when the shadow falls | for laurenande

[shieldofrohan]

They were few enough when they fled, for many remained. Many - not only warriors, but farmers and artisans and fishermen, old men and youths and women - would sooner die on their own ground, standing hopelessly against the oncoming tide, than be cut down as they fled.

Éowyn would sooner have died. It is the final horror, the greatest defeat, that she should leave Edoras in flames and blackened ruin, that she should not stand to the last at the gates, or fall back with Éomer to Helm's Deep, and die at the last still defiant, with sword in hand and courage in her heart, doomed but brave.

She had begged not to be sent. She had fallen to her knees, gripping her brother's hands, and pleaded with him. It had not been graceful, either - not on either of their parts. There had been tears and blows, screaming and recriminations, and she had not been noble in it, she had not been gentle, at the last she had twisted the knife in every way she knew. I am more warrior than you. I am more king than you. Where were you, when the gates fell? Knowing, all the while, that she was being needlessly cruel, that it had not been his fault that he did not reach Edoras until it was too late, that she hurt him only to hurt him. But it had been a desperation beyond naming, beyond any anger or fear she had ever felt, to be sent away now.

And he - her only remaining kinsman, her rightful King, her brother who could face death boldly because he need not face disgrace - had at last wrapped his arms around her, weeping himself, and held her painfully tight, and said only If you are king enough to serve our people, then save our people. And she broke then, and clung to him in turn, and wept until she could weep no more, because he was right.

That was two weeks ago. They have moved more slowly than she would like - more slowly than they can afford. They cannot hope to hide, out on the plains, with handcarts and mules and the remnants of flocks, carrying the sick and the injured and the pregnant and the young. They cannot hope to turn and fight, either; she has armed herself and she knows her worth, but there is less than one full éored spared to ride with the caravan. Less than one hundred fighting men, against all the armies of Isengard.

Not a month ago, she was unblooded, a warrior in her own mind and nowhere else. Now, she has had to prove herself time and again, and there is no joy in knowing that she has done so. There is no glory, she has found at once, in this massacre. She was dragged from the field at Edoras, half-stunned and still trying to stand; she did not call the retreat, but she was pulled into it. And since then, there has been nothing but retreat - retreat from the charnel-house that the city has become, and retreat from Éomer's camp in the Westfold, and retreat and retreat and retreat across the plains and the hills, standing only long enough to win their people time to flee, and then reeling about their horses and turning heel. There is no glory in this fight, and no renown, and every part of her longs to find some solid place to stand, to turn at bay and meet their pursuers, screaming defiance and challenge, standing until the legs are cut out from under her, and fighting until her arms are broken, and holding fast until the last blood leaves her heart.

But she cannot, and it is a worse prison even than the shadowy hall of Meduseld at the end, when she had seen doom coming and could not turn Théoden from it. She could not even die at his side. She is trapped in this endless retreat, watching home disappear into ash behind her, and she cannot disappear with it, because if she fails now, then the last of the Eorlingas will die with the Mark, and it will all be for naught.

They are not only Eorlingas, now. The few hundred who set out sore-footed and weeping from the ruins of Edoras have been winnowed to less than a hundred by the journey, but they have been joined not only by the peasants of the land they pass through, but by those fleeing upriver from Gondor, the few who have evaded the Corsair ships and the Uruk-Hai camps and staggered ashore. From them she has learned, without surprise, of the siege of Minas Tirith, and wonders whether Éomer has seen the beacons, whether the Mark's last stand will be at the Hornburg or at the White City.

It does not matter. She cannot stand with them; and she mourns her brother just the same, whatever field he falls upon. In her mind, she has determined that he is dead already, for if he lives, it will not be for long, and it is better to mourn now than to turn her mind to false and mocking hope. He is dead, as Théodred is dead in the Marshes, as Théoden died at the threshold of the Golden Hall, cut down unceremoniously as he staggered beneath the weight of his sword. As she is dead, for there is no hope of survival. They are all dead; but they are not yet able to rest, and so she drives on this limping, ragged band of those without swords, and wonders when the end will come.

It comes in the night, as she expects. They have reached the river anew, and the rolling plains have given way to unkempt scrubland, then to woods where the horses must slow to a walk. They have made camp in the shelter of an old ruin, some remnant of old Gondor, and she has just laid down her head to rest for the first time in two days when the horns of the rearguard begin to blow.

On, then; the camp must be broken, the remaining carts taken up and the sleepers roused, and she scrambles for her saddle and her spear as she runs for her horse, calling aloud for haste. They must move, and ahead...

Ahead, the scouts have told her, is the Wood. This they have said in hushed tones, and though she pressed them, she did not need to; she can hear well enough the tone of it, which is the tone with which men speak of the Fangorn, and she can feel the weight of it. There is a strangeness to this place, they say, a silence. She has sent them out to find another way, for even in this extremity, there are things worse than Uruk-Hai, and they take root in such forests. The people of this camp are her responsibility. She will not lead them into greater doom.

And yet, she must. They cannot brave the mountains, and they have no ships to take the river. Perhaps if they had a little more time, if the scouts returned, if there is some preparation that could be made to skirt the ensorceled wood...

But the horns are blowing, and through the trees now she can hear the clash of arms, hear men screaming with unalloyed fear as she has not heard them scream before, and a terrible dread comes upon her, that what follows them is more than mere Orcs. She glances back at the slowly breaking camp, and forward to the terrible, silent wood, and she feels herself caught between fears.

If there is a road for them, it passes through the wood. If it does not, then they are already dead, and dead men need not fear.

She whispers reassurance to her horse, as he shies beneath her, and she looks at the half-dozen Riders who remain beside her. "We must," she says simply, and sets her heels to her steed's flanks, and the moonlight dies around them as she passes into the shadow of the trees.

Comments

hey you know what's a great idea? charging normal horses towards the Magic Panic Monsters. gj éowyn

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn has kept her seat thus far, by some miracle - and it is a miracle, for her steed is now rearing and snorting, and she would not be the only Rider to be thrown in the sudden, screaming chaos - but it is all she can do to hold her horse steady, and keep him from bolting. It is a strange and terrible thing, then, to be passed by two silent riders whose horses show no fear at all, and whose fleetness puts Shadowfax himself to shame. She freezes, her eyes wide, watching them pass like flickers of shadow, and knowing at once that they are no Men.

What have we awoken here? she thinks desperately, but there is a surer thought on its heels: Whatever it is, its enemies are ours. And that is enough to make her decide; she can do no more to defend those blindly fleeing into the woods, but that is not to say that nothing is to be done.

"Men of the Mark, to me!" And she will master her steed, she stubbornly swears to herself, for is she not a daughter of Eorl, and is she not a Horse-Lord? She clenches her spear to her side, and hunches low in the saddle, urging her steed forward to follow the strange, ethereal riders. "To me, and to death, if you fear it not!"

Move west, if you wish to live. But what is living, to those who have resigned themselves to death? What fear can there be now, when all is lost? She rides back toward the rearguard, and she does not ride alone; there are few Riders remaining, but nearly all of them are with her.

🔥🔥🔥This is fine. 🔥🔥🔥

[laurenande]

The mounts of the horselords are no shy, quivering things, indeed their horses would well outstrip those ridden by the Sons of Elrond but for the simple fact of their location. Those dark horses have made the journey to these woods and through the boughs of Mirkwood with such frequency that the terrors that haunt these lands are as familiar to them as the lands themselves. They have never known the wide plains of Rohan nor faced a spear-wall or open combat, for that is not their purpose. They are fleet, lithe creatures meant for speed. They are the mounts of messengers and rangers and they are just as foolhardy as their riders.

Foolish though they may be, their certainty catches like embers in their wake.

