gate," Halred choked out. "He was with the King, and I with the Northener, Lord Aragorn. I did not see him fall – Ceorl found me and told me to come here…"

He turned away from the body and flung his arms about me. We clung to each other and wept like children, as we had not since our mother's death.

* * *

Our father was buried that afternoon. It was an honour, I know, for him to lie set apart in a grave under the shadow of the Gate where he fell, rather than in the common mound with other Riders. But it was hard to be mindful of that.

The King's herald spoke some words, I think. I remember only staring at the shield that had been laid over Father's head and shoulders again. The herald's voice fell silent, and the only sound was the wind sweeping up the ramp from the wall and sighing in my ears. Slowly I became aware that the others were looking at Halred and me expectantly. What had I missed? Did they want one of us to speak? My throat ached from the effort of holding in my tears – I could say nothing.

Gently, the King took my arm and led me to the graveside. He bent to gather a handful of earth from the heap, and let it fall onto my father's chest. Halred and I copied his action.

That seemed to be the end of it, thankfully. Two Riders with spades moved forward to fill the hole. As the few mourners turned away down the long ramp, we stood and watched our father's body disappear under the gritty earth.

When we turned away from the grave at last, I saw that the king and Éomer had also remained behind. Theoden spoke quietly to me. "Have you any family to go to now, my dear? I know that your father sent you to your uncle for safety; he spoke of it to me on our ride here."

I shook my head. "Fossdale was fired by Dunlendings on their way to the Deeping, lord. My uncle and his family were killed, and I do not know if any of the farm folk survived."

He looked at me with eyes once again gentle and wise, unclouded by Wormtongue's poisonous counsel. "For the love I bore Háma and your mother, I would take you into my household if you wish it, Elfled. Will you ride with us to Dunharrow, and remain there with Éowyn when the muster rides on?"

"Thank you, Théoden King. I… it is very kind of you…" My voice cracked, and I could say no more.

"I must go on to Isengard now, child, but perhaps later as we ride to Dunharrow there will be time to talk of your father. His memory will be dear to me always." He stooped to kiss my brow and turned to go.

Later that evening I watched the King and his companions, including my brother, ride away to Isengard. The people of the Westfold sang with joy at the victory, but I could not lift up my voice with them. The darkling trees that had saved us loomed in the shadows flowing down the vale as the sun set; they seemed to be greedily devouring the light.

I remembered my father's tales of the uncanny forest to the north and shivered – I didn't see how trees could tell an Orc with an axe from a man with a sword. Passing beneath those boughs seemed foolhardy indeed to me.

* * *

Next morning I woke with the first touch of the sun on my face, for the chamber of the Hornburg I had been given faced east. I should have gone to Erkenbrand and asked if there was aught I could do to help in clearing the caves. Instead, I avoided company by climbing the narrow stair all the way to the topmost tower of the Burg.

Below the Deeping-folk were already scattering back to their homes; from this height they seemed small and busy as ants. My father's grave was a tiny blot of dark freshly-turned earth. I sat on one of the parapets and looked to the east, where strangely-coloured smokes and hazes still smudged the air above Isengard. Would Halred and the King return, or had they ridden into another cunning wizardly trap?

It hardly seemed to matter. I felt unreal, unanchored, as insubstantial and fleeting as thistledown. It was easy to picture the wind taking me up and blowing me from the tower walls, far, far away.

But in the end I came down from the tower and found work to do. It was better to have something to keep my hands busy, I found; then the strange sensation that I was floating away troubled me less. The Riders would not let me work among the slain, but there was much to do besides gathering together bodies. In the confusion before the battle, some of the stock had simply been turned loose in the coomb behind the Wall to fend for themselves. Now they must be rounded up and taken back to their home pastures; I helped herd together stray sheep and hill-wise goats all afternoon.

Many more horses than Riders had survived the battle, too, for there had been little room for mounted fighting within the Deep, and the extra mounts needed to be tended and prepared for the mountain journey to Dunharrow. I spent much time cosseting Moth that evening, currying her, coaxing her to eat, and trying to reassure her. She knew well her master was gone, though, for the normally even-tempered mare was restless and ill-mannered.

Erkenbrand had looked for the King and his company to return from Isengard before nightfall, but they did not. He was uneasy, and spoke of sending Riders out after them in the morning. However, they arrived in the last hour before dawn; the clatter of hooves in the court below awoke me from a fitful doze, and I ran down the stairs to see if Halred had returned.

Peering from the shadows of the stairwell, I was amazed. Surely there were twice as many Riders with the King now! Had Théoden found more survivors from the Fords? No – these were not men of the Mark, but strangers clad in grey and riding rough-coated, though sturdy, beasts.

Then I saw Halred next to Éomer, and the knot between my shoulders relaxed. He caught sight of me half-hidden in the stairway arch and winked. I gave him a hasty wave, and went back to my chamber to try again to snatch some sleep before the ride to Harrowdale.

* * *

It was an hour past noon, and the sun was hot on my shoulders as the King's Riders waited outside the Gate. I sat smoothing strands of Moth's pale mane between my fingers; it needed re-braiding, and I told myself to do so before she left Dunharrow as Halred's spare mount.

Many men had departed for the muster the night before, but at least four full éoreds remained to ride with Théoden, and the strange warriors in grey cloaks – kin of the Lord Aragorn, so the Riders said – were patiently waiting as well. The King was followed by a new squire, another child-like figure who Halred claimed was a holbytla from the far North. I wondered if he was a great warrior in his own land.

Finally Éomer and Lord Aragorn came forth from the Hold, and spoke apart with the King at length. Halred and I were too far away to hear their talk, but I saw many of the Riders near them make the sign against ill-luck, and wondered what was afoot. In the end the northern lord and his companions returned to the Hornburg, leaving only Riders of the Mark (and one halfling) to ride with the King. Both Théoden and Éomer looked pale and shaken, as though they had heard some fearful news.

I tried to forget that as we set off through the foothills, but it seemed an ill omen with which to begin our journey. And as we rode on, rumours whispered back from the head of the line that the northerners were following the Paths of the Dead. I shivered, and hoped that we were not all riding to that end.

Notes:
A full éored was made up of 120 Riders, according to Unfinished Tales.

Thanks to Nessime for catching a small error in this chapter.

Chapter 6 - The Muster

Dusk was dropping over the White Mountains, faster than we went before it, by the time we reached Harrowdale and the muster of the Mark late on the third day.

The King's company could not travel swiftly over the narrow mountain paths, but they had ridden long and far with few halts. My brother had been given leave to ride with me rather than among his own éored, and he patiently bore me company near the end of the line.

Before the evening of the first day, we passed above Fossdale. I strained my eyes trying to glimpse any detail of the steading, but there was no more smoke, and from this height all was silent below. Halred and two scouts rode down to see what they could; but they returned to the main body of Riders barely an hour later, their faces grim and set. Halred said only that the stables, burned to the ground, had made a fine pyre. They had found no sign of any other survivors.

By the end of the second day I was numb with weariness, and on the last morning Halred had had to boost me into the saddle. It was humiliating – I hadn't needed help to mount since I was five years old – but I was so spent I could only accept it with resignation. Now I rode swaying in a dull trance of exhaustion through which I saw nothing but the tips of Moth's ears, drooping with her own tiredness as we descended the long road down the slopes of Harrowdale.

A sudden blast of horns proclaiming the King's arrival startled me fully awake – I realized that we had reached the fords of the Snowbourn at last. Dùnhere, Elfhelm, Osric, and other captains I knew by sight came to meet the King, bearing news of the muster's progress.

Halred left me here to join his éored in the main camp; I was going up to the high Hold with Théoden King, who had bade me stay with Éowyn this night. I clung grimly to Moth's mane as we climbed up, and up, and up. The switchback road was a pale blur in the twilight, and the grey stone Pukel-men wavered, seeming to move out of the corner of my sight.

At the very top we halted as Éowyn came forth from the tents and hailed her uncle and brother. After they had finished speaking, she came to where I stood – one arm over Moth's neck keeping me upright – and greeted me kindly, if a little absently. She asked if I wished to sup at the King's table that evening, but I declined; I wanted nothing but a bed, on the bare ground if necessary. Besides, I was not fittingly dressed for a King's board, even in an armed camp. One of Halred's spare tunics hid the upper portion of my stained and torn gown, but nothing of my appearance had been improved by days of hard riding.

So Éowyn led me to her own tent, and asked her waiting-woman to prepare another pallet for me. Freja bustled about, finding bedding, bringing me bread and soft cheese and ale, and clucking over my half-healed scratches. Éowyn spoke a few words of sympathy about my father's death, and asked about the battle at the Deeping, but when she found that I had little energy left for speech gradually fell silent.

Since that evening, I have often asked myself how I could have been blind to her fey and reckless mood. My only defense is that, though she was only a few years younger than I, Éowyn and I had never been the closest of friends. I liked and trusted her, but we were not heart-sisters. Over the last months the mood of all in Meduseld had been dark; Éowyn's despair seemed only a little deeper than most of ours, and that we believed came from caring for her uncle in his illness. But in the end, even if I had noticed, what could I have said? Her mind was set, and she would not have listened to any other counsel.

