The Greenwater

Disclaimers: See chapter one

A/N: Mostly paperwork here, ie plot, with a little smut thrown in for good measure. Enjoy.

****
“Lord Éomer, the men are growing restless.”

Éomer looked up from tightening the ties on a saddle bag and into the hazel-gold eyes of Malic, one of the young soldiers. Éomer cocked his head at the twenty-something lad and then back over his shoulder to the company of men at the next fire. They were silent for the most part, drinking little and saying even less, their eyes flitting back and forth from the conversation he was having with Malic to the other camps.

Éomer hummed in thought and then stood, slinging his saddlebag over his shoulder and motioning for Malic to walk with him. “And what are the men saying, young Malic?”

“They are unsure of our course of action. Already it has been two days since the Uruks were slain and we met with those three strangers…”

“They were not strangers, Malic,” Éomer reminded softly. “Aragorn is Isildur’s heir. They were searching for their friends.”

“But to be out on the plains by themselves – no armor, a sword and a bow at best, and no horses? My Lord, it doesn’t make sense.”

As Malic spoke, Éomer’s mind slowly formed an image of a lone rider in a dark, damp night. There was rain and fog, and the great war horse was covered in mud up to his flanks. The rider paused a moment, pulled their cloak tighter around their shoulders, and then pressed the horse onward. The rain grew heavy and the rider turned their head, and as the lightening flashed overhead, clear blue eyes became instantly visible. They burned into Éomer’s mind and he inhaled sharply and shook his head. Rubbing his eyes, the vision cleared, and he came back to Malic watching him expectantly.

They had reached the spot where the horses were tethered and Éomer sidestepped the various beasts until he came to Firefoot, and he grabbed the horse’s muzzle and rubbed the velvety nose, looking into the horse’s eyes. “It is a time of war,” Éomer said suddenly, coming back to the conversation that Malic had started. “Nothing will make sense right now.” Éomer looked back to his young companion. “Does it make sense that I was banished from my home?”

Malic shook his head. “No, My Lord.”

“And does it make sense that we have slain an entire troop of Uruk so far from Mordor?”

Again, Malic shook his head.

Éomer nodded to himself and turned back to Firefoot as he spoke. “There is nothing more north of here.”

“The Gray Mountains?” Malic tried.

At the mention of Théalyn’s home, Éomer’s chest tightened with emotion and he had to bite his lip. He cleared his throat. “If you are talking about the Eraddnians, there are none left here in Middle Earth, save one.”

“My Lord?”

Éomer abruptly stopped stroking Firefoot’s forehead and he quickly moved away from his horse. “We’ll head south east, I think. We should patrol the borders of Rohan for more stray parties of orcs. I may have been banished, but I still care about the wellbeing of my home. Send word out to the other men. We ride at dawn.”

****

Théalyn rode for a night and two days. On the eve of the second day, the walls of Minas Tirith were visible and in the East, a dark cloud hung over Mordor. Éomer had been right; there was indeed something more evil at work here. Shivering, Théalyn pulled the hood of her cloak up and slowed her horse to a walk. Since she had crossed the borders into Gondor, the skies had been threatening to rain all day. Now, the first drops of rain could be felt and Faron tossed his head before plodding on across the grassy plains. There were large torches lit at the gates of the White City and the orange glow made Théalyn’s spirits brighten a little. Faron seemed to sense this for he moved his hooves quickly, barely touching ground.

The rain grew harder. By the time Théalyn had been spotted by the guards at the gates, water was coming down in sheets and she reined Faron in and dismounted. Her soft-soled boots sank into the sticky mud and she cursed as she walked, tugging her horse behind her. She stopped then as a guard approached and she ducked underneath the awning of the outpost. She pulled back her hood and, shaking her hair from her face, she looked to the soldier before her.

“Go forth and tell Faramir that Théalyn, daughter of Élathyn, has arrived here. I wish to speak to him.”

The young soldier, no older than twenty-two, looked over his shoulder quickly and signaled a senior officer. The youth stepped back and a new guard stepped forward, his dark hair graying at the temples and his grey eyes keen and wary. He looked Théalyn up and down for a moment and shook his head.