The arrows of the twins drive the beasts toward the trees to the east, but the beasts struggle and snap, twisting and lunging as they attept to drive around them. Each graze scalds them terribly, be it wing or tail or snapping maw, and their pained shrieks are no less unsettling than their fearsome roars.

The rearguard are neither fools nor cowards, and while the sight of strange riders in the dead of night is no comfort, watching them drive the panicked mounts of the Nazgul shrieking toward the trees just might be. Their arrows are joined by those of Rohan, and by keenly thrown spears from those who are boldest among them, but fighting in the dark is a challenge for men and many shots slip past their targets.

As Éowyn and her riders pull around on the eastern side, the fell beasts manage to dive past the arrows of the elves and the rearguard. Both creatures land hard on the rocky scrubland beyond the trees and the ground shudders at their impact. They are injured and wild, snapping and snarling as they coil and posture like striking serpents. Their claws carve into the dirt beneath them as they back against one another instinctually, hiding their backs from the warriors around them. Grounded, they are no less terrible to behold, and they lash out with teeth and tails and their great wings to keep the space around them.

Their riders, however, carry within them the deathly calm of the grave. There is no panic in them, not as they regard the warriors before them, nor as they pull harshly on the reins that tether their beasts. The creatures are slow to come to heel, panicked and twisting as they are, but they will surrender and recover if they are given but a moment.

[shieldofrohan]

And again, it is the stillness that strikes her most: the thrashing and snarling of the great beasts is terrible to behold, but far more terrible is the stillness that rides with them. It makes Éowyn think, not of death, but of living death: of the months of restless waiting and enforced silence, the dark shadows of lonely chambers, the knowledge of helplessness. Her heart shudders in her chest, and she trembles at the memory - but memory it is, and she will not be mastered by memory.

"To the line!" It is a small line, at that; between lost riders and panicked horses, and those who have remained with the refugees, there are perhaps forty or fifty Riders remaining. It is no great muster of the Mark, and if they charge, she is certain, they will die. Still, she almost calls the charge just the same. What does it matter, in the end?

What stays her is not the fear of death, nor even the fear of her people's death; it is the horses. They are struggling still, pawing at the ground with eyes rolling to the whites, their muzzles foam-flecked. Éowyn is hardly a hardened commander of men - her military experience is better counted in days than years - but she knows enough to know that the line will break in the shadow of those swinging wings.

The thing is, though, that she can see that the winged beasts are no calmer. Perhaps they can buy time, until...

Well. She does not know the until. But she knows that the horrors before her cannot be allowed to regain their composure, let alone take to the sky again. She can only hope that the powers of the wood have a better plan than she does, but for now, all they can do is trouble the beasts, rile them further.

"Hie forhergaþ!" As soon as she has called the line, she calls its breaking, and without waiting to see whether she is followed by soldiers who are older and wiser than she, she has put her heels to her horse's sides, shield and spear raised, to ride as close as she can bring him to the grounded beasts, to harry them and wheel away.

Her men do not all ride at once. Some - mostly the younger - follow her lead, wheeling into a wide spread to dart into any openings they see with sword and spear. Others hesitate, a moment or more; but no Man of Rohan will bear to be thought a coward, and in poor ordering and without perfect grace, they drag the heads of their frightened horses forward, and urge them into action.

It is not action without consequence, by any means. A man is dragged screaming from the saddle, caught between great fangs; another, struck by the swing of a tail, flies several yards before a spur of rock catches his limp form with a wet thud. The air is filled with the screams of horses and the pained cries of men. As Éowyn's spear catches in the membrane of a wing, wrenching it out of her hands and almost wrenching her from her saddle, she thinks: This is it, then; fifty or forty or thirty or one, I have led them to their end.

Through the fear and the adrenaline, there is a strange kind of peace in the thought. There are worse things than an ending.

[laurenande]

It is a challenge to feel the oppressive weight of eyes when there are such dark, despairing things as Nazgul upon the battlefield, but that weight remains upon them still. The Lady of Lórien watches with all her focus now, as her approach draws near and the battlefield is painted with blood.

The end of the caravan has scattered but the last of them finally find refuge beneath the mallorn. Elven feet are swift and the Galadhrim can endure, but it will be minutes still before the warden comes across the first of the fleeing men. He calls into the night, first in whistles and then with the high, clear ringing of his horn. Others will come, insofar as there are others to do so, and they will track the riders and their charges until they can be contained.

Under the open stars, however, just beyond the borders of the land, the horselords mount a hurried formation and attack, driven to action before the momentary weakness of the winged terrors is spent. The creatures were not made to endure more than slings and arrows, than the panicked shots of the soldiers of Gondor or of the rangers that wander the wilds in the south. They strike fear and seed chaos; they are deadliest from above where little can harm them.

Grounded, now, they are not so horrible and their great talons can do little but hold them up. The blows of fifty armed riders, hurried or otherwise, will overwhelm them if the attack is sustained and they certainly manage to sustain it. More than one rider is knocked free from their mount, caught between the long fangs of the creatures, or crushed beneath their horses as a sweeping tail snaps legs and limbs, toppling horse and rider alike.

It is a bloody fight, but the spears take their toll before long, even at considerable cost. Their tips carve broad gashes through wings and lodge themselves into accursed flesh. The blood that spills from the creatures is black in the moonlight and their wild frenzy wanes with each drop. They slow, despite themselves, despite the pull of the Nazgul at their reins.

Elven arrows fly and all the sounds of battle are snuffed out as the black riders draw their weapons. One of them is swift enough to catch the shot with the edge of his blade, the other is not. One beast falls limp and the other remains standing, but both riders dismount at once.

Elladan, with daggers drawn, has found his opening through the charging lines of men. His approach runs closer than is wise, for his intention was to bury his blade in the black rider himself. But the beast he charges past was not the one felled. It lives and is both furious and free of its master's reins. Gnashing teeth snap at his mount and horse stumbles, startled, right into the arc of the black rider's blade.

The horse is cut through, split down the length of it save for a shallow skip where it caught against an elven greave. Elladan's mount comes crashing down at a run and he is thrown into the fray as the horse collapses and slides across the rocky ground. Elladan hits the ground hard, his leg cut open from the edge of his armor on, and the cry of an elk resounds from the wood behind them. The second beast whips its tail around to crush him but it never gets the chance.

It is not an elven arrow that slays the second beast, but the spear of a horselord driven clean through its gaping, toothy maw.

The beast dies with a rumbling rattle, collapsing alongside its kin, but the danger has not abated. Where one son of Elrond struggles to rise, the other charges forward, bow abandoned to draw his sword. They have unseated the riders, yes, but now they must face them directly and fifty men against a Nazgul, let alone two, is not an assured victory.

They must survive, if only for a few moments more, and the voice that crept across the trees to speak, speaks again to Éowyn.

Help him--it is just a moment more--please, do not let him die.

[shieldofrohan]

And again, there is no thought of denying it, and no question of doubt. The words, the thought, are not her own, but they are closely aligned with what she thinks already.

It was a courageous thing, to charge headlong into such a fray. It was not wise, but it was courageous, and Éowyn has always valued courage highly. Even if nothing else pressed her on, it would be an ill thing to let him die undefended for it. She turns her horse's head and charges, and when her horse shies and rears, screaming, at the cold and unseelie shadow of the Rider's gaze, Éowyn does not hesitate.

As a child she took pride in her horsemanship, as any true daughter of Eorl would. She and Éomer had competed - and earned bruises and broken bones in the process - in their dismounts, in who could safely land from the greatest speed, or who dared to do so in the unfriendliest terrain. She thinks of this now, as she lunges sidelong from the saddle, rolling as she lands, and coming up into a run with blood and mud smearing her mail-shirt, her sword and her shield raised.

She will die, she knows, as the faceless gaze turns upon her. She will die, and she is happy with that, for this, at last, is the kind of death she might have hoped for: to stand against some great evil, undaunted and defiant, and fall to the blade of something greater than an Orc or a Dunlending.