True night had fallen by the time I finished my hasty meal. Torches had been lit by the King's tent, and captains were going to and fro reporting to Théoden and Éomer. A Rider's voice hailed us from outside. "Lady Éowyn? Are you within?"

Freja went to the open flap of the pavilion and returned with Elfhelm following her. I rose to leave, yet before I could slip into the partitioned-off inner chamber he said quickly, "Stay a while, Mistress Elfled, if you would."

He stood for a moment, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot – a strange sight, for Elfhelm was a Rider whom I had never seen make an ungraceful movement, ahorse or afoot. "Your father was one of the finest men of the Mark, and not only on the field of battle. I never knew him to do a mean or unworthy thing. He bore great honour, and his loss is grievous indeed."

I did not want to think of my father now, lest I begin to weep again, yet in a way it comforted me that others who had known him well mourned him too. I managed to smile stiffly at the captain. "Thank you for your words, Elfhelm."

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I must attend the King now. Farewell."

"I will walk with you," Éowyn said swiftly, and rose to follow him. "Do not wait up for me, Freja," she added, "and let Elfled seek her bed whenever she wishes."

Two minutes later I crawled onto the pallet that Freja showed me, and sank into black oblivion.

* * *

No dawn came the next day, for the sun could not pierce through the murk of clouds overspreading the whole sky from East to West. The very air seemed to press down upon us, heavy and grey.

In the early morning – if one could call it so, with no sign of the sun – I walked with my brother beside the Snowbourn. The sky was dark and sombre, but Halred's mood was not; he was young enough to be certain that he was riding to glory and to avenge our father's death.

"Pay attention to Moth," I told him, "for she is a wise beast, and has fought in more battles than you."

"Don't talk as if I were a stripling, sister! Elfhelm would not have taken me in his éored, even for Father's sake, if I weren't a proven warrior."

"I know, Halred. And I know that you will fight bravely. Do not be reckless, that is all that I ask."

We embraced before parting, and I held him for just an instant after he would have slipped out of my arms. It was hard to let go and watch him hasten away.

When the muster left, I stood with the other women to see the long lines of Riders pace slowly by. Éowyn was not there; Freja said that after bidding farewell to her brother and uncle she had retreated into her tent and asked to be left alone. As Halred and Moth passed, he grinned at me and beat spear on shield in salute, and I raised a hand in farewell.

After the Riders had departed, all of those exiled from Edoras returned to the camp above in the high Hold. But I desired solitude, and so I turned aside to walk in the pinewoods.

With no sun overhead, the passage of time was not easy to mark. I do not know whether I had been wandering for only a few minutes, or for hours, when I heard Freja calling my name. As I stepped out from the dark shelter of the woods I saw her in the meadow, opening her mouth to call again.

"Here I am. Has Éowyn asked for me?"

She glanced over her shoulder at the camp. "No, mistress, at least – well, I don't rightly know where Lady Éowyn is. That's why I came looking for you. You haven't seen her by chance?"

"I haven't seen a soul, I've been walking on the mountain. Didn't she ask to be left alone? What's amiss?" For Freja was clearly nervous – her gaze kept flickering back and forth across the Firienfeld.

"It's like this. I went to look in on her, see if she'd eat something now, for she'd not broken her fast this morning. But she's not in the tent. Her pallet's as neat as a pin, and all her things are there, but she's not."

Freja and I stared at each other a moment, and when she glanced at the cliff edge again I could not stop myself from looking in the same direction. "Surely she's just gone to check the tents, or some such thing," I said briskly. "She'll be back in a moment or two."

"But this was more than an hour ago, Mistress Elfled, and I've been all round the camp, and—"

"Have you checked the picket lines?" I interrupted.

"No."

"Then for pity's sake let us do so! Perhaps she's merely gone riding."

When we saw that Windfola was absent from his assigned place, the band around my chest loosened and I was able to take a deep breath. Whatever Éowyn might think of doing to herself, she would never harm her horse. Then the horseboy for that section of the lines told us that Windfola had not been there all day, and fear constricted my throat once more.

Freja's near-panic had infected me, making useful thought nearly impossible. "Was there anything out of place in her tent?" I asked for the fifth time, but before Freja could open her mouth to reply, I turned on my heel. "Never mind. I'll see for myself."

She'd left a note under her small wooden jewel casket. It was addressed to me, and as I saw the hastily scribbled letters of my name it took me back to the hours she and Éomer and I had spent reluctantly learning the Elvish runes under the tutelage of her grandmother.

Elfled—

I go to battle with the Riders. All is in readiness here. Take my place, if you will, and do what you can until darkness falls.

I am sorry to leave you with no hope. May we meet again in death's dominion.

Éowyn

Chapter Seven - Messages

It was fortunate for Éowyn that I had arrived the night before the muster left - I doubt another soul in Dunharrow could have read her message. What would she have done if I'd not been there? I wondered. Slunk away without any word at all?

I smiled bitterly to myself every time I thought of that note. "All is in readiness" - well, Éowyn was a shieldmaiden and thought as a soldier did. It is true that the tents were well-placed and that no fault could be found with the horse lines, but there were no proper provisions for a field kitchen, and no order to the stores. It took days to sort out just how much food we had and set some kind of rough rationing in order.

Then we had to decide what to do with the stock. The Firienfeld offered little pasturage for sheep, let alone horses or cattle, and herders nearly came to blows over the tiny patches of meadow on the mountainside. Eventually I persuaded the people that while we stayed in Harrowdale all of the herds should be grazed in common, but not until many hours had been spent debating it.

Freja insisted that I make use of Éowyn's wardrobe. I balked at the idea, but had to admit that it was a sensible one, for other than the tattered gown on my back, all the clothes I possessed were either laid away in a cedar chest in Meduseld or adorning some Dunlendish raider's woman. Éowyn was far taller than I, of course, but once we tacked the hems up quickly, her gowns served well enough for me.

I felt like one of the mummers that had sometimes travelled to Edoras from the south, dressed in another's clothes and performing her role as best as I could. It all seemed worse than ridiculous.

Day after day, the sun was only a dull bronze coin behind the haze in the eastern sky; but even after the unnatural darkness suddenly lifted, our hearts were not lightened. The only saving grace of those long weeks was that I had little time to think about what I was doing, or wonder what was happening to Halred and Éowyn and all of the other Riders of the Mark.

* * *

One of the boys posted as watchers by Alnwulf, the aged Rider who had perforce become our captain, blew his signal horn. The whole encampment froze to listen - but the horn rang only once for warning, not twice for present danger. By the time the lad had scrambled down from his perch atop the cliff overlooking the vale, Alnwulf and I were waiting for him at the bottom. "A horse!" he gasped, "a horse coming up from Underharrow."

"You're sure it's but a single rider?" Alnwulf's voice was clipped and anxious. But the boy swore that only one horse was approaching, and so the old man decided that it was safe enough to wait and see what might happen, instead of forming at once behind what feeble defense we could mount.

By the time the rider finished climbing the steep switchback path up to the Firienfeld, every one of the refugees from Edoras had gathered at the top awaiting his arrival. It was Oslaf, a Rider from Edoras whom I knew well from days of peace. He was wounded on his sword arm, and he bore news of war.

All listened as he told of how the muster had skirted the Road by secret paths to attack the enemy before the walls of Mundburg; how Théoden had fallen, but been avenged by Éowyn in her guise of Dernhelm; and of other deeds of great valour on the Pelennor Field before the city had been saved by an unforeseen army arriving on captured ships of the Corsairs.

Oslaf's tale gave us all a brief sense of hope, and there were even a few scattered cheers; but grim silence fell again as he said that Éomer had ridden with the Lords of Gondor to bring the war to the gate of the Enemy himself. "They departed Mundburg the same day that I did, but their road is longer, and an army cannot travel as swiftly as a single messenger. They will not reach the Black Land for three or four more days."

And even the fastest messenger could not ride from there to here in less than a week, I calculated. If the West were defeated, the first we would know of it was when hordes of Orcs swept over the Mark.

People pressed close after Oslaf was done, calling out names, begging him to tell them the fate of their brothers, sons, husbands, and fathers. Those that he knew, he spoke of, though there were many more of whom he had no news. He told me that Halred still lived, and had not ridden to Mordor, but gone north with many Riders under Elfhelm, for a great army still blocked the road from Mundburg. To avoid it, Oslaf had come by the secret mountain ways the Wild Men had shown the Riders.

Another messenger, he said, would follow in a few days, after the battle for the Road. Though his wound would have excused it, he would not stay in Harrowdale, but only rested his horse for the afternoon before turning back.

* * *

In the days following Oslaf's departure, we were all uneasy. The whole camp seemed to be balanced on a knife-edge of tension, for unreasonable quarrels broke out every hour. I could not settle to any useful work, but wandered about checking the picket lines, the rough fences of cut thorn, and other things I had checked a thousand times before. There was not even a breeze to stir the pines, unheard of in Dunharrow; the very mountains seemed to be holding their breath.