“Captain Faramir is not…present at this moment.” He seemed to choose his words carefully and Théalyn picked up on a note of hesitancy.

Faron tugged at his reins and snorted and Théalyn pulled his harness sharply at his chin. She scolded the war horse and shoved him off before she turned back to the guard. “What is your name?”

“I am called Airic and I am first guard of these gates. I apologize, My Lady, but there was no word of your coming. Shall I send word to Lord Denethor?”

Théalyn pursed her lips and thought for a moment. She would have rather spoken with Boromir of Faramir first, but she wasn’t about to spend the night out in the rain, either. Her eyes flicked from Airic, to the young soldier and the rainy night, and then back to Airic. “Aye. Tell him that Théalyn of the Eraddnians wishes to speak with him.”

Airic nodded and turned to the young soldier, beckoning him forward. “Take the lady’s horse to the stables and make sure there is dry hay and water for the beast.” He looked back at Théalyn. “I do not suppose you wish to stand out here this night.” He gestured to the rain-soaked cloak of Théalyn’s. He made note of the color and spoke. “I have not seen your kind here in Gondor for some time.” He opened a small door next to the main gates and gestured Théalyn through. He put his hand on her shoulder as she passed through and Théalyn turned to him in question.

“I am not at liberty to speak freely here, but I shall say this: Lord Denethor is not keen on taking visitors these days. I will announce your arrival, but I cannot promise you an audience. Your beast will be well looked after; Bador will see to it. If the Steward denies your request, you may find him in the stables there,” he instructed as he pointed to a large structure just inside of the main gates.

“I thank you,” Théalyn replied. She pushed her cloak back from her shoulders and followed Airic through the city, taking in the familiar streets and walls. She had spent time here in her youth, but now, walking through late at night when all were sleeping, it felt like a dream, like something was not quite right.

At the Seventh Circle of Minas Tirith, Théalyn was greeted with the image of the White Tree of Gondor, a mighty thing of twisted and bleached limbs and bark. It bore no leaves, as myth would tell, and she skirted around the courtyard under the great stone awnings and watched the rain pelt the grass which surrounded the tree. She paused as Airic did and she watched as he spoke with another set of guards at the doors of the Hall of the Steward. Their speech was quick and in a Gondorian dialect she was not quite familiar with. She had heard Faramir and Boromir speak to each other in it before, but all knowledge of the vocabulary that she had retained as a child was lost on her. She had not spoken anything but Elvish and the Common Speech in more than ten years.

Whatever Airic said, it must have been enough of an explanation, for next Théalyn found herself staring at her guide’s back as she was led to the hall and ushered across the gleaming marble floors. Here too was the mark of Gondor, the White Tree, and Théalyn shifted uncomfortably in the sterility of the cavern. There was no sound here; only the thundering of rain could be heard through the open windows. A breeze stirred and made the torch light dance on the walls.

Footsteps echoed then and Théalyn whirled in a flurry of cloak and rain just in time to see a dark, looming figure cross the floor and approach. Théalyn’s heart lodged in her throat as the iron-gray eyes of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, focused on her. He almost faltered in his step, but he recovered quickly and made a sour face, his scowl closing his face completely.

“What are you doing here?”

Théalyn wasn’t surprised at the lack of emotion in Denethor’s voice, anger or otherwise. She straightened her shoulders and stared the Steward in the eye. “I have come to bring you word from Rohan. There is a war coming there.”

Denethor snorted and waved off his attendant, moving to the high-backed throne at the foot of the dais. He sat and leaned his elbow on the arm of the throne and then cradled his chin in the palm of his hand, looking all like an impatient child who has been made to wait too long.

“Rohan does not concern me, girl. You of all people should know.”

“If Rohan does not concern you, then think of your own city. Your people. This war will not stop at the borders of your country. The fires of battle will spread. You must be prepared.” Théalyn searched the old face for any signs of emotion, but there were none.

“When the White Tree of Gondor burns to the ground, then I will be concerned. We have nothing to fear here in Minas Tirith. Our walls are strong, as are our armies.”

Théalyn’s eyes narrowed at Denethor’s ignorance. “You will do nothing, then?”