"Come, then!" She cannot hear herself shout it, over the thundering of blood in her ears, as she throws herself between the Riders and the wounded Elf. "Come, foul thing, and taste death!"

Galadriel about to show up fifteen minutes late with starbucks.

[laurenande]

Elladan and Elrohir are great warriors among elves and rangers alike, but there is a skill involved in single, lethal combat that is not easily cultivated. They have been trained by two of the greatest warriors of ages passed, but neither has faced down a foe like this before. They are courageous and foolhardy, but until this day they have always had the skill to surpass any challenge. With one wounded, unable to rise, and the other struggling to rein his horse in and extract his brother, they haven't the ability between them to contend with a Nazgul.

By some miracle of fate, however, their grandmother's plea has not fallen on ears deafened by silence or fear. Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, shieldmaiden of Rohan dives from her horse and rolls as deftly as any man has ever done. Elrohir hesitates, mount struggling beneath him, uncertain whether he should raise his blade or risk the moment it would take to heave his twin into the saddle. He is spared the choice as Éowyn fives between them and the wraith, shouting as fiercely and with a wild reckless courage that is singular to her.

There is a deceptive stillness as both Nazgul turn their fathomless empty gazes onto her. It lasts only a moment, though, because the horse-lords still circle the wraiths and none among them is a coward. The far wraith is not as fast as the one stood before Éowyn, but it twists, blade arched high as a warrior with a pike charges it. The clash of metal on wood and the deafening screech of that wraith sets everything in motion all at once.

Elrohir bends, hauls his brother up and into the saddle by his forearm, and drops back off of his mount in an swift, practiced exchange. Elladan, paler and drawn, bleeding heavily, loops the reins around one hand and turns the horse to the trees. It does not hesitate to flee, even without his heels to spur it on.

As the brothers exchange places, the wraith that stares down Éowyn lunges for her with uncanny, inhuman grace, its movements silent and smooth in a way no living creature's should be. The first blow of its sword is far more powerful than anyone could expect. It stabs at her with all its force behind the thrust, shoving her backward along the ground. Ultimately the blade glances off her shield, but it carves a deep, splintering furrow in the wood as does.

[shieldofrohan]

This close, there is no denying the thick horror of their presence, and when both wraiths fix their attention on her, even Éowyn's courage almost fails her. She can feel the cold hatred in their glares, heavy with the rot and dankness of the grave, and she feels the earth close around her, the death of hope and the end of all things. Helpless dread overwhelms her, nameless and beyond all reason, and she staggers beneath the weight of it, her swordpoint shivering and dropping noticeably. What, after all, is there still to fight for? What hope of renown, when all songs wither in the silence of the charnel-house? What victory can there be, when all is already lost? She quails at the weight of it, and there are tears in her eyes, beneath the fall of her filthy, unkempt hair.

It is the Rider Ceolmund who saves her, the haft of his lance shattering at the unnatural force of that sword-blow. The sound is clear as a bell, cutting through the darkness, and she remembers herself: remembers that she does not fight for victory, nor hope, nor joy, but only because the alternative is to grant ground to those who killed her kinsmen. She raises her shield just in time, feeling the iron binding groan at the force of the blow, which - even stopped as it is by the thick wood - jars painfully up her arm, pushing her back as she braces. The mud slips beneath her boots, her heels ploughing troughs into the earth until, striking a stone, she curses in pain as her ankle strains and almost pops. It is enough to give her some more solid ground to push against, though, and as the Ringwraith withdraws the sword from the destroyed shield, Éowyn swallows the pain that explodes up her leg and follows the hooded creature back, slashing out at chest height with an inarticulate scream.

It recoils from the blade, hissing vilely, but the blow is far from mortal. She feels the sword pass into the shadows beneath its robes, and find no flesh beneath, only the deep coldness that chills her bones, like diving into a mountain lake in winter. She seems to hear a different voice, now: cold laughter, burning to the core. Your bones will break, it whispers, and your flesh turn from you, and you will rot in darkness as your father did, as your mother did. As your uncle did. As your brother will.

"Then let it be so," she grinds out through her teeth, and readies another blow. "Let it be so, but I will slay thee first." And so saying, she drives forward another blow, and this time striking the arm of the Ringwraith feels sinew part beneath her blade; and for a moment, she feels almost triumphant, and then another blow strikes her shield, and this time, the iron band does not only creak but bursts, and the shield shatters, and she is flung back hard, her leg twisting agonisingly beneath her, her head glancing off a stone. Bleary, dizzy, she fumbles for her sword, certain of death, wishing only to meet it bravely.

[laurenande]

There is little doubt that she will meet death bravely, but she had not met it today. The wraith advances, looming and terrible, ancient blade streaked with blood. It clasps both hands around the hilt, lifts it, but gets no chance to drive it downward. A flash of moonlit silver darts behind the creature and, at once, the wraith shrieks and contorts. Éowyn is briefly forgotten as an elven blade bites into the flesh it no longer has. The blade carves a path from shoulder to chest before a heavy gauntlet knocks it aside.

It rounds on Elrohir, sweeping its sword up in an arc that skims the ground. Its blade crashes loudly against the guard of an elven dagger, braced well across the hilt of Elrohir's sword. A foot clad in savage layered plate lashes forward and Elrohir is knocked back by the blow. He flings his dagger and it sinks into the Nazgul's shoulder, lodging firmly in shadow and shroud. The wraith parries his next strike and staggers him, catching him in the chest with the weathered pommel of its sword.

They fight above Éowyn in sharp, brutal movements, all crashing metal and the crack of bone. Elrohir is clearly outmatched and it is not long before he is sent reeling backward. Fortunately, between them both, a few moments more have been spent.

The cry of a great, tawny elk is nearly lost to the din and chaos, but the elk itself is far too large and bright to pass unseen. It bounds from between the trees, racing with speed that tears at the ground and has it sailing over rock and scrub. Astride it, clad in armor she has not donned in several thousand years, bearing a weapon she has not held in several thousand more, is the Lady of Lórien.

The creature she rides is both the wildest and the fastest of all the mounts within these woods. It was a gift, not to her but to her husband, and it serves its purpose well. It charges forward, careening, nimble even at its swiftest, between the living and the slain. It is half mad from the hard sprint across miles and miles of dense woodland. With nostrils flared and heaving it strains against the bridle it wears. It seems to want nothing more than to gore the first creature in its path and Galadriel does not discourage it as it leaps and plunges its great antlers through a wraith.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn's head is spinning, pain a red-hot wash across her vision. It will seem mad to her later that she is aware of none of this: not of the elf-warrior who dives into her place, nor the elk's bellowing, nor the coming of the Lady. All that she knows is that she is, impossibly, alive, and that a living Éowyn must somehow stand.

Her leg will not obey her. She grits her teeth and pushes through the pain, and must use her sword as a kind of walking-stick to drag herself upright; and she thinks, doing so, of how her cousin would despair to see her abuse her weapon in such a way, and how if she stumbles she will not stand again. There is blood clotting her hair, crimson and black among the gold, and the world reels around her, and all she can see is the smeared shadows around her, but she can feel the cold evil of the wraith before her, and the knowledge of death no longer fearful but merely certain, and she staggers, expecting at any moment to be struck down, but she stands.

The blow she knows must come does not come, and the next thing she knows is the warm and human hands of one of her own men, catching her and drawing her up into the saddle behind him. Only then does the world seem to reassert itself, not swiftly but in dribs and drabs; and the world makes no more sense for that. She sees the wraiths reel and scream, and the great tawny beast striking out at them, and upon its back - or so it seems to her - there rides a star, too bright to look upon, white as the Sun in the darkness.