When the eagle came, I was trying with very little success to sort out the facts of some housekeeping dispute, surrounded by women screaming like warhorses. Their shrieks of outrage over the supposed theft of barley meal became impossibly loud and raucous, until I clapped my hands over my ears, looked up - and realized that I was hearing the cries of a great eagle arrowing down upon us from the peak of the Starkhorn.

"Sing, ye people of Rohan!" Its harsh voice rang out like the clash of spear on shield. "The Dark Tower has fallen, and Sauron is defeated! The King of Gondor and the Lords of the West are victorious!" The eagle spiraled above us, crying out its message once more, then spread its wings and flung itself northwards over the Irensaga.

Shrill cheers went up all over the Firienfeld, as the women and children shouted. "Hail Éomer King! Hail Lords of Mundburg!"

No one seemed to doubt the truth of the message, even though the people of the Mark are not accustomed to eagles bearing tidings. Pipes and drums were brought out, and a song of victory from the days of Fréalaf echoed off the Dwimorberg. Seeing that all were determined to celebrate, I had one of the last casks of strong ale broached and set outside the King's pavilion.

The merrymaking continued all afternoon and into the evening. That night, bonfires were lit and music played until the early hours before dawn. It was hard to say which was more intoxicating, the ale, the dancing, or the feeling of release. I stood in the shadows just outside the ring of firelight, sipping from a mug of ale and smiling determinedly as one after another came up to clasp my arm and exclaim over our incredible good fortune.

As the fires burned low and the cask ran dry, I could see a few couples (few indeed, considering the lack of men in the camp) slipping off into the privacy of the pinewoods. Let them clutch at one night of happiness, I thought; soon enough we would discover how much more this victory beyond hope had cost the Mark.

Chapter Eight - Homecomings

And so we returned from Dunharrow to Edoras.

But being in my own familiar rooms again was not as comforting as I had imagined it would be during the days in Harrowdale. Everything spoke of Halred and my father: the clothes Mother and I had woven and sewn for them; the scattered scraps of leather and half-repaired tack; the fox and hounds game set on the table by the hearth, where they loved to play of an evening.

I could not give my father's belongings away yet, but laid them in his clothes press. I would wait and see if there was anything that Halred wished to keep. After that, I kept my hands full managing the King's household as best I could, and as I thought Éowyn would wish.

And every day we awaited another message telling us what the fate of the Riders had been.

* * *

But it was more than a week before Oslaf came again with more news of the war to flesh out the clean-picked bones of the eagle's tidings. There had indeed been a great battle before the gates of Mordor, although in the end, victory was won not by the sword but by the deed of another holbytla, who had brought down the Dark Lord's tower by destroying his Ring. The armies of the West were now encamped in Ithilien, waiting for the Ringbearer to be well again. The King had striven long and hard to heal him of his hurts.

For there was a King of Gondor again, Oslaf said, a Ranger out of the North – the same Lord Aragorn who had fought at Helm's Deep. I ransacked my memory trying to recall what the new King looked like, but could only picture a tall, lean figure wrapped in a grey cloak. Oslaf said that the King had healed Éowyn, too, for she had been sore wounded in her combat with the Enemy's shadow wight. Though she was now recovering, she remained in Mundburg and would not return to Edoras until her brother did.

Last came Oslaf's saddest tidings; he bore a partial reckoning of those of the Mark who had died. "It is not complete," he warned us, "and the full count of the dead will not be known until Éomer King returns, if ever; for some of those now wounded may not recover, and some of the slain were so maimed they could not easily be recognized." Like my father, I thought, and shivered.

Before he could dismount from his horse, Oslaf was besieged again by an army of anxious parents and wives begging to know if a certain Rider was among the dead or living. I took one step closer to the throng asking for news; but I found I could not bring myself to ask what I was desperate to know. Instead I turned about and fled to my – our – rooms, finding comfort in the familiar tokens of Halred's life. Soon enough, I told myself as I paced back and forth, soon enough I would know. If Oslaf did not seek me out within a short time, Halred must be safe. As the slow minutes passed, I began to feel somewhat calmer. Surely, surely if he had ill news for me, Oslaf would have delivered it by now.

Then came the rap on my door.

I knew before I opened the door what the message would be, and Oslaf must have read that knowledge on my face, for he spoke forth plainly, with no attempt to soften his news. "Halred is dead."

I sat down on a stool by the hearth and motioned Oslaf to continue, for I had no breath to speak.

"All I know, my lady, is that he was slain in the fight to win back the north road from the Orcs. Elfhelm can tell you more, for he was there; ask of him when he returns from Mundburg."

I nodded and let Oslaf go, for his thankless task was still not done. I felt a moment's pity for him, and then it was overwhelmed in a wave of anger. Why should he be here? Why could not it have been my brother who was lightly wounded, and spared further battle to carry messages?

The mute witnesses of Halred's possessions surrounded me, waiting for an owner who would never return again. I seized the fox and hounds board, scattering pieces over the floor, and tried to smash it over my knee – but it was too well made to break in that fashion. Flinging it into the fire, I sank back down on to the stool, pressing my hands into my eyes in a useless attempt to stop the burning tears from spilling over.

* * *

Lush new grass spread out from the foothills onto the plain like green dye staining cloth, and the weather only became lovelier as the month of April passed. Just enough rain fell to keep the plains fresh, so there was no danger of wildfires, yet never so much as to make the Snowbourn rise in flood. None even of the oldest Eorlingas had seen a fairer spring, they said.

And every day I longed to ride as far away from Edoras as I could, and never return.

At night I lay on my bed and stared at the angle of the roof-beams – there were cobwebs up there, I would have to speak to Hilda – or at the thin slices of starred sky I could see through the window shutters. After a while, I watched stripes of rosy light slowly climb up the western wall of my chamber as the sun rose.

I took to rising earlier and earlier. In the end the kitchen maids and I were up at the same time, and I began scrubbing floors with them. The other women of the household were faintly scandalized, but accepted it without much comment, for we were short of help already. There were many marriages that spring, as the men began returning from the south in éoreds and smaller groups now and then. Every week it seemed some young woman of the household came to me, her face flushed with sly pride, telling me of her plans to wed some Rider or other and raise a passel of brats and could she please be dismissed from service.

I smiled and nodded and said Yes, indeed, he is a fine man and You must speak with the lady Éowyn when she returns, but I am sure she will not object. And then I stood at the trothplighting in place of the King's house, since none of them were there, and gave the loving-cup to the grinning couple.

Perhaps I should have turned to the most obvious way to begin a new life and looked for a husband myself. I was older than most brides among my people, but not unusually so, and passably fair if one discounted my brown eyes. But I was too craven to exchange a familiar misery for the uncertain chance of an improvement in my lot.

When I considered it, too, I saw that the men who might have wedded me had I encouraged them would do so because I could run a household well and my father had been a favourite of the King's house. That hardly seemed reason enough to uproot myself from the only home I had ever known – even if it would never be home to me again.

* * *

Éomer returned to the Mark at last in mid-May. It was a close-run thing; the scouts did not bring the news of a party of riders bearing the White Horse until it had nearly reached the Barrowfield. I hastily called together the household, and managed to gather all of the women at the doors of Meduseld just as Éomer's company rode up.

"Hail Éomer King!" we shouted, as the garrison grounded their spears and knelt to him. Éomer's eyes were concealed under the shadow of his helm, but I heard a catch in his voice as he bade them rise. I remembered Théoden and Théodred, and hoped that Éomer would prove as strong and wise as they.

Both Éowyn and Elfhelm were in the King's company, I saw; Éowyn's left arm was in a sling, but Elfhelm seemed untouched. Bitterness rose in my throat and I bit my lip to keep silent.

As soon as the formal greetings were dispensed with, and the stirrup-cup had been given, I left the court of the Gate in such haste that it was nearly unseemly. All that day I avoided Elfhelm's presence with determination. I did not want to learn any more of Halred's death – why should I? What good would it do to know whether he had died like our father, alone on the field of battle, and been mauled by Orcs? My brother was dead, and I was sure that he had not died dishonourably; beyond that, nothing mattered.

Chapter Nine - Fair Folk

I did not know how long I could continue to evade a meeting with Elfhelm; after all, as the Marshal of Edoras his path would cross mine many times in a day. I was relieved to hear from the women's gossip the next morning that he planned to depart soon for a lengthy stay with his family in the Eastmarch, for he had not been able to spend time there in many years while war threatened. He had asked for me at table last night, Hilda said, but she had not been able to find me. I smiled and told her not to trouble herself; I would seek him out when I wished.

* * *

Éowyn was strangely quiet and subdued; that might have been due to her injury, yet she also seemed less forceful than before. She was still proud enough to be unabashed by any reminder that she had deserted her charge – and there were many, both open and veiled, from those who had been at Dunharrow, though I did what I could to keep the women's tongues between their teeth. They were far angrier with Éowyn than the Riders; her valourous deed had made her a favourite, and already they called her the Lady of the Shieldarm. I remembered vaguely my own fury with Éowyn, but now I could not summon up the spirit to rail at her. What would be the use? No deed of hers had doomed Halred, or could have saved him.

Éowyn called me to her the day following her return, and asked me to continue keeping the King's household for a time. "For I am still recovering from my wounds," she said, "and I would need your help in any case, for the King's bride is to break her journey here on her way to Mundburg, and she will be accompanied by many of her folk."

