Chapter Text
Dark, long hair — once styled by handmaids into intricate braids — was now loosely plaited into a simple braid, half-undone from the long road. Strands had slipped free, framing a face dusted with travel and worn thin by months of wandering. Her once-luxurious traveling gown, woven from fine Rohirric wool and adorned with traditional embroidery, was tattered and dulled by road dust, cinched at the waist with a plain leather belt. The sturdy boots, crafted by Edoras’ finest, could no longer hide how unnaturally thin her legs had become — a result of countless days when rest was a luxury, and food merely survival.
And yet, despite the stoop in her back and the tremble in her arms, she still clutched a longsword — its hilt carved with horse heads — clumsily and without the ease of a warrior. It was not her sword, but a relic taken as proof, as leverage — something to make them listen.
When Lord Elrond met her gaze, she felt the fury rise again from within. She had neither the strength nor the will to observe courtly etiquette — a single day in the realm of the Elves had drained the last of her patience. She gave her name sharply, almost rudely, and it was enough — the Half-elven’s brow furrowed, his head tilting slightly, as if something in her made sense to him. But his understanding eyes and soft, almost honeyed words only stoked her anger further — like oil to a fire.
Her fingers, clenched around the hilt, whitened with tension as she stepped forward and stared at the Elf-lord’s serene face. She wanted to scream — but when her voice emerged, it was a hoarse whisper, thick with rage and bitterness.
“You think I don’t know it’s the White Wizard’s orcs who roam our lands like masters?” she hissed, her voice breaking toward a whisper’s edge. She stepped closer, meeting Elrond’s eyes. “You think I haven’t seen our best warriors rot alive in their armor under his spells?”
Elrond, dressed in garments simple yet elegant, remained composed. His expression was calm, his voice even and gentle when he spoke:
“Your people’s plight is known to me, child. But Gandalf now walks a path upon which depends not just your land, but the fate of all Middle-earth.”
“My people?” she gave a short, scornful laugh and stepped forward. “I have no people. A land? Rohan? Rohan is just a patch of earth — fields and little rivers!” Her voice trembled for a moment before she lifted her chin. “Let them burn it to the ground. My people know how to build houses and breed like rabbits. Someone else will save them. That’s not why I came.”
For a moment, silence fell over the hall. The anger in her voice made even Elrond inwardly step back. Back home, words like these would have earned her swift punishment. But Elrond did not flinch. His voice remained steady:
“There is pain in your words. But King Théoden—”
He didn’t finish.
“I don’t care about the king!” she shouted, swinging the sword — not in threat, but to balance herself under the weight of her furious despair. “To Udûn with his crown and his kingdom — I don't care! I want to save my father, not some ruler! My father is all I have left.”
Her voice rang out, sharp as a broken blade. Elrond fell silent; his gaze grew more focused, not colder. He could sense the pain behind her fury — a fragility she perhaps didn’t even admit to herself.
“And how do you plan to do that?” he asked after a pause. “You stand before me, worn and weary. No sword, not even that one, will save you from what you seek to fight.”
She froze, her grip tightening so hard the leather of the hilt creaked. She had no plan. Only sheer stubbornness and a desperate will that pulled her forward, even as her body, mind, and fear begged her to stop.
“Tell me where the Fellowship went,” she said quietly. Her voice faltered for a moment. “I’ll find them. And if I must, I’ll follow them all the way to Mordor.”
Elrond, calm still, replied in a voice both gentle and firm:
“It is a perilous road, child. Not every man is equal to it…”
“A man?!” Her eyes flashed with fury. “Have you seen the men of Rohan lately? Do you know what we — the women — did when our men vanished on distant campaigns or died on their own doorsteps? When their bodies were found in fields, side by side with beasts marked by the White Hand? Do you know the path we had to walk — the ones who were left behind?”
She fell silent for a moment, clenching her left fist so tightly that her nails bit into her palm. Memories surged over her — faces of mothers who had lost sons, widows who had taken up the swords of fallen husbands, children left behind as orphans. She looked at Elrond with a bitterness that could shake even the firmest heart.
“I do not know the road the Grey Wanderer now walks,” the Half-elf said, his voice softer than his words. “When he left these lands with the Fellowship, he had a purpose I cannot speak of. But believe me: he would never abandon Rohan. He never would.”