The Rohirrim have drawn back, afraid of this new wonder almost as much as the evil it faces. They circle at a distance now, slowly reforming their ranks, clearly uncertain. For the most part, they watch, waiting for some sign of what comes next, and wondering - almost visibly so - whether they might not be best to take their injured lady and ride after the caravan, before the wild, unnatural fury of the Elf-lady turns on them.

[laurenande]

There are few who live that have witnessed the Lady of the golden wood engaged in direct combat; she has not hefted a weapon since time immemorial, let alone weilded it directly against an honest threat. Her skill has resided, since the days of Doraith, in the use of fëa above all else. As the wild fury of her mount brings her into the center of the fray, however, she eschews her longstanding preference.

Her weapon of choice has never been a sword, but a sword she carries now, and while her skill in combat has dimmed since the first days, her ferocity has endured. Her tawny elk impales one wraith and she dismounts in motion, leaving the beast to drag it and throw the creature as it is wont. She does not spare the thought, nor the effort to bandy words with a ringwraith, charging it the moment her feet touch ground.

Her gaze falls heavily over the wraith as ancient steel clashes and the hollow, frigid thing twists beneath the weight of it. It is faster, stronger, even taller than she is, but existing in her presence is agony for the tainted things that dwell in the dark. It cannot both attack her and move away, and is clearly torn between the two.

She must finish her work quickly, she is needed elsewhere, for both her Grandsons and this new caravan that wanders through the wood. Elrohir is just beyond an arm's reach from her and she will not permit this thing to recall that he lives.

The wraith shrieks, lashes out with its blade and her own quakes as she blocks it. She does not parry, she does not need to. Instead, she steps in and catches the creature by the arm. Its armor hisses beneath her touch like hot metal against cold oil. The sound the creature makes is piercing and terrible, like the screeching drag of great talons clawing at the foundations of the earth. It unlike anything heard in these lands before this day, but it will not be the last time such a cry is heard on the borders of Lorien.

The light that envelopes her goes dull, falling to a bare shadow of moonglow, and the wraith is set alight in her place. It cannot withstand the arts she weilds and, as it screams its death, it collapses inward, robes and armor burning away in a rain of glowing ash and ember. Within seconds, all falls silent and its sword tumbles, burnt and blackened to the ground.

[shieldofrohan]

The silence is louder than anything that has come before. All things still, and the moonlit night seems to rush back into the space left by that terrible scream. For a moment, the balance hangs steady, and to move seems a blasphemy, to stir that endless moment.

Then a horse, lying on the stony ground with a broken leg, begins to thrash anew; and its rider screams in pain, his own leg caught beneath his mount; and reality reasserts itself, sharply and suddenly. The Riders look away from their saviour, exchanging uncertain looks among one another, uncertain of what comes next.

Éowyn, still dazed and feeling herself in a strange dream, clings to the back of the man who lifted her into the saddle. There are, for once, no thoughts of her pride, of the embarrassment of sitting pillion like a child; it is all she can do to remain seated at all, and not collapse. But for the first time in an uncountably long while, she feels something other than fury and despair: not hope, perhaps, but wonder; a sense that what they have witnessed is a scene from some other age, from some song worthy of singing. She leans in a little toward the scene, and almost falls in the process, her vision blurring as she grasps for any purchase.

The Rider whose horse she shares snatches her arm, pulling her upright. Under his helmet, his eyes are wide with concern, his voice low. "Hold fast, lady. Hold a while longer."

[laurenande]

For that stretch of silence, with her heart in her throat, choking back her fury, even Galadriel could not say what is to come next. The tide of time rolls back in, merciless and persistent, and Elrohir has regained his feet. The two elves share a glance and, behind them, the tawny elk gives a sharp cry as it struggles to free itself of its acursed burden.

It is Elrohir who turns first, eyes searching the gathered men that his grandmother has hardly noticed. He spies Éowyn among them, but she is in no fit state to converse. Instead he lifts his fingers and whistles loudly, already sheathing his sword and making for the shelter of the wood.

"To the wood, go!"

His accent is strange and lilting, for he doesn't often bother to speak the common tongue. His urging is genuine, however, as is his urgency. That first display shall not have a repeat today. The light that gathers around Galadriel is slow to return, and one nazgul remains at their doorstep. The tawny elk gives another warbling cry and there is a terrible crack as its antlers are broken and it is cast aside.

[shieldofrohan]

That crack, as much as Elrohir's cry, seems to settle the matter. The horsemen linger only long enough for one brave man to venture closer, to dismount and try to retrieve his comrade from beneath the dying horse's weight. The others turn, pale-faced and bloody, and make for the woods as fast as darkness and uneven ground will allow.

Back, then, into the woods; back into that unsettling silence and the strange mien of an ancient place of power. Éowyn clings grimly to her companion's belt, trying not to think of the weapons and men left on the battlefield, or of what will become of any of them if they are pursued. There is no virtue in such thoughts, for even she can admit that she has done all she can - that she cannot turn and fight, when she can scarcely hold herself in the saddle. All the same, there is a part of her that is angry at their retreat, as it has been angry at every retreat. It should not be left to some Other to stand in their defence, here at the last.

The horses are not well-suited to woodland, and they must slow to a walk almost as soon as they are among the trees. She wonders, dimly, what has become of her own horse, whether he will survive the night. Then again, will any of them?

[laurenande]

The weight of the woods is lessened without her presence within them, but a perpetual sense of removal, of the broken flow of time, permeates the air. Elrohir is injured and can travel only at a light jog. He endures, traveling neither with the horse-lords nor apart from them, cutting through the trees toward the western borders. His path through the trees is inexplicably easier, open and even as though the road unfolds for him personally. As he jogs alongside them, he provides the simplest route for horses through the depths of the night.

The shrieking of the nazgul and the sounds of steel drop away quickly as they retreat deeper into the wood. For a time, only the heavy breathing of horses and the cracking of distant branches greet them in the stillness. Eventually, along the unfolding path, they come to the western borders and finally the sharp whistles of the wardens cut through the canopy above. Elrohir is glad to hear them and his relief is palpable as he picks up his pace.

The stealth of the Galadhrim is prized, at least in more common times, but it is a hindrance on this night. The nondescript calls of starlings are replaced with whistles and shouts; a handful of elven voices tumble down from the boughs above. The indistinct, carefully hidden shapes of their telain are outlined against the canopy by golden torchlight. The firelight spills over the edges of the platforms and is reflected back, like a hazy fog, by the leaves of the mallorn.

Many have said that crossing the borders into Lorien is akin to passing through a dream. The caravan of men has been guided through the barrier that keeps these lands and, on this side of it, there is a gentle, distant peace. It isn't the comfort of a warm hearth, rather the calm of the hours before dawn, but it is an improvement regardless.

The caravan, harried, without their posessions and alarmed by these strange folk above them, are huddled beneath the trees, lit by the trail of torches. Above them a handful of grim looking elves in grey, armed with knives and bows, travel across the torchlit platforms and call out to one another. They are wardens, guarding the woods is their purview, but their time is spent now running along the perimeter of the caravan, preventing fearful refugees from wandering back into the labyrinthine barrier.

It is not precisely a comfortable arrangement to behold, but it is stable, and apart from the stray furious bout of Sindarin, it seems amicable enough.

[shieldofrohan]

At the sight, a little of the tension dissipates from Éowyn, if not from all her comrades. The caravan, after all, is her charge: is all the reason she has to still be living and not at her brother's side. She had not given it thought, but she realises now the fear that had lurked in the back of her mind, that after all this horror and hard-fought bloodshed, they would return to the woods only to find their people slain among the silent trees.