"Is she a woman of the North, then?"

"She is an Elf," Éowyn said, "daughter to the Master of Rivendell. She also has kin from the Golden Wood, or so I have heard."

I blinked. "How in Eorl's name are we to entertain a party of the Fair Folk? I have no idea what they eat, or drink, or do to amuse themselves!" And half the serving maids will be too frightened to go near them, I thought.

"I rode with the Lady Arwen's brothers on the way from Mundburg, and they did not seem passing strange," Éowyn said dismissively. "They ate and drank what we all did, and as for entertaining them, they will be here for a day or two only. I do not think they expect a summer fair." I gritted my teeth but kept silence as Éowyn rose and took the keys of the household from her belt. "Take these for now, Elfled, with my thanks for what you did while I was gone." She hesitated a moment. "And my sympathies for your brother's fall. Halred was a brave lad."

"Thank you, Lady Éowyn." I bowed my head and made my own stiff speech of condolence. "Théoden was a great king, and a kind man. I will always remember him for the honour he showed my family."

Cold comfort to both of us, I am sure. It had always been thus between Éowyn and I; polite words enough but never true friendship. At that moment I missed my mother and Leofwyn more than I could say, for now there was no one in the wide world who I could mourn with, or lean on for an instant.

* * *

Though the Mark had escaped lightly enough, considering how ill things might have gone, much still needed to be re-ordered and mended. The storerooms of Meduseld alone would have furnished us with work for months; there were many things hoarded by Gríma that no one recognized, and much that should have been there was not. The accounts were tangled worse than a yearling's mane, for there again Gríma had had a free hand, and it seemed he had used it to dip for his own purse. Then there was the need to find new maids and men for the household to replace those who were marrying or returning to their homes.

Most of this Hilda and I saw to, while Éowyn helped take on the burdens her brother could not bear alone. There were many meetings these days, as Éomer called together the lords and wise men of the Mark to ask their counsel, and to let them take his measure – for they knew him less well than they had Théodred, and though respected as a warrior, he was still an untried King. Éowyn helped to lend him countenance and gravity; strange as it still seemed to me, she was now the less impetuous of the two.

I had no time to take up my own weaving again, but each time I passed the workroom I looked in on Goda's progress on the tapestry of Helm's Deep. I had asked her to work on that alone, for it would make a fine gift to Éomer when he took the throne – if only it was finished in time. Together we had revised the design so that it showed not Helm Hammerhand, but Théoden King standing on the wall of the Deep offering defiance to the host of Saruman.

All this meant that we had more than enough to do before taking on the work of hosting a royal riding of Elves. But having had the charge laid on me, I was determined not to fail. The King of Gondor's bride should not see Meduseld as Wormtongue had so often slandered it, a hovel where drunken bandits rolled in dirty straw. On the other hand, I did not wish to ape the grand ways of Mundburg, as Morwen had described them to Éowyn and me; we had neither the means nor the manners for that. Plain and simple courtesy, I thought, would fit us best.

So the best guest chambers were aired and a meadow in the fields above the city prepared for those who might prefer to sleep in the open air, as some said the Elves did. Linens were boiled and bleached in the sun, the halls scoured and fresh rushes cut for the floors. The kitchen stores were ransacked as we wondered what to feed beings out of legend. For a week we hardly sat from dawn till nightfall.

* * *

Éowyn might insist that there was nothing fey about the Elves, but the mere sight of them left me awestruck and tongue-tied. Fortunately, no speech was required of me, and I was able to hang back and attend to household matters unnoticed, as I thought.

The King's betrothed was lovely indeed; she seemed like a maid of fewer summers than I, until you looked more closely and saw the ages of wisdom in her eyes. Even so, she was not as frightening as some of the other Fair Folk – especially the Lady of the Golden Wood. I stole quick glances at her, unable to believe this slim youthful woman was the sorceress who had sent a white mist to speed Eorl on his ride south, more than five hundred years ago. And if the whispers I heard were true, she was so unimaginably old that even that span of time was no more to her than the length of a breath to me.

At least they were all, if unearthly, also unfailingly courteous. The lady Arwen even sought me out once to praise the tapestry of Eorl; she said that she had asked of Éowyn who the weaver was. We talked for some little space of dyes and weaves, wool and linen, and I nearly forgot that I was speaking with an immortal. She had the gift of showing genuine, uncontrived interest in whatever her companion knew most of. Yet though she seemed less fey than some of the others, she had in full measure their uncanny knowledge, as I learned on the last morning of their stay.

She had her own attendant who waited on her at daybreak, but I had taken on the task of bringing them a light morning meal. As I set down the tray, she thanked me and when I turned to leave touched my arm. "Elfled?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"Your name – what does it mean in the tongue of the Rohirrim?"

My cheeks heated red with embarassment. "It signifies Elf-fairness, so they say, though I have no claim to that."

She smiled. "You are fairer than you will accept praise for, Elfled." Her eyes met mine in the small mirror hanging on the wall, and I could not look away. "Would it offend you if I were to offer a word of counsel?"

I swallowed. It was equally dangerous to pay heed to Elvish advice or to disdain it, all knew. But how could I refuse the future Queen? "I would be glad of it."

"Anyone can see that your heart is weighed down with much sorrow, Elfled. Have a care that you do not fall even deeper into despair. I know how hard it can be to see beyond the shadow that darkens us; but the sun is there still, and someday its light will shine on you again."

I stood silently listening to her lovely voice. I knew that she was right, yet it made no difference to my frozen heart; I could not see beyond the blackness that surrounded me. Forcing a smile to my lips, I curtsied. "I will bear your words in mind, my lady." She bid me farewell kindly and let me go, though I felt certain she knew what I had been thinking.

I escaped the room as hastily as I could, and, though I was shamed to admit it, watched the Queen and her train ride away later that morning with relief. I could see now why so many mistrusted the Elves; they were uncomfortable companions indeed.

* * *

That evening, Elfhelm found me in the kitchen gardens. I was so distracted by the ruin wrought on the vegetable plot by three days of feeding guests that by the time I saw him striding over the muddy furrows, it was too late to flee unseen. I straightened up, took a deep breath, and wiped my hands on my skirts.

"My greetings to you, lord Marshal." For a moment something about him seemed very strange; then I realized he wore just a simple tunic and breeches – no helm, mail, nor sword. I had never seen Elfhelm unarmed before, except at high feasts.

"Lady Elfled, I wished to speak with you before I set out for the Eastemnet." He hesitated for a long moment, while I clenched my hands together tightly and waited for him to continue. "It seems to be my fate to see you only when there are ill tidings of your family, and I am sorry for it. Is there anything of Halred's death that you wish to know?"

I let out a slow breath. "Only this: where does he lie?"

"In a mound between the Road and the Great River, with the other Riders who fell in that battle. If ever you travel to Mundburg now that peace has come, you shall see it for yourself." I did not think that very likely, but it was a kind thought. I hoped that now Elfhelm would feel he had done his duty and leave me.

But he was not finished yet. "There is also the matter of Halred's horses. The bay was killed in battle. His spare mount – the blue roan that was your father's – was unhurt. I have brought her back for you to do with as you wish."

"You brought back Moth? Is she here in Edoras?"

"Yes, with the King's herd for now– " I left Elfhelm standing there in the mud and ran to the stableyard.

The King's horses had been brought in from pasture for the night already. As soon I was close enough to Moth's stall for her to catch sight and scent of me she let out a great bugling call, stirring her stablemates to restlessness.

I opened the stall door and slipped inside. "Oh, Moth." I ran my hands over her legs, but they were smooth and sound. Elfhelm had spoken truly; she was nearly unscathed. A few shallow cuts marred her flanks, but they were already scabbed over and healing well.

I heard footsteps on the packed earth of the stable aisle; Elfhelm had followed me. "Thank you, lord Marshal." I pressed my face into Moth's silky neck as she turned her head and blew hot, hay-scented breath into my hair.

"It was little enough. If there is any other service I can do for you, you need only ask."

"There is nothing else," I said without lifting my head. He lingered as if he wished to speak again, twisting the laces of his belt, but turned and walked away without saying anything else.

"So he left you behind too, Moth." Throwing my arms around her neck I sobbed into her coarse mane. "Why didn't he listen to me? I know you could have protected him!" The mare stood patiently until her coat was streaked darkly with tears.

Chapter Ten - A Way Opens

After the departure of the Elves, life in Meduseld settled back into the pattern that we were all accustomed to. Elfhelm left for the Eastmarch finally, and as July's scorching sun bleached the plains to a pale gold, Éomer rode out for Mundburg to claim his uncle's body for the Barrowfield.

At last I was able to return to work on the great tapestry of Helm's Deep; Goda and I still had much to do if it were to be finished before Théoden's funeral feast and the acclamation of Éomer as King. Thankfully the task filled my long days, and wearied my hands and mind.

* * *

"There's a messenger from the Westemnet here to see you, mistress," Hilda announced.

"Are you sure?"

"He asked for you by name."