“I already have.” He motioned then to another servant and a goblet of wine was brought forward. Denethor sipped thoughtfully for a moment. “Faramir,” he began, saying the name with distaste, “has taken it upon himself to scout out the northern borders near Osgiliath.”

Théalyn shook her head. “How many men? Fifty? One hundred?” Her eyes pleaded with the old man before her. “It is not enough.”

“It will have to be.” Denethor’s voice grew thick now with anger and sadness. “Faramir will have to hold Osgiliath for Boromir cannot. He is dead.” The gray eyes were hollow for a moment as if he were seeing a ghost. Suddenly, his face changed, and a cruel grin spread across his mouth.

“You are foolish to have come here,” Denethor pointed out. He took another sip of wine and continued. “After I banished your father, I thought that there was an understanding. Have you come to beg forgiveness?”

“Ethrimir is dead and with him went his grievances with you. I beg of nothing for myself. I only ask that you send word to Faramir that there is a war coming and that you send aid to Rohan.”

“I will do neither,” Denethor replied almost breezily. He had a bored expression on his face and he dipped his finger into his wine and then sucked at the crimson stained digit. “Faramir will remain in North Ithilien and protect the borders there. King Théoden is on his own.” He signaled to someone behind Théalyn with a flick of his wrist.

A hand came down on her shoulder and Théalyn looked back to see Airic standing behind her, a small frown on his face. His eyes, however, held something different and the look he gave her told her to be silent for the moment. He then turned her body away from Denethor and moved behind her, ushering her out of the Great Hall of the Steward.

****
“I am sorry,” Airic said softly as he and Théalyn walked side by side down the streets of Minas Tirith. “I did not think he could be so cruel.”

Théalyn gave Airic a wry grin. “You serve the Steward; you should be used to…”

“I serve Gondor,” Airic said solidly. He stopped walking and caught Théalyn’s elbow, hauling her around to face him. “I have always served Gondor. Every time I lift my sword, it is for this city and what it stands for, not for the delusions of an overzealous Steward.”

These last words were spoken lowly and Théalyn watched Airic’s dark eyes scan the streets, looking for those who would accuse him of sedition. He took a step back then and bowed informally. “I’ll take you down to the stables.”

They walked in silence for a bit. The rain had tapered off while Théalyn was in the Hall of the Steward and most of the cloud had blown north. The night sky was clear once again and the moon waned in the dark sky. Théalyn tucked her shoulders back under her cloak and watched Airic as he walked. She had been to Minas Tirith a handful of times in her youth, and yet she could not remember ever meeting him. She found it intriguing that he knew who she was just from the color of her cloak. As he rounded a corner to the stairwell that would take them to the first circle of the city, Théalyn’s hand reached out and she stopped him.

“You said that you have not seen my kind in the city for many years now,” Théalyn began. She watched Airic closely for his reaction.

The soldier nodded and he led Théalyn down the steps and then through a small archway into the main promenade of Minas Tirith. They made their way to the stable and Théalyn waited patiently for an answer. As Airic pushed the stabled doors open with his shoulder, he spoke.

“This city is old. There are things here which even Denethor does not know about. There are still those who believe in the old alliances, who believe in the same things that Cirion and Eorl did.” Airic paused and lit the two torches at the doorway and then turned to Théalyn. “I am Airic, son of Eoric. My father was a soldier here for many years.”

“I’ve never seen you before,” Théalyn said quietly. “I walked these streets when I was young with Boromir and Faramir and yet I do not remember you.”

Airic smiled and gave a small laugh. “You were observant for your age, and for that I give credit to the fact that you are an Eraddnian. But children do not see all, nor do they hear all. I was stationed at Osgiliath for most of my career, but I traveled to and from the White City, as most soldiers do. I have only been posted here for four years.”

They crossed over the rough, earthen ground of the stable and Théalyn found Faron gorging on oats and a few carrots and apples. His ears pricked up as she spoke his name and he moved from the trough to the gate of the stall, poking his nose over and smelling her cloak. He whickered and tossed his head, as if approving of her arrival. Théalyn laughed at her horse’s actions and she reached to scratch between his ears.