But they are here, and afraid but unharmed, and for a moment her relief overwhelms her. She does not dare to dismount, even as the Rider whose horse she shares draws their mount to a halt. It is not only her dizziness: her leg is throbbing with pain, and she is afraid that if she does step down from the saddle, it will fold beneath her again. She leans forward, whispering to the man in front, and he nods, slipping out of the saddle himself to leave her alone on the horse's back.

This solves very little. Her head still aches, her thoughts sluggish and uncertain. Her Sindarin is poor at the best of times, and mostly suited to formal court affairs; she understands relatively little of what is being said. Nor can she address all the caravan at once, to tell them to take heart and stand easy; both because there are too many to hear her even with her voice raised (and she is not sure that she has the strength to raise her voice, at this moment), and because she will not tell them that they are safe when she still understands so little of what is happening.

She turns, instead, to the injured Elf who has been with them all this while, hoping that he, at least, will be assured of their good intent. Her heavily-accented Sindarin is low and a little unsteady, her vision swimming in and out of clarity. "I fear we are lost. Who..."

Are you, she means to say, but dizziness overwhelms her, and she trails off, her stomach lurching, and once more has to turn all her attention to staying in the saddle.

[laurenande]

The wardens, few as they are, race back and forth, dedicated to carrying out the orders given to them. Elrohir knows one of them, at least, but he is well aware that his brother will not have been hauled up to one of the flets above them. So he has kept pace alongside the horsemen, alongside the lady who leapt to his brother's defense. He regards her as she speaks. His Westron is superior to her Sindarin, even if he uses it only infrequently.

"You are not lost," Elrohir assures her, or corrects, it is difficult to tell which. He speaks firmly but softly and would, even if his ribs were not battered and he were hale and whole. While the woods absorb sound, the din of this haphazard camp is enough to drown out conversation and offer some measure of privacy.

"The wood will not close around you again, not now that you have been granted entry. You have been welcomed here." It is a better explanation only because it is any explanation at all. He pauses to catch his breath, an excruciating challenge, and supplies a greeting so informal it might've even earned his grandmother's ire.

It is tradition among the rangers of the northern wilds, to greet one another by the clasping of forearms. It is a quick gesture, familiar, and fit for neither of their stations. But he is addled and, unthinking, he holds his arm out, hand open, and offers the same to her.

"I am called Elrohir."

[shieldofrohan]

It feels dangerous, to reach out and clasp that offered arm, hoping she is interpreting the gesture correctly. It feels dangerous because it is - it sets her off-balance in the saddle, to lean out that way, and she grips the saddle pommel tightly with her other hand, the world pitching and yawing around her.

"Éowyn. I am Éowyn." She has other questions, more of them than she can count: of who the lady upon the elk was, and what they can do to aid her, and what place this is, and how badly he and his companion have been hurt. They all spring to her mind, but none to her tongue; and after a moment, all she can think to say is, "The horns were blowing ere we entered these woods, and the darkness at our heels. If it is our passage that has brought the Shadow down upon you, then I am truly sorry."

Though less sorry than she might be, for they have not all perished; and while she does not know what will come next, she does know that if the beasts had come across them unprotected, then it would have been a far greater slaughter.

[laurenande]

To Elrohir, the apology is strange, but he recalls soon enough that he is speaking to men, and not those familiar with the kingdoms of elves. He knows few of the horse lords and fewer still from Gondor, so he shares in her unfamiliarity. His greeting is well recieved, though it pained her to answer it, and he says nothing of how her grip goes white on her borrowed saddle.

"Well met, Éowyn," he says first, though it is strange to hear in in the common speak. "It was providence that you arrived when you did. My brother and I had only just arrived. If she had not been searching for us, I do not know if our grandmother would have reached the borders in time."

He glances away from her, if only to keep an eye for his brother and his horse, but the caravan is dense and they both excel at going unseen.

"You have come to Lothlórien, one of the few great strongholds of the Eldar," he explains for there is no one else who can. "The Enemy is at our northern border, mounting an assault as we speak. There are few wardens stationed in the far reaches, but even undefended, the woods are a safe harbor. They are well known to the Enemy. That you led two of the wraiths here is..."

He casts a look back, but they are far too deep into the wood to hear the combat or the death of that wraith. They are through the barrier and spared the darkness of the outside world. He worries, despite himself, but if his grandmother has perished it would be evident across all the woodlands.

"I will not say fortunate, for no aspect of wraiths can be considered so, but it was their mistake. Neither will survive to torment the world of men or elves again."

[shieldofrohan]

Grandmother. She has heard, of course, of the agelessness of Elves, and their imperishable spirits - but it is one thing to hear, and another to witness. Grandmother; she did not get a good look at the shining warrioress, but would have sworn she looked little older than Éowyn herself.

O! but it is a strange thing, and these are strange times. She had thought, in truth, that there were no Eldar left this side of the Sea, least of all so near to her own lands. Yet there is no denying what she has seen, and what she sees now all around her. Again, there is that sense of walking in a dream - only worsened by the haziness of the world around her, as her eyes struggle to adjust to the low light and the burgeoning concussion.

"We have few men," she says, at last; "only those you see, and fewer fit to fight. But if we can aid in the north, then send us there." It feels foolish, even as she says it, to suggest that a ragged troop such as hers could be of any real aid to creatures like him. Still, it seems to her that there is little choice but to offer it. What else can they do? Press on to the West, and hope to outrace the pursuit of all the armies of Mordor and beyond? Hope for some other haven, protected in some way greater than this? No; as long as they might be permitted to stay, she should try to stay, and so try to make them worthy of it.

Somehow I didn't expect Elrohir would be more than a lore friendly npc, but here we are.

[laurenande]

Once again, her request hits him strangely, but he does not argue for her health, or the health of her men. Even ragged as they are, they challenged two wraiths in the dead of night. If asked, he has no doubt they would ride out before dawn, such is their courage.

"I cannot send you anywhere; authority is not mine to command warriors in Lórien," Elrohir explains and, at last, takes a long look at her.

His brother and he are not healers, great or otherwise, but he is a son of Elrond and well versed in treating wounds suffered in the wild. She sits tall, but there is blood and he can see the bruise welling where her hair parts and gathers. She is in no fit state to travel north, and barely fit enough to reach Caras Galadhon tonight. Yet, he has no doubt that she would press onward if asked.

"It would perhaps..." he continues but stops, head twisting as if he hears a phantom call. He does and, however grim this night has become, he cannot resist the relief that pulls across his face. Far behind them, on that bloodied battlefield, his grandmother is victorious and unharmed beyond the power she has expended. The Nine are now seven and a great distance from them.

"The wraith is no more and the borders are secured; there shall be no more death this night," he tells her, distantly, as he listens. The message is brief, as most messages of this sort are, and after a moment or two he returns to himself.

"Once she has seen to those who live she will meet my brother, then us," Elrohir explains and it is fortunate that Éowyn knows of whom he speaks, it doesn't occur to him to clarify. "If we locate my brother, we might meet her when she arrives, but she will find us regardless."

Sometimes it just pans out that way

[shieldofrohan]

She tenses visibly, as if in sympathy, at his sudden cutting-off, his turning as though to some unheard cry. To her, it seems a frightening thing: she has no way to know what it is he hears or feels, and more likely than victory seems to her the coming of some new horror, some greater threat still. It is only when she sees how his face has changed that she begins to breathe again.

"I will wait here," she says, although there is a note of a question in it, as though she is as much asking for permission as making her position known. She would be surer, under ordinary circumstances: but this is not an ordinary night, and the adrenaline is ebbing, leaving her feeling sick and unsure and far more maiden than queen. "With my people. I will see what may be done to calm their fears." And mine, she does not say. She does not like to admit to fear, and truthfully, she feels little of it for herself - but she cannot think only of herself, and so fear creeps back in, the horror that they have witnessed tonight seeking any target for its effect. It is not the fear of any particular thing, but the creeping dread of all things, the certainty that those within her protection are as doomed as she is.