What would a messenger want with me? It must be some matter of housekeeping; perhaps Erkenbrand's stores were low, after feeding all the refugees in the Deeping. I made sure the cook had all she needed for the evening meal and locked the spice chest before making my way to the stableyard. A tall young man with tawny hair stood there, gawking up at the richly carved eaves of Meduseld.

"Sigelm!" I picked up my skirts and ran to him. "I thought you were dead! Were you on the high pastures then, when the Dunlendings came?"

"Aye, I saw the smoke from there, and left the sheep with Hereward while I went down to see what had happened. But by the time I reached it, the raiders were gone, and only the stable still burned."

"I did that," I interrupted. "It was all I could do after I found… everyone else. Hereward was with you? Oh, that gladdens my heart. I could not find him, and I had not enough time to search. And why did you not come and find me sooner? But you are making me forget all my courtesy to a guest! Come in, and have a draught of ale as a reward for telling me all the news of the Westfold, and how you and Hereward have been."

"Gladly, Mistress Elfled, and if you have a moment to sit and talk, that's all to the good. For the plain truth is, I've come to beg a favour of you."

And so, after I'd drawn him a mug of small ale, we found seats in the firecorner. The great hearth was cold and empty, since the summer kitchens were now in use, and in the lull before supper the room was quiet and private.

"Now, what service do you want of me?" I prompted Sigelm. "If you seek a place in the household, you must talk to the Steward, for he sees to all the King's herds and flocks. But any good word I can speak for you, I will."

"It's not that." He turned his mug around and around, leaving overlapping damp circles on the table.

I waited a moment, but he spoke no further. "Well then, tell me of Hereward, if you will. How does he? And where did you go?"

Sigelm brightened. "Aye, that's the beginning of the tale, anyroad."

And so Sigelm told me how he and Hereward escaped the bloodshed at Fossdale. Hereward had begged again and again to come for a day to the high pastures with the shepherd; Sigelm had finally given in, and allowed him to tag along on that last peaceful morning. When Sigelm came back from witnessing the destruction of the steading, he had decided to take Hereward south for safety, rather than chance the northern paths to Helm's Deep.

"You did rightly," I reassured him. "I barely reached the Deeping in time, and I went faster than you could have travelled with a herd of sheep."

So Sigelm, Hereward, Collenfirth the sheepdog, and forty ewes and lambs had sought shelter two vales to the south, at the steading of a man named Wulfred. Sigelm was fairly confident of a welcome there, for Wulfred was of some stature in the Westfold, and it was true that he had seemed open-handed and hospitable at first. "But now I don't know… I'm worried, mistress Elfled. I think that Wulfred means to cheat Hereward of Fossdale somehow."

"How could he? Everyone knows that Elric adopted Hereward as his heir."

"Aye, but all of the oathwitnesses are dead now."

I began to see what Sigelm was hinting at. "But Hereward is still the only choice to inherit; he was Elric's stepson and his closest kin. How could Wulfred get around that?"

"Hereward's still naught but a boy, and Wulfred could keep him from getting Fossdale back on any terms but his. I've said once or twice already that it's time for us to be going home, but each time Wulfred insists that we wait. He'll send some of his own folk with us in the spring, he says."

"So they'll aid you while Hereward is young, and by the time he's grown he'll be depending on Wulfred for everything. Is that what you fear?"

Sigelm nodded. "And he's got a couple of daughters, near Hereward's age. I think he'll suggest one of them as a match in a year or so. Then – well, there'd be no doubt who the steading belongs to, even if Hereward is the one living there. We need you, mistress Elfled."

"Me! Whatever for?"

"Come back with us to Fossdale. You're the closest kin Hereward has left, and you're Elric's sister-daughter, the only one who could make a claim to the place from bloodright. If you show that you're standing behind Hereward, I think Wulfred would back down."

"But Sigelm, think! Where will we find people to work the farm without accepting Wulfred's offer? Just the three of us – you, me, and a half-grown boy – we'd never be able to do it all. And the outbuildings and stables will need repairing too. Perhaps you'd be better off taking Wulfred's help. I'm sure he doesn't mean you that ill."

"You haven't seen the Eastfold since the fighting ended, have you, mistress? Believe me, there are lots of folk at loose ends who'd be only too happy to find a place in Fossdale. And I'm sure my aunt Sigrun would come home as well. My father's sister," he added, "she grew up in Fossdale but left when she married an Eastmarch man. He was killed by orcs last year and she's been looking to come back ever since."

I stared at the scarred wooden table in front of me but barely saw it. Now that a chance to leave Edoras had fallen from the sky, just as I had wished so many times – I feared to seize it. Life here might be empty, but at least it was a comfortable servitude. Yet, thinking of all the withered, useless days and nights that lay ahead of me, I shivered. With a jolt of clear foresight I realized that if I did not grasp this chance of escape I would never leave. It would be so much easier to stay and dwindle into the bitter decline the Lady Arwen had warned me against.

I clenched my hands together tightly on the tabletop. "Very well, Sigelm, I will come to Fossdale."

Sigelm looked as if he wanted to jump up from the bench and embrace me, but contented himself with grabbing my hands and squeezing them painfully tight. "Thank you, thank you, mistress Elfled."

"Not immediately," I added hastily, "for I shall have to beg leave to go from the Lady Éowyn. But before the end of the summer, I should be ready to depart. I will send a message to you at Ulfdale when I do."

* * *

There was much that had to be done first, for many of the things I used daily in Edoras would be worse than useless in Fossdale. I bartered my embroidered clothes of fine-woven wool and linen for coarser tunics and skirts. I traded my second horse, who was no patch on my poor slain Faeger anyways, for a sturdy cob who was none too smooth-gaited, but good farmstock and could pull a wagon in a pinch.

Rebuilding Fossdale would take ready money as well, especially if Wulfred were as greedy as Sigelm feared. I had little enough that was valuable, but what I had I sold, even the silver seagull broach that Queen Morwen had given to my mother and she had passed down to me. It was a lovely thing, wrought of silver with green and clear gems, that had come all the way from Lossarnach – but, I told myself, it was merely a piece of metal. So I sold it to the wife of the new Doorward for a handsome price. I sold my father's horses too, even Moth, to an Eastfold horsebreeder whose stock had been sorely depleted by orc raids.

I made sure that all three were well-groomed on the day he came to collect them. Foxface and Banner were handsome beasts, yet Moth outshone both of them with her coat like burnished steel in the sunlight. She was too well-mannered to balk as her new master led her away, but as she turned her head towards me in confusion I nearly begged the man to stop and bring her back.

"Goodbye, Moth," I whispered. "May you bear your new master to better fortune. I only wish I could see one of your foals."

[Note: The following three chapters are still really in beta form. Normally I wouldn't post something still so close to first draft, but I felt that it was time to post some updates in case anyone was still reading this story after its long hiatus, and to encourage myself to get working on it again.

Any and all comments are appreciated.]

Chapter 11 - Leavetakings

Two weeks after Sigelm had brought his message, I had not yet said anything of my plans to Eowyn. Each day I told myself I must warn her that I was leaving, and each day I put it off until the morrow. I should not have been so timid. Asking leave to go was merely a courtesy, since I was a thegn's daughter and no bondservant, but I feared that Eowyn would unleash her temper on me if I spoke of leaving while she was preoccupied with many other cares. I excused myself by arguing that the household was too busy, and it was true that our preparations for the Queen's visit seemed simple compared with our work now. When Eomer returned from Mundburg with Theoden's body, both a king's funeral and a king's crowning would be held. Many great folk of Gondor were coming to do honour to the Mark; indeed, it was rumoured that the new Sea King himself would ride to Edoras.

On the day before the arrival of the Kings was expected, Eowyn surprised me with her own unforeseen news. She had asked if I had a moment for private speech in her chamber, and I agreed, thinking it the perfect chance to gather up my determination and tell her that I was leaving. Then Eowyn told me that she was betrothed to the new Steward of Gondor, Faramir son of Denethor, who would also arrive with her brother tomorrow. Suddenly what had puzzled me about Eowyn in recent days - her quiet thoughtfulness, her air of unspoken happiness - settled into place like the bit into a horse's mouth.

"Will you live in Mundburg?" I asked her.

"Near to it," she corrected me. "The King has granted my betrothed the land of Ithilien, across the river from Minas Tirith. But yes, I shall be leaving the Mark." Bright banners of colour flagged her cheeks, but her smile wavered for a moment. I remembered my manners belatedly and wished her joy.

"Thank you, Elfled. Eomer will announce our betrothal at the feast for Theoden, and until then I would rather that no-one else knew, but I wished to ask your help in preparing for the wedding. I will need a gown in the style of Gondor--"

"But I won't be here," I blurted, and then bit my lip -- I had forgotten all the careful words I had crafted to break my plans.

Eowyn stared at me. "Why not?"

"I meant to speak to you about this soon, Eowyn. I am going back to Fossdale, my uncle's steading in the Westfold. My cousin Hereward needs help to hold the land."

At another time I might have enjoyed the sight of Eowyn silenced with surprise. She opened and closed her mouth twice before asking, "When shall you leave?"

"As soon as I can," I told her. "I thought to depart not long after the funeral feast."

"How long shall you stay? Will you come back in the spring?"