“Do you believe me? I mean earlier, when I spoke with the Steward. Do you believe that there is a war coming?” She glanced back over her shoulder to see Airic kick at a pile of straw.

He looked up at her question and his face was grave. “This war has been coming since the dawn of this age. The Rings of Power have been in existence for a thousand years, and for a thousand years, Sauron’s power has been felt all over Middle Earth. But it is here and now that the battle will be fought. It is time; you know that the age of your people and of the elves is drawing nigh.”

“Can you get word to Faramir?”

Airic shook his head and he frowned, sincerely sorry. “Nay. He is in North Ithilien, but where, I do not know. Eventually he will make his way to Henneth Annun and then back to Osgiliath.”

Sighing, Théalyn sagged against the stall door and laid her arms across the ledge there, pillowing her head and staring up at Faron’s bright eyes. “I can’t stay here and do nothing.” She closed her eyes then as the emotions of the past few days caught up with her. Tears leaked out from behind her eyelids and she wiped at them angrily. Choking sobs wracked her body and her foot kicked the stall, startling Faron only slightly. The horse sensed his mistress’s frustration and he blew a puff of hot, moist air across her forehead and then mouthed her ear. Théalyn pushed Faron off and stood again, pulling her shoulders back.

“I have no where else to go,” she said hollowly. Her eyes stared into the space on the other side of the stable and she spoke as if she was the only one present. “I cannot go back to Edoras for there is Wormtongue and his lying ways. I cannot stay here under the malicious eye of Denethor. If Faramir were here, it might be different, but as it stands, I am alone.” She said these last three words with realization edging her voice. She was alone, in a sense, for she was the last of her kind. Éomer had sent her here and Éowyn was angered with her. She rubbed at her face and then pulled her hair back, securing it behind her head with a well-tied thong. She opened the gate to Faron’s stall and stepped inside, going to where her saddle sat on a low stool. She slung the heavy thing over Faron’s back and began tightening the straps as Airic looked on.

“If you have nowhere to go why are you making to leave?”

Théalyn looked up from where she was buckling a strap, her face set in resolve. “I will ride for Rohan. Éomer is somewhere in his uncle’s country; he would not leave the land entirely.”

****
Théalyn checked the sky again, taking note of the sun and its position to the horizon, and then mounted Faron once more. It was the end of the third day and the clouds had broken in the late afternoon, washing the Eastfold with a warm, golden light. The evening breeze stirred the long, flaxen tresses about Théalyn’s shoulders and she turned the collar of her riding tunic up. Her eyes scanned the plains of Rohan, but she saw nothing, only scrub brush and short grass, and the borders of Fangorn Forest. No one was there in that place. She hadn’t seen anyone else since she had left Minas Tirith and the emptiness made her wary of how alone she was at the moment. The gentle swaying of Faron’s stride made Théalyn relax in her saddle and wrap her cloak around her shoulders, nestling into the warm wool. Her eyes slipped closed and she forced herself awake once more. Rubbing at her face, she yawned and concentrated on the numbing pain in her neck, a result from sleeping slouched against Faron’s saddle.

A voice whispered. It was soft, but whether it was male or female was indiscernible. It tinkled in Théalyn’s mind like a tiny bell of mithril:

Mas thelich baded?1

Théalyn’s head shot up and her eyes grew wide in the darkening light. The last streaks of a crimson sunset were disappearing and the breeze had died. Straightening in the saddle, Théalyn turned her body to check behind her. Nothing surrounded her but leagues of rolling hills and the endless sky. She clucked her tongue at Faron and he moved his hooves at a fast walk.

Man le carel si?2

The voice was louder this time and Théalyn grasped Faron’s reigns, pulling him to cut a wide circle. Her eyes frantically scanned the emptiness as her blood thundered in her ears.

“Man le?” She hissed as her eyes narrowed.3 Her breathing grew rapid and air hissed through her clenched teeth. Faron whickered and tossed his head and then whined. His nerves shot, he danced sideways on his hooves and flattened his ears to his head.

Daro an idh si.

Faron snorted and pulled against his reins, forcing Théalyn to let him turn left. A dim light shone just past the edges of the forest and Théalyn suddenly felt at ease. Stop for rest here, that’s what she had heard, hadn’t she? She nudged Faron’s sides with her knees and he moved forward to the trees.