She clears her throat, trying to affect the certainty she does not feel. "I will wait," she says again, a little more definitely, "by your leave; and tell them what you have told me, that the worst of the danger has passed."

[laurenande]

Éowyn demures and Elrohir is not so bold that he will insist upon her company. In truth, he has no idea the extent of her injuries; that she, likewise, could not possibly know what powers his grandmother holds escapes him. She decides to spread word among her people and that is both commendible and helpful, if only to the wardens' efforts. He inclines his head and touches his forehead briefly in a casual acknowledgement, another gesture learned and engrained in him by the wilds.

"As you wish. I shall seek out my brother. Rest well once your task is complete," he says but, as he turns to go, thinks to mention one last fact: "I know of nowhere safer than Lothlórien; inhospitable as it may seem, no further harm will come to you."

His assurances given, however convincing they might be, Elrohir steps away and into the shadowy wood. His pallor is the easiest feature to sight as he leaves the hazy glow of the torchlights, but even that is obscured before long. Where and how he finds his brother will remain a mystery until daybreak, but there are long hours before dawn will brighten the golden wood.

For the rest of the night, the wardens present work to keep the caravan together. A few of their brethren join them from the eastern borders, but in the end they are only half a dozen strong. One or two speaks broken Westron, barely enough to muddle through basic interaction. Their brevity and silence are intimidating, but their duty is clearly to watch over this caravan.

They keep the torches burning through the night, until the sky begins to lighten and the stars dim against the blue sky.

[shieldofrohan]

Safe. It is a strange thought. How long has it been, since any place offered safety? Long before Rohan fell, long before the armies were at the gates, she ceased to know that safe. Nor is she confident of it now; but all the same, it is a comfort to hear, so sudden and sharp a comfort that her chest tightens at it.

She makes it back to the edges of the caravan, and to the remaining Riders looking expectantly (and, in the main, with concern) to her. Her stomach is roiling, her head throbbing. Her leg twinges, reminding her with every step her mount takes that she will not stand long if she dismounts. She has rarely felt so tired in her life, and that is a wonder in itself, for how long and unrelenting the past days have been.

But she is the King's ward, or she is the King's sister, or she is the Queen; in any case, it is not given to her to relent to pain. She calls out as loudly as she can, in a voice that rings strangely tremulous; and as it is clear that she cannot be heard well, turns to her men to pass the message where they can, that they will rest here, that the immediate danger has passed, that they must stay where they are. She would gladly do more - speak to the Elven-warriors around them, try to gather more of their situation; or else corral those from Gondor in hopes of their better Sindarin; or speak with her men about how soon they might venture back out to retrieve lost weapons and bury the dead. She would, but she cannot; the nausea and the weariness and the blackness batter against her, and at last knock her from her saddle. The last she knows is the bile in her throat, and the hands that hurry to catch her, and then nothing.

It is not sleep, and she does not rest; but she awakens to the grey of dawn. She has been wrapped in a threadbare blanket, made as comfortable as possible among the makeshift camp that has sprung up in the past hours, and her head is swathed in bandages. Two of the Riders sit beside her, their backs to the trunk of a tree, but both have fallen asleep, and she cannot blame them. Éowyn's head hurts, and even lying down she feels vertiginously dizzy, but all the same, she finds there is a curious sense of peace.

Safe, she thinks again, and wonders how true it can be. But safer than they were when night fell, at least.

[laurenande]

With the coming of dawn and the extinguishing of the torches above, the telain among the trees are once again hidden against the canopy. There are no wardens rushing across them, no one shouting orders and attempting to corral the refugees. But for the distant sounds of woods, cracking of branches and the early morning songs of birds, the world would be silent. At first, it may even seem as though the elves have abandoned them, vanished with the night like dreams.

Once Éowyn's word, assurance and instruction alike, spread through the riders in the night the unrest of the caravan was largely quelled. When the wardens departed with the gradual brightening of the sky, heading for the southern border, they passed largely without notice. However, with the rising of the sun and the golden light of dawn, the elves gradually return, picking through the trees with ease and the swiftness of duty.

They travel alone or in pairs each carrying some burden or another, recovered from the fields beyond the border. Many are simple things, packs of food, or belongings, and all are stacked against the trees alongside the makeshift camp. Eventually, though, they are joined by strange companions, by a number of the Rohirrim who were left, by necessity, on the battlefield. It is by no means all of them, for many were well and truly slain, but it is far more than any would have hoped to see again.

The man left dying beneath his fallen horse arrives, eventually, astride it. He carries bundles of weapons bound and hung from his saddle. Both he and his mount are hale and whole as they were the day before. The man who stopped to help him rides at his side, carrying packs of his own. Others trickle in, assisting the elves with equal diligence, but remaining once their burdens are set down.

After a time, the last of them arrives with the twin riders. In the light of day, at a distance, they are so alike as to be impossible to distinguish from one another. One of them walks next to his dark mount and the second, on foot as well, holds the thin grey leads of several horses in his wake. Astride the dark mount, pale and shining as the mallorn, is his grandmother.

Her armor was fashioned long before this forest was planted, and while it remains untouched by time, its age makes it strange to behold. It is all interleaved metal plate, spanning like feathers, gold and white, glimmering in the early light. Her sword is no longer with her, but a grey cloak is now draped over her shoulders. A silver brooch with a bright, shining emerald holds that cloak in place, pinned together at her throat.

All elves are timeless but, even among her kin, there is an ancient quality about her, as though she is a relic that was lost long ages ago. She is beautiful in the distant, grand way that a mountain's peak, or the sea might be. By comparison, her grandsons seem impossibly youthful.

[shieldofrohan]

It is miracle upon miracle, wonder upon wonder, and so it is less surprising than it might be to see the architect of this unbelievable morning. All the same, she is beyond miracle or wonder. There is amazement among all who see her, but those who were present at the battle, who saw what she defeated, are most struck of all. They rise to meet her, from their conversations and their breakfasting and the binding of wounds, standing in salute.

Éowyn rises with them, slowly and painfully but with her pounding head forgotten. Now, in daylight, she cannot imagine how she thought their rescuer was young; oh, there are no lines on her face, and no grey in her silver-gold hair, but there is no youth in her, either. Again, Éowyn thinks of a star, riding upon the earth, too bright and too blinding to look upon. She feels herself small in comparison, a tiny figure beneath the span of an ancient and all-covering sky, a blade of grass at the foot of a mountainside. She is a child, she thinks, and there is despair in the thought, beneath the wonder: she is a child, and how can she hope to offer anything at all, to this Lady or her wood, or to the people who are gathered around her?

Her weapons have found their way back to her, another miracle in a day full of them. She is grateful most of all now for her spear, which has less value in itself than her sword, but which serves well enough as a prop; leaning on it, she is able to step forwards without too much assistance from her companions, her injured leg dragging as she pulls herself forward to meet the three approaching Elves. It is more difficult to lower herself to one knee without falling, but she manages it, and does her best to summon her Sindarin.

"Lady. We are in your debt. It will not be forgotten." As though it could matter; but it must be said, all the same.

[laurenande]

Galadriel looks upon her from on high, mounted atop Elrohir's steed. Her gaze is heavy and piercing as she peers through Éowyn, through the very heart of her as though she were made of clear glass. After a moment's pause, she shifts and dismounts. While it is an elegant movement, she is unsteady and one of her grandsons steps forward to take her elbow. Her exhaustion is well guarded, but she is dimmed for all the efforts of last night and this morning. Still, as Éowyn has done, Galadriel makes the effort to close the short distance between them. To address her with the respect she has so rightly earned.

"It is not my desire to see such a courageous warrior bent and kneeling," she says and, herself, bends nearly to one knee to offer her a hand. It is symbolic as much as a provision of aid, but Galadriel will not begrudge her if she refuses it.