"I do not think I shall ever return," I said slowly. "Without Halred and my father, Meduseld is no longer my home. I must make my own place in the world." I had not thought matters through to that conclusion before; but as soon as the words left my mouth, I recognized their truth. "I am not needed here any longer. Even if you are gone, Hilda can manage the King's household until Eomer marries."

"Are you certain?" Eowyn asked. "I thought that Fossdale was destroyed, and its people killed. Is there anything left to restore?"

"I know it will be hard work. I am not looking for ease, only a task I can usefully perform."

"You sound as I felt when I rode to war," she said, and touched my arm gently. "I know that you lost much, Elfled, and I grieve for Hama and Halred too -- but try to remember that much was saved too. You may yet find happiness again, as I did, when least expected."

I shook off her hand. "Do not lecture me, Eowyn!" How dared she speak so? I did not need her pity. "You ran away to seek death -- do not deny it -- but now that you wish to live, you have the arrogance to tell me I should comport myself with a smile. Well, do not fear. I shall remove myself to the Westfold, and you will never see my long face again." I did not stay to stare at Eowyn's shocked, angry face, but stalked out, shoving the heavy door closed behind me with a childish bang.

* * *

On the night of Theoden's feast, Eowyn and her betrothed sat at the high table. He was indeed noble of face and bearing; to see them together, dark and bright, was like something out of an old tale. I tried to suppress a twinge of envy. I had never before been jealous of Eowyn's beauty, but since her return she was fairer than ever. It was not only that she had resumed wearing soft blues and deep greens instead of stark white; she seemed to glow from within like an illuminated lantern. I supposed that was what happiness in love did.

I sat with the other unmarried maidens, who were merry and flirtatious at the sight of so many fine knights and captains. I was still silent and bitter. How greedy the lords of Mundburg were! It was not enough that the Mark had given so many bright lives, so many brave men and horses -- now they were taking our White Lady as well, to wither in a house of stone. I had not spoken to Eowyn in three days, since our awkward conversation had ended with my outburst. I resented her undeserved good fortune. She had deserted her post and been rewarded with glory instead of scorn for oathbreaking; she had left me behind, unconsidered, to do her work in her stead. But she was still the sister of our King, the lady of Meduseld until Eomer chose a Queen, and I did not wish her to be lost to the Mark forever.

The feast was impressive, for we had done our best, but I hardly tasted the rich meat and wine. At the end honey mead was poured and the whole company drank to Theoden and the kings gone before, to Eomer King, and to Eowyn's betrothal. There were a few murmurs of surprise at that news, but Lord Faramir was of noble blood and a proven warrior, and people seemed to wish them well. Then Eomer named his new captains and the Marshals of the Mark: Erkenbrand for the West, Elfhelm in the East. Elfhelm deserved the honour, and I was glad for him -- but I had had enough of toasts. I rose from my place with a murmured excuse, made for the kitchens, and escaped outside into the cool night.

Though torches had been lit in the stable courtyard, compared to the bright hall it seemed very dark without. I slipped past the wardens at the gate of Meduseld by Halred's secret path, remembering all the hours my brother and I had spent together scouting an unseen way around our father's post. The quick Snowbourn led me down into the quiet city.

At the first footbridge I stopped to sit down and breathe deep of the cool air. The poplar trees on the banks swayed in the wind, pale leaves pattering like a light steady rain on hard earth. Cat-tails in the stream rustled and as the wind picked up strength even the wooden bridge sounded underneath me with a slow, deep thrum. Buttons of grey moss grew on the planks. I picked them off and tossed them into the water, watching it carry them away between my dangling feet. I felt almost at peace.

"I thought that I might find you here." Elfhelm sat down beside me and added his own scrap of moss to the purling waters. "There was some confusion at the feast, something about requiring more mead…"

I snorted. "Hilda knows where to find it. She needs to judge the company's thirst better."

"Eowyn said at table tonight that you had commended the girl to her as your successor. So you are leaving Edoras? When?"

"Whenever King Elessar’s party sets out for Helm's Deep. Eomer bade me ride with them."

"You could have no better escort." Elfhelm sounded relieved.

I laughed. "What could there be to fear? The Mark is safe now, surely."

"The Dark Lord is gone, but not all of his creatures vanished along with him. We've hunted down a few stray orcs on the fields of the Eastemnet. A rider alone might not be safe yet." He hesitated. "Eowyn spoke as if you and she are less than friends now. Is that why you are leaving?"

I shook my head impatiently. "We were never friends. It's true I didn't care for being told my duty by one who abandoned hers, but I would have left in any case."

Elfhelm picked at another plaque of moss, his words coming even more slowly. "I am only trying to understand. I thought-- I thought that you would stay in Edoras."

I shrugged. "What reason do I have to stay? My father is gone, Halred is gone... even Moth is gone."

Elfhelm looked sharply at me. "You sold Moth?"

Shame at the thought of the care Elfhelm had taken to return my father's horse made my tongue sharp when I answered. "Moth was mine to do with as I pleased. She'd be of no use on a farm, she is too finely bred. She has gone to be a broodmare, where she'll have an easy life and no doubt throw many fine colts."

"It was a wise choice," he said placatingly. "Still, even if your family is gone, I do not understand why you are running away from Edoras-- "

"I am not running away! This was my home while my family lived; now they are all dead, and I have nothing to hold me here any longer. Why should I not leave?" I glared at Elfhelm. "You at least should understand. How many times did I hear you tell my father you missed the broad lands of the Entwash, and would go back if you had only yourself to think of? You are going home now, and I would never call you a coward for it." My voice cracked, and I stopped, panting with anger.

"I don't deny I am glad to be returning to the Eastmarch, but I am going because my King sent me. If he asked me to serve elsewhere, I would." He looked at me levelly. "Self-pity does not become you, Elfled."

Cold rage filled me. "If I were a shieldmaiden, Marshall Elfhelm, I would strike you for that. Do not lecture me like a child. I am weary of advice, and of being told not to despair."

"I am not lecturing you like a child; I am telling you the truth. You can leave Edoras, but you cannot leave your sorrow behind."

"At least I can escape being reminded of it every minute that passes." Angry tears caught in my throat and I did not trust my voice any longer. I struggled to my feet and ran back up the path to Meduseld.

* * *

Two days later, King Elessar and his party made ready to set out for Helm's Deep. The crowd of horses and riders that filled the court of Meduseld was bright and varied; knights of Gondor and Riders of the Mark, Elves, the four holbytla, and a single Dwarf. I waited in the Great Hall until the last possible minute. I did not want to ride with so many great folk, but Eomer had intended it as an honour, and it would be churlish to refuse and take another Rider who could ill be spared for my own personal escort.

It was quiet and dim inside the hall; the hearth was bare, for it was the warmest height of summer when all things ripen to harvest. I lingered in front of my mother's tapestry of Eorl, trying to fix it more strongly in my memory, though my eyes and fingers already knew every thread of it. The voices of the group outside -- laughing, singing, calling out to each other -- rang off the pillars. I had no more farewells to make. Last night I had said my brief goodbyes to the women of the household. Hilda had even wept, though I doubted her tears were sincere.

I reached out and stroked Felarof's slubbed tail one last time before I left.

Chapter 12 - Return

Anxiety tightened my grip on the reins and the cob jibbed, throwing his head up at my poor handling. I halted him at the last bend in the river before the steading and tried to calm both of us. The slow pace of the King's party had fretted me, but now I could hardly make myself take the last few steps of my journey.

Such a large group had not ridden in haste; it had taken us three days to reach Fossdale. Occasionally Holdwine rode next to me as we talked of his Shire-land in the far North; more often I was left alone to wonder what I might find at the end of my road, or remember the brother and father I had travelled this road with many times. I do not think any of my fellow travellers but Holdwine learned my name. They were too caught up in this last journey together before they must take leave of each other. It was plain to see that they were linked by a bond as strong as blood – something akin to the brotherhood of warriors. The holbytlas rode merrily, talking and singing, except for the Ringbearer; he seemed older, and there were lines on his face that told of much pain. I spoke only a few times to the King, who said few words ever and those quietly, but always well-chosen. He was indeed a ruler of Men. The Elves still unnerved me, and I avoided them as much as I could until the morning of the fourth day, when after bidding farewell to Holdwine and paying my courtesies to the King I turned aside at the bridge below over the swift river that flowed out of the dale.

I reminded myself that I would not see Fossdale as I had left it, a smouldering shell full of the dead, for Riders from the Deep had been sent out on burial detail through the Westfold all summer. And Sigelm and Hereward would be there awaiting me. I took one more deep breath and urged the cob forward.

Nothing seemed different from the day half a year ago that I had arrived in my brother's company. I slid down from the saddle and stared. The palisade still stood. The gate was fast shut. But the longer I looked, the more I saw things awry. The home fields should have been waist high with barley and rye sown in the spring; they were choked with thistles and hawkweed. There were no goats nibbling at the brush, no ducks or geese in the water meadow. I could not see the high pastures from here, of course, but I doubted there were many sheep up there. A cairn of stones close to the mountainside marked where the dead of Fossdale lay.