She swore she felt the forest hold its breath as she slipped through the thick branches of the trees, leading Faron as best she could while she held her balance on the uneven forest floor. She looked to the tree line and saw the white light still there, glowing softly.

The light led her to a clearing, and when she arrived, she found that the only source of light was from the moon above as it reflected in the shallow pools of the clearing. Her feet tread lightly upon the mossy earth and she marveled at the exposed roots of the oak and maple trees. Her eyes fixed onto a particularly cozy looking spot and she looked back at Faron with a question in her eyes.

“Should we rest?”

As if he understood, Faron tossed his head and whickered. Théalyn nodded to the beast and reached up to the back of his head, deftly removing his bridle. She tossed the length of leather over her shoulder and walked to the moss and fern lined hovel formed out of un earthed roots. Laying the bridle over a stump, she unclasped her cloak and folded it, laying it aside while she unsaddled Faron. When she had rid him of his burdens and curried him to his heart’s desire, Théalyn tossed the saddle blanket to the ground and, pulling her cloak from her shoulders and spreading it out over her body, she curled into a ball, tucking herself into her hiding spot, and tried to find a moment’s sleep.

Think of me while you’re there…Think of me inside of you…

Théalyn let the dream come. She hadn’t dreamt of Éomer since she had arrived at Edoras; before that it was sporadic, but it still occurred and when it did, it unnerved her. She had never dreamt of lovers before – at least, not the way she dreamt of Éomer. Here, in her mind, they were at The Golden Hall in Éomer’s room. It was different now then when she had stood in it only three days before. When Éowyn had told her of Éomer’s banishment, the room had seemed dark and dreary. The gray stone on the wall was dull and the torches weren’t lit; there was no Horse Lord among the piles of fur that made up the bed.

Now, in her dream, Théalyn could clearly see the gentle glow of the brazier at the foot of Éomer’s bed. Her dream self slipped through the door and shut it softly behind her. Her eyes focused in the dim light and she made out the form of her lover sprawled on his back, his tanned chest rising and falling with the breath of sleep, and the furs had been shrugged off and now rested at his hips. The torches on the walls flickered, casting shadows across his boyish features and he mumbled something and turned over, pillowing his head on folded arms and successfully dislodging the furs even further down his lean body.

Théalyn’s eyes traced the smooth line of his back, took in the well developed muscles of his shoulders and arms, and then moved down to the delightful curve of his backside. His thighs were strong and well-toned from riding horses all his life and Théalyn’s fingers itched to touch his bronzed skin and feel his power beneath her. She moved to the bed, stripping away the clothing that she wore until she was naked. A shiver raced down her spine and through her extremities as she paused at the edge of his bed. She reached a hand out and stroked his golden hair and he sighed in his sleep, pressing into the caress and smiling softly. He sighed again and rolled to his back, and his eyes slid open lazily.

Green eyes now stared up at her and he blinked once, twice, and then licked his lips and leaned up slightly, his hands catching hers and hauling her forwards onto his body. He arranged her across his lap and then sank back into the pillows and furs, his eyes watching to see what Théalyn would do next. Slowly, his hands moved from her knees and rubbed small circles on the outsides of her thighs. His fingers ghosted the outline of her hips and skated over her belly, teasing her navel until she giggled softly and moved his hand aside.

He winked and then continued, his eyes narrowing in concentration as his thumbs traced the outermost curved of her breasts and Théalyn sighed and pushed against his chest with her hands as he cupped her breasts and squeezed them. Théalyn ground her hips against Éomer’s and purred with a half-grin, her eyes lazily drifting over Éomer’s shoulders and chest. He grunted then and tried to sit up and Théalyn leaned back to accommodate him. Soon she was seated in his lap, resting against his thighs as his arms came about her shoulders and he held her close. His eyes searched her face and his hands brushed the hair from her eyes. He smiled.