You needn't bow, not to me, nor any others in these lands, Éowyn of Rohan.

Her voice is the same. Whether spoken or whispered on the wind, it would be impossible to mistake it for anyone else. There was little doubt who warned them, who invited them in, and who begged for her aid, but what little may have lingered is banished now. This is the witch of the golden wood and in one night Éowyn has experienced more of her power than most do in a thousand years.

"Please rise. It is I who am in your debt," Galadriel continues in perfect westron, clear and without the hush of privacy. She has no qualms about this admission being known; she is far too old for dissembling about gratitude. Indeed there is a sense that, if they were not surrounded by the caravan, she would have pulled her into a grateful embrace.

[shieldofrohan]

She does not refuse it. It is not in her to refuse it: not an outstretched hand, offered in good faith, offered by someone who - by now - is a clear ally. Any suspicion of ill-intent is gone. The fear remains, but it is the fear of a frightened mortal faced by something vast and beyond understanding; and now, against all possibility, that vastness stretches towards her in friendship.

So she takes the Lady's hand, and is a little surprised to find that it does not burn or freeze or dissipate, that it is only a hand in hers, and that the woman who holds it out is visibly exhausted. In respect of the latter, she does not give in to the urge to place her weight on that grip as she stands; instead, she once again takes a moment to settle her spear-butt against the loam, to lean on it as she stands. She staggers a little - the dizziness has not passed - before finally loosing the Elf's hand.

She almost says that there can be no debt, that if one is repaid then both is repaid - but she is not quite so awed as to forget the value of such gratitude. "Thank you," she says instead, unsure what exactly she is thanking her for: what, out of all the great lists of things to be grateful for. And she is aware, too, of their audience, of the hundreds of eyes boring into her back, watching expectantly. "Can we speak more privately? If not now, then later? There is much that I do not understand."

[laurenande]

There is apology on Galadriel's face as they stand. The weight of her age sits heavily on her this morning; she spent too much of herself to destroy the wraiths, and more still to restore as many of their number as she could. She cannot spare anything else, not for either of them, and maintain the borders of the golden woods.

"We may," she replies as Éowyn regains her balance and releases her hand. "With so many, travel to the city will be slow. We may speak as we journey or once we reach the end of today's travels, when true privacy is within my power to grant."

"I do not know what understandings I can impart, but I shall answer any question you ask, if I am able."

It is a grander promise than any of the men present will recognize, and her grandsons watch her with carefully inscrutible stares as she makes it. Éowyn does not know that Galadriel is counted among the Wise, nor that she holds the power to look far afield, though the former is not difficult to guess. To share such knowledge freely is both a dear and dangerous thing, not something to be offered so freely, but Galadriel does, all the same.

In truth, it is hard to say how many of this morning's gifts are based in gratitude and how many repentance. She does not hold guilt for those who lay slain on the field, but rather for the very real threat she has posed these refugees. They will never know it, but she could have, just as easily, turned them away and left them to endlessly wander the labyrinthine paths between the mallorn.

Had their need or the danger been less, or Celeborn's need greater, she would have callously doomed them to an ignoble fate. For that, given their rush to valor and their self-sacrifice, she is deeply sorry.

"If you wish to speak now, we may walk," she offers last with a gesture of her hand toward the woods, bathed in golden morning light. Scenic as they are, the idea of walking through them for any distance is an unappealing one.

[shieldofrohan]

That, despite it all, makes Éowyn smile - a wry, sardonic smile, tired and pallid. "You may walk, lady. I fear it will be a day or two before I may, at least more I already have." She is still not quite sure what she has done to her leg - though she guesses it is at least not broken, since it can take a little of her weight before crumpling - but a good night's sleep has not healed all ills. There is almost a comfort in that, especially having seen men return to the camp raised nearly from the dead: her injuries, at least, make some degree of ordinary sense.

Nothing else does. Not yet.

But there is a city. There is a destination, one way or the other, and for the first time since fleeing Edoras, they may be headed towards something, not merely away. It is not quite hope, for there can be no hope in days as dark as these - but it is something. Her smile softens a little, and she shifts where she stands, her spear digging into the moss.

"It will wait. I will wait. It is not so hasty a need as that."

[laurenande]

Éowyn's reply is a fair mirror for Galadriel's feelings on the matter. Her own smile is mild, glad for the dismissal of the offer, and she does not need to look back to know her grandsons are sharing a subtly pained look between themselves. They have learned their doting from her, troublesome as it can be.

"Very well."

Galadriel knows little of Rohan save what she can glean from afar and from the hearts of the men within the wood. She has seen into the heart of Éowyn, during the fury of combat, but such glimpses are better suited to character than detail. In their exhaustion and injury, however, she will not risk embarassing her before a crowd. What she has not asked will be stated, just as though she had.

"When the sun is risen, and your people prepared, we may set out for Caras Galadhon. We have gathered what was left afield and survived the night, but determining to whom it all belongs is not our place."

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn nods, grateful for the information - grateful, too, to know that not all their things are lost. It seems churlish to worry about goods when they have been lucky to escape with their lives, but over the course of two weeks' hasty skirmishes and retreats, the chaos of flight and the desperate grief of so many, they have lost too much of their gear already.

And she can, perhaps, find her sword again. Théoden's sword, seized up from his hand as he fell, when she had stood to defend him, and been dragged away. It is not churlish, surely, to want that.

"I will see to it that all that can be, is restored to its rightful owners." Which will not be all of it, of course. Not all of them survived the night, either.

She looks back at the gathered refugees, her free hand gripping the back of her head as if to hold the pain in place. "We can be ready to move in an hour or two. But slowly; the horses will be wearier even than their riders." Although, now she thinks about it, they have seemed less weary than they should, given the ordeal of the night before. Something in the air of this place seems to have restored them.

I can move us after the next tag if that works.

[laurenande]

The strange air of this place is no accident; rejuvenation is woven through everything she touches, it cannot be otherwise. It is her fondest desire, a facet of her stubborness, and her longing to undo the ravages of time. They are made manifest by her power in a way that cannot be prevented. Within the sphere of her influence, beneath the boughs of the mallorn, all things are made evergreen. Her hours spent beyond the borders have seen the effect dwindling, but it will strengthen as she recovers.

It has eased her, to return and find the wardens and their temporary wards less harrowed than when they arrived. It is a gentle sort of aid for people who need much more, but it is a beginning. Many of the warriors and their mounts have recieved the boons of the elessar and they stand restored, but the stone's power is not entirely its own. She has gladly paid the cost of it, as she pays the cost of all her sorcery, but it is not enough.

It is never quite enough.

The apology in her heart must shine through as she regards Éowyn. Galadriel does not even recognize Elladan at her elbow until he gently grasps it and stays her drifting hand. He speaks in hushed Sindarin, softly enough that Éowyn may catch it if she has the mind to, but that will travel to no ears further than hers. He offers gentle warning, spoken with the firmness of family, that it will reflect poorly upon them all if she collapses.

It is a fair warning, he knows her well, and she turns her head just aside to nod to him, hopefully allaying his fears. He hovers, grim and watchful, as an advisor might trail after his father.

"As you need," Galadriel replies, though it is to Éowyn and not her grandson. "The urgency of the night is passed and a slow morning is a kindness for the weary."

That she is counted among them is a private joke, one that her grandson does not appreciate.

"I must gather myself as well, but I shall join you when it comes time to depart."

sounds great! thank you

[shieldofrohan]

It is hard to believe, even in seeing it and hearing it, that such a being could be weary: that anything as mundane as exhaustion could bring down someone who still radiates so much power. Yet believe it she must, for the evidence is before her eyes.

And it makes her feel a little better for her own weariness, bone-deep and futile. She smiles a little, inclining her head. "I will look forward to it, then. To speaking again."