The gate's hinges squealed as Hereward shoved it back just far enough to let his scrawny form slip through, followed by Sigelm's stockier one. "Elfled!" Hereward's body struck me in the chest like a hunting spear and his arms wrapped about me tight enough to hinder my breathing. I patted his back gingerly, surprised at the enthusiasm of his greeting. "All the folk at Wulfred's steading said you must have been carried off to Dunland and you'd never come back! How did you escape?"

"Much the same way as you. I was outside the wall when the raiders came, and I managed to make it to the Deeping before it was under siege," I said, raising an eyebrow at Sigelm, who'd mentioned nothing about the whole of the Westmarch giving me up as a Dunlending's bedslave. He shuffled his feet and mumbled that he hadn't wanted to offend me.

"I was sad to hear that your father and your brother died," Hereward added quickly. "Mother told me they were two of the King's bravest Riders."

"They were. And I am sorry, too, that Leofwyn is gone. She was a wise and loving woman, Hereward. I know that she would be proud to see you take up your inheritance."

"Come and see the place," Sigelm broke in. "We need to get working as quickly as we can."


I stood in the kitchen storeroom and tried not to let dismay show on my face; but my hopes had slowly sunk along with my heart as Sigelm showed me about the steading. The hall was more or less sound, if damp. Patches of mud on the flagstone floor showed where the thatch was leaking. The broken benches and tables were heaped in a corner. Sigelm had rehung the wall hangings that had been torn down and trampled, but they were speckled with mildew and moth-holes.

Where the stable had been there was now nothing but a bare patch of earth. The rubble had been cleared away by the Riders who took up the bones to be buried in the mound outside. The pigsty and sheepfold barely stood; they sagged together like drunkards propping each other up. The sour reek of spoilage filled the dairyhouse from the cream pans encrusted with the stinking scum of the last milking, six months ago.

Weather and animals together had made the kitchen a shambles. I had hoped that some of the stores might remain, but the door was ajar, and so whatever the Dunlendings had not ransacked, the mice and squirrels had feasted on. Shards of crockery, scraps of sacking, spilled honey and preserves and oats had fallen to the floor and hardened into a sticky mass, filmy with mold. Some flour stored in the copper-lined bin had evaded the little beasts and I didn’t find any weevils when I sifted a handful though my fingers, so I could bake bread - or I could have, if the chimneys had not been blocked by bird's nests – both chimneys, the hearth within and the bread oven in the yard.

I rubbed my face with dusty hands, trying to scrub away the tears I felt prickling in my eyes. What a fool I'd been, picturing disorder that could be tidied in an afternoon. Setting the household to rights would take weeks of labour, and I hadn't even seen the fields and flocks yet.

"Well." I looked around for Sigelm. "I think we should see how soon your aunt can come, and whether any others want to come with her. This will take all the hands we can muster."

* * *

I shook my skirts out again and checked the pins holding my braids in place. Beside me, Hereward hopped from foot to foot. "Look – there they are!"

"I see them, Hereward, I see them. Be still a moment," I snapped. My hands rose to smooth my hair again and I forced them down, clasping them tightly in front of me. So much depended on this woman I knew nothing of. If she and I could not stomach each other, if she were too old or weak... we needed her help desperately, or Fossdale might never be reclaimed from ruin.

The riders were close enough now for me to see Sigrun's face. She was tall – taller than I, of course – and strong-featured, resembling her brother closely. The same hooked nose her brother Siglaf had had divided her face and made her gaze seem piercing and fierce. I stepped forward as she dismounted from her horse, an old and canny hammer-headed gelding. "Be welcome to this house, mistress Sigrun. I hope you will decide to make it your home."

Hereward bounded up and down again. "It's my holding, Elfled, let me finish—" He went on importantly. "My door shall always be open to you."

Sigrun's eyes softened slightly. "Thank you, young master." Then they turned to me, raking me up and down, and I could feel every loose thread and stray hair drawing notice to itself. "I hope I'll be at home here too, girl, but it's early days yet. Still, Sigelm says you're a sensible sort, and I knew your mother when she was a chit younger than you. If you take after her we should be right enough."

I closed my mouth, which had fallen open at the thought of anyone describing my poised mother as a "chit," and suggested that Sigrun might like to look around the hall and the steading and see what needed to be done. After an hour of exhaustive inquiry into every corner of the house and under every blade of straw in the yard, she pronouced herself satisfied: "It's clear as spring water you've no idea how to run a farm instead of a lord's house, but you've a head on your shoulders. You could have done worse."

I was too grateful to bristle at her plain speech, even had what she said not been perfectly true. "Can we do it, mistress Sigrun? Restore Fossdale to keeping itself?"

"Aye, we can. Whether we can do it fast enough to keep that sharp trader Wulfred from snapping it up is another question. We'll need more hands, for a start."

"I know," I said wearily. "But where can we find them? And how can we know whether they're trustworthy?"

Sigun snorted. "A few good dogs will keep thieves off, and any rogue will leave fast as his horse can go after he sees what kind of work needs doing here. That kind generally aren't fond of getting their hands in manure."

I stifled a laugh, feeling marginally more cheerful. Perhaps things weren’t quite as impossible as they seemed.

Chapter 13 - Reclamation

I had thought I was used to hard work. Even in the Golden Hall I had set my hand to tasks other than weaving, and at Dunharrow there were so few men that the women had done most of the heavy chores like chopping firewood. But I had never been so weary in all my life. The work at Fossdale was tedious, back-breaking, and seemingly never-ending. At dawn we dragged ourselves off straw mattresses that were lumpy because we could not spare the fodder to re-stuff them. After swallowing a bowl of barley groats, thick from being left on the kitchen hearth all night, we went out into the grey light to mend hurdles and fences, repair the barns and outbuildings, and hoe the weed-choked fields trying to eke out a small harvest. Our midday meal was thin bean soup with a chunk of panbread or an apple from one of the few trees that had escaped destruction; then it was back to work until the sun set. After that we did what sewing or furniture-mending we could indoors by the dull light of tallow lamps and the fire. Supper was much the same as lunch, without the soup.

We were always hungry. Winter wheat and barley had been sowed in the cleared fields, of course, but that would not feed us until the spring. I used some of the coins I had to buy flour and meal at the Westfolde market. Otherwise, our bellies would have been empty indeed; there were more mouths to feed as more and more people found their way to Fossdale. Most were related in some distant fashion to Sigelm and Sigrun. A few were strangers, suddenly alone in the world like Hereward and me, who had heard in Westfolde or the Deeping of a farm that needed rebuilding. I worried about taking in these folk of whom we know nothing, but as Sigrun had pointed out, we had little enough to tempt thieves or knaves, and it was true that the ones with no stomach for hard work soon drifted away again.

By the end of September we numbered twelve in all. Sigelm and his second cousin Serulf were the only young men. Most of the household were women my age or older, widowed in the war and without other family to turn to for some reason. There were a few children -- Francha's two young sons and Edwyn's daughter; they were all younger than Hereward.

I was curious about Wulfred, who had sent kindly, encouraging messages with Sigelm and, what was much more helpful, the gift of a new axe. I asked Sigelm whether he might have been mistaken in Wulfred's intentions; he shrugged and said that he could not see men's thoughts, only their deeds, and that Wulfred's would show. Sigrun would not speak of him; she only hmphed and set to working faster whenever I asked. But it was not long before I had the chance to satisfy my curiosity: Wulfred came to Fossdale in early October.

He gave us no notice of his visit, and we'd have had no warning if he had not encountered Sigelm by the Fossbrook early one morning. They came through the farmstead gate together, talking amiably of sheep and pasturage while Collenfirth barked and circled dangerously close to his horse's heels. I called off the dog and shut him in the barn, not realizing who this stranger was until I heard him offer to send his ram over from Ulfdale later in the fall. Fortunately Sigrun must have seen and recognized him, for when I turned toward the hall in a panic she was already there, stepping quickly forward with our bronze cup -- it was the best we had to offer a guest since the Dunlendings had taken my uncle's chased silver one -- filled with ale.

Wulfred dismounted from his showy, dapple-grey stallion and came towards us smiling broadly. I was used to being overshadowed, but he was tall even for a man of the Mark; my head barely reached his chin. He was also the handsomest man I’d ever seen, like the figure of Eorl on the tapestry come to life. Though younger than I’d expected a man with half-grown daughters to be, he wore his shining hair in the old-fashioned manner, bound into two long braids.

“Be welcome to this hall, Master Wulfred,” I said as I offered him the guest cup. The words felt strange in my mouth – it seemed like years rather than months since I'd greeted anyone with ceremony.

He took it and drank. “No need to be so formal; I have guested in Fossdale many a time.”

“But not since I became mistress here,” I pointed out sweetly, meaning to let him know that I had no intention of being shifted from my ground. It was good to feel Sigrun's silent presence at my back.

“True,” he said amiably, but his eyes narrowed. "It is good to see life here again; you've done much in a short while, Mistress Elfled. And now I see that you are not only good and wise, but lovely as well."

"It is thanks to Sigelm and Sigrun that we've accomplished so much," I said. "And thank you for your generous gift; 'tis a fine axe."

"My girls have been asking after young Hereward; they miss him. Where is he this morning?"