Théalyn opened her mouth, tried to speak and tell Éomer what she wanted, but he shook his head and held a finger to her lips. He then moved, leaning in and bringing his mouth to hers in a gentle, sweet kiss. His lips parted, and his tongue slid forwards, tasting Théalyn’s in a warm, wet embrace. They parted and came together again in a series of slow, wet kisses, each one more heated than the last.


Éomer grabbed Théalyn’s hand then and kissed the palm before bringing it down to where their bodies were pressed together. With her hand in his, he took hold of his erection and growled softly as he helped Théalyn touch him. She shivered and her eyes met Éomer’s, holding their gaze as she marveled at the heat of his skin and the smooth skin and hard muscle of his body. He nodded and bit his lip as sweat glistened on his brow.

His hips shifted beneath her and she moved to her knees, balancing on them above Éomer’s prone form, her hand still grasping him firmly at the base. Slowly, she began to sink down onto him, pulling him inside of her and sighing as every part of her was filled with the Horse Lord. Her head fell back and her blonde hair spilled down her spine and across her shoulders as her thighs shook. She was still for a moment, enjoying the feel of Éomer inside of her. Then, she felt his hands wrap her hips and he helped her establish a slow, smooth rhythm. She gasped and her eyes flew open, taking in the tousled, golden warrior. Moaning, Théalyn took the lead and pushed her hips down against Éomer’s harder than before, and her hands gripped his shoulders to steady herself as she rocked against him. Éomer moaned loudly, his eyes franticly searching Théalyn’s face. Slowly, a mischievous smile spread across Éomer’s face and his nostrils flared as he moved his hips up, pushing up into Théalyn when she came down. She shuddered and cried, digging her nails into his flesh.

Everything was hot and tight and slick with sweat and moisture, and fingers stroked and searched out spots that would bring forth heated cries and breathless moans. They moved faster and Théalyn’s eyes slipped shut as she concentrated on the sensations in her body. Everywhere trembled and there were flashes of hot and cold and she felt Éomer shift and then she was on her back, her knees hugging his ribs and his hands holding her backside. He pounded into her solidly and she winced at the impact, a cry spilling from her mouth. She heard Éomer above her, panting, swearing, cursing her and her body. His tongue lapped at her throat, tasting the sweat there, and then his teeth sank into the skin at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. His arms came under hers and he hooked his hands back over her shoulders, holding her still and close as his hips still drove against her. Her voice shook now with the force of every thrust and her hands wrapped around the furs spread beneath her.

Finally, without warning, Éomer’s hips snapped forward and paused, and then he thrust again, more erratically. He was loosing his rhythm to the sheer goal of pleasure and Théalyn sensed he was nearing completion. She concentrated on squeezing her internal muscles, milking every last drop of energy from Éomer. Her hips rose to meet his and she heard him groan into her neck, his whiskers scraping her. Then his body stiffened and he cried out hoarsely. His fingers bit into the flesh of her shoulders and she felt him swell inside of her, and then he came, long and hard.

Théalyn’s fingers combed through Éomer’s sweat-dampened hair and she let her hands fall to the muscles of his shoulders, rubbing soothing circles there while she felt the last aftershocks of orgasm wash through his solid body. His hands slowly loosened their grip and he moved away, untangling his limbs and slipping from her body. She whimpered at the loss but then smiled as Éomer came to rest again between her thighs, pillowing his head between her breasts as his hands smoothed up and down her sides. He soon slept.

She was cold when she woke and it took Théalyn a minute to realize that she was still dreaming. Éomer’s room was dark; the fire in the brazier no longer glowed with warmth. Turning to her side, Théalyn found the bed empty and she sat up quickly, her eyes searching the room for Éomer. She was alone.

Her feet hit the stone floor and she pulled a cloak from the end of the bed, wrapping it about her shoulders, and she lifted a sword from the writing desk near the fireplace. She went to the window next, pushing aside the heavy curtains and letting her eyes settle on the dark plains of Rohan. There was no moon, only a driving rain that saturated the earth. There was a rumbling in the distance that at first sounded like thunder, but it grew nearer and in the shadows and blackness of night, Théalyn saw a great, crawling mass of figures. It moved like a flood of water, sweeping over the land and crushing everything before it and as it came over the rise of a hill, the growling and snarling of orcs could be heard through the rain.