But for now, there is work to be done - starting, as the intrusive rumbling of her stomach makes plain, with breakfast. She is hardy, but she is not a trained Rider, and she is unused to the kind of privation that has come with the past fortnight; her body does not take the kind of abuse that it has been through this night without calling for something to replenish it. A slight hint of colour touches her pale cheeks, and she clears her throat, fighting the urge to apologise. "By your leave, Lady."

All she really wants to do is to eat, and then lie back down, with a blanket over her head, and let the dizziness and aching wash away into a long sleep. The thought of a destination does something to spur her on, but all the same, she could very gladly lie down in the roots of one of the great trees and not rise for a day, a week, a century. Alas! there is no such rest yet, and the only real relief is that her men, seeing her weariness, come to meet her and help her back to a seat, and keep questions at bay.

I hope this will do!

[laurenande]

Éowyn and Galadriel part, the former to her men and a meal, and the latter with her grandsons and two of the wardens that gathered in the night.

Galadriel withdraws only so far as to be out of easy earshot, both for practicality and because she cannot guarantee that her weariness will not show ere they begin their travels. At a distance, even one as short as a stone's throw, the way she leans and holds on to the arm of her granson is well disguised.

The elves speak at length for the better part of an hour before the conversation abruptly ends. The wardens are dismissed and carry their orders to the others as they depart. The other wardens, few as they are, linger a short while yet. They remain nearby, attention turned south, but their true purpose is to pen in any men who may be inclined to wander before they depart.

Galadriel, for her part, spends the remaining time in thought, watching the distant trees with an absent gaze. Her grandsons hover, occasionally speaking to one another in quick, clipped Sindarin, but they do not disturb her uncanny stillness. The time spent in silence is a balm for her, but the hour of their departure approaches quickly.

The caravan collect themselves from their impromptu camp, gathering their belongings for the journey. They are weary, all, and bolstering them all for the journey takes time. When they are nearly readied, the last of the wardens withdraw to their proper posts and, all at once, the caravan is accompanied by only three elves. The twins drop back, assuming the duties of the departed wardens, and Galadriel settles on the remaining mount and waits, just a short walk north. It is not long before the riders join her and the caravan, at their lead, moves out.

The road to Caras Galadhon is, by design and through great effort, extremely well hidden. It is a single path that cuts through the forest, easily missed along the borderlands, but difficult to lose once it has been found. It is not terribly wide, but a few may ride side by side if they are mindful. The ground is not hard packed but merely cleared of underbrush, of root and rock, and open to the sun. It is firmer than moss and loam, but not so much that it will survive these travelers unmarred.

Straight through the trees, the distance from the city to the border would take a horse-bound rider two hours. On an elk, as she had traveled last night, that path is far easier to traverse; with great haste it took her less than a quarter of the time another rider would require. On this route, which does not cut through trees and down steep embankments, it will take far longer. They should reach the city as night falls.

[shieldofrohan]

It is not men - or even women - who are hardest to keep from straying. It is the children who make up a significant proportion of the caravan, and whose curiosity has not yet been tempered by caution; who see wonder as a thing to be chased rather than respected, and who are increasingly awake and alert as the morning wears on. They emerge more and more into visibility, from under their mothers' cloaks and their grandmothers' tents, wide-eyed and wild by turns. By now, the Riders are adept at herding their charges, but it is more difficult than ever now that the mood of the refugees has turned from simple dread into something more complicated and curious. The children, who have been subdued and frightened for the most part, now begin to act more as children should - which is, in this case, not a great benefit.

As such, all the able-bodied travellers are soon dispatched up and down the caravan, to walk as close as they can and keep the children from wandering away - or, it is very quickly apparent, from approaching the Elves, who they seem to view with unalloyed fascination. It does not help, either, that while all the caravan are exhausted, the children seem to have recovered their energy faster than their guardians, as children often do. They outpace the adults, only to be corralled back into the safety of the caravan or collapse, screaming and whining, as their energy ebbs again.

In other words, a slow journey is made slower still, and wonder alone cannot sustain a good mood. There is less of despair, but more of irritation and exhaustion, in the whole gathered crowd by the time the afternoon comes.

Éowyn rides at the head of the group, and tries not to feel that she is shirking her duty by not looking back. She stays in the saddle, and largely alert, and she does not slump under the pain in her head and the weariness on her shoulders. That is, she must admit, as much as she can ask of herself. Her sword rides at her hip again, and she wonders what its old bearer would think, to see her now. Would he be proud? She would like to believe it. She would like to believe that, somewhere in Mandos' halls, the King is himself again, and knows that she has not given in, and understands that she has taken up the burden he let fall. She would like to believe, after the night before, that even he would not doubt her ability as a warrior now.

She still has so many questions, but for the most part, she rides in silence. The questions which seemed so urgent that morning have lost some of their rawness. The important thing is this: that she stays in the saddle, and the Elf-Lady who leads them continues to lead them, and neither of them falter under the weariness they feel. If Galadriel approaches her, she will answer. If not, it is easier by far to just keep her eyes on the ground ahead, watching for any hazards her horse may not have seen, and to move forward.

[laurenande]

Despite how fearsome they appear, the sons of Elrond are by far closer in age to the children that stray toward them than to their grandmother or the woods they all traverse. They are responsible in their duty, they do not encourage the ones who escape their guardians' grasp and stray, but neither are they unkind in urging them back. There is precious little that will harm anyone within these woods, but even the power of the elves cannot spare a child if they tumble into a ditch or trip over a fallen branch.

For all the irritation and exhaustion of the caravan, for how clearly the miles before compound with those they walk now, the hushed chatter of the refugees and the noissome nature of children colors the air. The children, curious and darting, energetic and wailing in turn, bring a vibrance to this land, one that has been absent for many years. Galadriel, despite all the weariness that weighs on her, takes great and unexpected comfort in the disturbance they cause. Though the ride wears on the mortals around her, it kindles her brighter, restoring forgotten corners of her soul.

The afternoon does not see them as far along as she had expected, but it does bring them to a break in the trees. There are many scattered meadows and patches of light along the periphery of the wood, but there are few so close to the heart of it. This one is a remnant of the past, left over from centuries ago when men still traded here, before darkness crept back into the world.

It is broad enough to provide for the entire caravan, but only just. It will serve as a place to rest, if the lady who leads them orders it. At the edge of the clearing, where the road dips down with the slope of the land and vanishes once more into the trees, the view of the distance is extraordinary. The far borders of Lothlórien stretch out like a great patch of golden wildflowers at the foot of the mountain. In the center, not far off, the greatest of the mallorn separate from the canopy. They rise towering and golden and peace settles over Galadriel.

While no banners catch in the afternoon breeze and there are no towers of stone gleaming in the sun, the sight of the city is a comfort. Unmarked though it is, their destination is laid clearly before them.

"There," Galadriel says and slows her mount to pull alongside the ailing Éowyn. It is a quiet interjection, meant for Éowyn alone, as the shape of the city comes into view.

[shieldofrohan]

There is no city. There is woodland, vast and fair; and beyond it there are mountains that Éowyn has only ever seen on maps, and that rarely; and the sky above feels as wide and endless as on any Rohirric plain. There is nothing manmade here, where Men do not dwell.

There is no city, and yet she sees the city at once; and the thought comes to her, strange in its certainty, that this is what the cities of Men have striven towards. That the carved pillars and vaulted eaves of Meduseld were only ever an attempt to recapture the twist of living wood; that the hill upon which Edoras stood was only a mockery of the way the high trees stand above the landscape of the forest; that there is no city, and yet this is the thing that cities dream of, in their being.

(Elven-magics and a concussion combine into strange flights of fancy, as it turns out.)

"It is beautiful," she says, and means it. "This is your city?"