"Out with the sheep," I said shortly. In truth, I had no idea; Hereward was as disinclined to work as most boys his age. He was supposed to be helping Serulf mend fences, but he was just as likely to be swimming in the pond.

"It is good of you to do so much for a lad who's none of your kin," he remarked. "Not many would, especially if they had the better claim to the land. With such a dowry, a maiden could marry very well." The obvious lure should have been laughable, but it made me feel queasy. I held still as a shudder tried to climb up my spine.

"Will it please you to come inside?" I did not want him to stay longer, but to omit an invitation would be too close to a deliberate insult.

"No, no, I am on my way to Westfolde in haste. I rode up just to meet you briefly. Such near neighbours as we are should be on good terms."

"Let us not keep you from your journey, then," I said. He handed back the guest cup, deliberately brushing my fingers and letting his eyes linger on me longer than was polite. I returned his stare, determined not to let my unease show, and took refuge in cold courtesy. "May you ride in health, Master Wulfred."

He smiled. "I shall be sure to return again soon. I would like to see more of your hard work and progress. And remember that Ulfdale is not far; be sure to ask if there is anything that you need." He lifted himself lightly back into the saddle and gathered up his restive horse.

I walked alongside him to the gate. I would have preferred to see him offf Fossdale land altogether, but that would have been too blatant a sign of mistrust. Instead I caught Sigelm's eye and managed to make him understand what I wanted. He slipped out the gate behind Wulfred to keep a discreet watch on him until he was truly on his way out of the dale.

I handed the guest-cup to Sigrun and wiped the hand Wulfred had touched on my skirt. "Faugh! He reminds me of Grima Wormtongue, always soft-spoken but a sly sting in every word."

She looked grim. "Aye, he's a nasty piece of work. Looks fair and feels foul, as my grand-dam would have said. I didn't like the way he took to you. Maybe he thinks to get Fossdale through you now, if he can turn your head."

I shuddered. "I'd sooner wed a real snake. But he doesn't seem like a man who'll give up his aim easily. If he wants Fossdale so badly, how can we fend him off?"

Sigrun considered. "The best advice I have is to keep on as we are. You were a clever girl, to bring some ready money. We can buy seed and food to see us through this winter, and come next harvest we might just have enough to survive another year without being beholden to anyone."

I sighed. Poor Moth, the source of most of my carefully hoarded coins. I still thought I had done right to sell her, but I missed her.

* * *

After more than a month of isolation, Fossdale was suddenly busy as a waystation for travellers. Two days after Wulfred's visit, I was in the dairyhouse with Sigrun, scraping curds into the cheesemolds -- we hoped to make soft goat cheese to sell or trade at the autumn fair in Westfolde -- when Hereward ran into the farmyard, his gangly limbs flailing, and interrupted my scolding about startling the hens. "There are riders coming up the dale – almost thirty!"

"Riders?" I said sharply. "Do you mean King's men? Did they bear any banner?"

"One had a sort of flag tied to his spear. Blue, with a white mountain peak."

What in Eorl's name…? "That's the sign of the Westmark, though I've no notion why Erkenbrand should be coming here. Sigrun, find Sigelm and tell him to broach a new cask of the small ale. Gather the mugs yourself. Hereward, shut the dogs in the barn, and–"

"Hail the farmstead!" a voice shouted from outside the palisade, and sweated horses began trooping in through the open gate, one after another after another, each bearing a Rider in half armor and horse-tailed helm. The farm dogs set off a storm of barking and growling, though they kept a prudent distance from the warhorses' shod hooves.

"Hereward, deal with those curs! And Sigrun – the ale, now!" I snapped, and they scuttled off in opposite directions across the packed earth of the yard. I shut my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration. Didn't Erkenbrand have enough sense not to descend on a farm in the midst of shearing? And, of course, for cheesemaking I was in my shabbiest gown. All I could do to improve my appearance was take off my apron and the cloth tied over my hair before I emerged from the cool dairyhouse into the bright sun.

Hereward had counted accurately enough. There were twenty-five mounted men in the yard, drawn up in a loose bunch just within the gate. One Rider sat his horse a little forward from the rest, and I stepped before him. "Hail, Lord of the Eastmark, and be welcome to this hall. Will you and your Riders take a cup of ale?"

"Gladly, mistress. It is a thirsty ride up the dale in the sun." That was not Erkenbrand. I knew the voice even before the Rider pulled off his white-plumed helm, revealing Elfhelm's face.

My eyes flicked from him to the blue flag. "You are riding under a banner not your own, Marshal Elfhelm."

He dismounted and bowed. "I am here on my uncle's behalf, and since I ride on Erkenbrand's errand I carry his sign." One of Francha's sons came to take the mare's reins, and I gestured for Elfhelm to precede me into the hall. When Sigrun brought forth the full guest cup, I passed it on to him with little ceremony before waving her out into the yard to give the Riders their stirrup cups.

I leaned against one of the great timbers supporting the room beams. "Now, my lord Marshal, what brings you to this steading? If you've come to levy men for Erkenbrand, only two on this farm are of fighting age, and we cannot spare them in the midst of shearing."

"I am not looking to raise a muster." He dropped loosely onto the bench against the wall and stretched his legs out, raising the cup to me in salute before gulping down a mouthful of ale. "I have two other errands. First, I want to know whether you have seen anything that seems out of place, any sign of orcs or Dunlendings."

I shrugged one shoulder. "We've seen naught but wolves, but they grow bolder as the days draw in. If the winter is hard we may lose a good many sheep. Why? Have there been attacks on other dales? I thought the Dunlendings had sued for peace."

"Yes, and some of their clan chiefs are travelling to Edoras to swear to the treaty. My uncle is still suspicious, but I believe they are sincere; they lost more than we at Helm's Deep, and they can ill afford to anger the Mark again now that their protector Saruman is gone."

"Then why do you ask about them?"

"The Dunlendings may not be a threat any longer, but I am still uneasy, and I can't put my finger on why. I took some men of my uncle's household to ride the outlying dales in hopes that I'd find something to prove my fears or put them at rest. So far all the farmsteads we've stopped at, like yourself, report only wolves." Elfhelm rubbed his forehead, looking suddenly weary. "Perhaps it's only that I've been at war too long and cannot stop searching for enemies, even now that we have peace."

"I don't believe that. You are no yearling, to be shying at shadows." I could not resist adding in a dry tone, "Self-pity does not become you, Elfhelm."

Startled, he looked up with a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth. "I suppose I deserved that. In fact, I should be glad that I received the courtesy of a guest-cup in Fossdale, after the way that we parted." He thumped the cup down on the bench and stood up. "I misspoke then, Elfled, and I ask your pardon for it. You've done well by Fossdale, and I can see that you've more scope for yourself here than in Edoras. Do you enjoy farm life?"

I laughed. "I haven't the time to worry about whether I enjoy it or not. I am kept running from pillar to post all day long."

"I suppose it is your country, and you prefer it to any other. I feel the same about the lands of the Entwash."

I said honestly, "I have seen little of the Mark; only Westfolde and Fossdale in my childhood, and then Edoras. I have little to compare it with. I have heard you speak of the Entwash fens, and thought that they sounded bare and lonely, but you clearly loved them."

Elfhelm looked away at the bright sunlight of the open door. "Perhaps someday you will see them and decide for yourself."

"Perhaps. Now, what is your second errand?"

He chuckled. "I feared to bring it up, but I suppose since I have not been chased away with a horsewhip yet, it may not be too dangerous to mention. I rode through Edoras on my way to the Westmark. Eowyn and Faramir are to wed at Meduseld on the twenty-fifth of March, and Eowyn bade me ask if you would come to witness it."

I had no idea what to say. "That is… unexpected."

"You need not answer right away; you can send her a message through my uncle any time before the spring. If you care to know my opinion, I think she was sincere in wishing to see you again." He drew his helm back on. "In any case, I must ride. I plan to loop round some of the dales to the south before turning back to Westfolde."

* * *

So Eowyn wished me to attend her wedding -- what a strange thought. Thinking of it, and seeing Elfhelm, brought back memories of my life at Meduseld and I managed a small laugh at all the luxuries I had once taken for granted. Now I owned two woolen gowns, instead of a fine linen one for each day of the week, and I considered myself lucky when I had the chance to bathe in hot water. My hands were no longer white and soft, but sunbrowned and calloused, the nails cut closely for midwifing lambs. I couldn't remember when I'd last looked in a mirror, or trimmed my hair – each morning I simply redid the single plait hanging down my back by touch.

And yet, I realized, I was almost content. Certainly, I was happier than I had been those last months in Edoras, feeling like an unacknowledged ghost; happier than I remembered being since -- well, since Mother had died.

The title comes from Aragorn's and Eowyn's debate (LoTR Bk. 5 Ch. 2), in which he says to her:

"A time may come soon … when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised."

And she answered: "All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more…"

I wanted to write a story reflecting the experience that an ordinary woman, one whose place was "in the house," would have been likely to have during the War of the Ring. Though a compelling character, Eowyn is a member of the elite, and her fighting skills set her even farther apart from the majority of women in Middle-Earth.