Maetho ‘nin gurth!

Théalyn woke with a start and drew her small dagger, pointing it ahead with eyes still blind with sleep. The blade clashed with another and she surged to her feet. A voice chuckled and she blinked, the owner of said voice coming into focus.

“Mae govennan, sister-star.”

The voice that spoke was arrogant at best. Théalyn rolled her eyes as she recognized Haldir standing before her with a bored expression. He sighed impatiently when he saw recognition flicker across her face but she did not withdraw her weapon right away.

“Mae govannen, March Warden,” Théalyn greeted smoothly, watching for signs of resentment in Haldir’s face.

The blond elf snorted and raised an eyebrow. “A little ways away from home, aren’t you?”

“You could say the same,” Théalyn replied. “I thought most of Elvish kind had left Middle Earth, and yet here you are. Tell me, Haldir, did they leave you behind because of your arrogance or your ignorance?”

Haldir’s grin grew wicked as Théalyn sparred with him. Good. It had been too long since he had had the chance to tease the daughter of Thealad. The last time he had encountered her was five years ago at the last feast held in Carr Loss. He hadn’t liked her from the start and she wasn’t coy about hiding her ‘feelings’ for him either. Still, they respected each other’s skills in weaponry and scouting, and so there were no truly hard feelings.

Haldir shrugged then, an insolent movement and he looked around like he was bored. “I was just wondering what you would be doing here in a forest when there is a battle to be fought. Tell me, where have you been?”

Théalyn told Haldir of her arrival at Edoras only days earlier and Éomer’s banishment. Haldir’s face grew hard at the mention of Wormtongue and he made a gesture with his hand to ward off any magic still lingering with the woman before him. When she mentioned Minas Tirith, Haldir gave a haughty laugh.

“You didn’t really expect man to help himself, did you?”

“Apparently, I have become too reliant upon men,” Théalyn admitted sharply.

“Are you sure you don’t mean one man in particular?” Haldir sniggered as Théalyn’s gray eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He waited a moment. Then, “Still, this is our Middle Earth and the Elves have ever been Her children. We do not want to see Saruman and Sauron rule anymore than men.”

Théalyn past Haldir’s shoulder and suddenly became aware of the many elves now emerging from the thick trees of Fangorn. They came in the hundreds, in the thousands, all bearing the colors of Rivendell and Lorien, and all bearing bows and deadly Elvish knives. Théalyn drew in a sharp breath.

“How…”

Haldir winked. “The Lady Galadriel’s light still shines on in Middle Earth. Come,” he said suddenly, beckoning her with a nod of his head. “We make for Helm’s Deep. Saruman’s army is on the move and will stop at nothing until it reaches the stronghold of Rohan.”

Haldir’s words painted a picture and Théalyn’s dream came flooding back, making her skin pull tight with goose bumps. She quickly turned to Faron and saddled him, even as leagues of elves swarmed past, making no noise save a melodic tinkling that echoed like the stars. She fell into step with Haldir, tightening her sword belt as she went. She looked up to see the clouds moving across the sky again. The scent of rain was heavy in the air and she heard a distant thundering. She only hoped that it was not yet the heavy tread of orcs.

“This battle will wait for no one,” Théalyn pointed out as they made their way across a narrow stream and cut northwest through the thicket.

“Then that is why we must hurry. I was hesitant to stop when a scout came back reporting a stranger fast asleep among the ash.” He looked at Théalyn and smiled broadly. “But then when I saw it was you, I figured that if I ever wanted any peace again, I should find a way to dispose of you.”

Théalyn scowled and then Haldir’s laughter erupted in her ear. His hand came down on her shoulder in a friendly gesture and she had to smile. “You should know that I am not that easy to get rid of,” she countered saucily as she shoved Haldir’s touch off and knocked him forward.

He growled and pushed the blond hair from his eyes and whirled back to Théalyn, his dark eyes flashing. “Good. We will need every sword before this is over.”
****

1. 'Where do you intend to go?'
2. 'What are you doing here?'
3. 'Who are you?'
4. 'Fight to the death!'

(thanks to www.councilofelrond.com for the Sindarin translations and Rohirric names!!)