“Never abandoned us?!” Her despair rose like a storm, pushing her to lash out at the first figure before her — not out of reason, but helplessness. “And yet he’s gone! While you stroll peacefully through your lofty halls, the White Wizard’s orcs scour our roads with whips! That so-pitied Rohirric people of yours!”
“Gandalf did not leave for idle curiosity, child,” Elrond said, raising his voice slightly, trying to reach her. “He is one of the few who understands the magnitude of the threat hanging over all kingdoms. Not only Rohan groans under the weight of what’s to come — Gondor, Erebor, the East and South as well…”
“Gondor… Erebor… You all speak of the greater good, but what use is greatness?” she snapped. “And the king…” Éodred suddenly faltered. She dropped her eyes to the floor, afraid that if she spoke further, she might not be able to stop the tears — or her fury. She drew a breath and continued, quieter, the words forced through clenched teeth: “All I ask for is help to save my father. Just tell me when they left — and which road they took.”
“Be still,” Elrond said gently, but with a warmth that caught her off guard. “I see there is no turning back for you. If you wish to know where the Fellowship went, I can tell you only this — they left Rivendell five days ago and traveled south. I cannot say more. Even speaking it aloud is perilous.”
Éodred squared her shoulders abruptly, cutting off any further reasoning.
“That’s not enough!” she barked. A thousand furious words stuck in her throat, but she merely snorted, locking eyes with the Half-elf. She should have ridden off the moment she learned the Grey Wanderer was gone — but now she was resolute.
With the most sarcastic bow she could muster, Éodred spun on her heel and strode quickly across the graceful bridges and galleries of the Last Homely House. With each step, she repeated to herself: “I need nothing from this place…” — though Rivendell, bathed in soft light, felt as peaceful and comforting as home.
But Éodred ignored the beauty around her — her thoughts spun restlessly toward the road ahead. “Which path exactly did they take?” she wondered. “There are many ways into Mordor. Some too obvious… others, too dangerous…” She recalled legends of the dwarven kingdom of Moria, and of the plains beneath Saruman’s watch.
Emerging into the courtyard — filled with the gentle trickle of fountains and distant birdsong — she crossed it toward the stables. There, in the shadows, her chestnut mare awaited. Éodred approached the stall confidently, and the horse lifted its head with a soft whinny, stamping gently as if sensing her tension. She led the animal out into the courtyard, mentally calculating whether her supplies would last and whether she could catch up to the Fellowship.
She didn’t hear the Elf-maid approach — it was as if she had stepped from the very air. A slender figure in a silver gown stood at the threshold, her gaze piercing and clear.
“Your intentions are pure,” she said softly, “but your fury will undo you.” Her voice was gentle, but sorrow hung in its every note.
“Spare me your advice,” Éodred snapped, not knowing the Elf’s name and not caring, tugging the reins with impatience.
“Arwen. My name is Arwen, daughter of Elrond,” the woman said quietly.
Éodred only scoffed, unimpressed by the title. She kept adjusting the girth, avoiding the Elf’s eyes.
“They took the Isen ford,” Arwen said at last, a thread of worry slipping into her voice.
“Then they are fools,” Éodred replied curtly, lifting her head from the saddle straps. “That land lies beneath Saruman’s window. I’ve seen his ravens — spies.”
At that, she caught a flicker of fear on Arwen’s face — as if the Elf feared for someone dear. For a brief moment, Éodred felt a pang of regret for her harshness. But she swallowed it down, biting back any softness.
“There are still two other paths,” she said more gently now, as if trying to comfort the Elf. “Perhaps you’re mistaken, and the one you care for is safer than you fear. Though… ‘safety’ is a relative thing, when it comes to a journey like this.”
Éodred stepped back from the saddle, inspecting the gear carefully. Her hands, long accustomed to horses, moved with calm precision — checking every strap with practiced care. As a true daughter of Rohan, she knew: between rider and horse there must be complete trust and harmony. Once satisfied that everything was secure, she stroked the horse’s neck affectionately. The mare responded with a soft, pleased snort. At last, Éodred mounted easily, adjusting the folds of her travel-worn dress.
“My father is right,” Arwen sighed. “The road is not safe… not for a lady so young.”
“It’s been a while since anyone called me ‘young’,” Éodred said with a wry smile. The horse shifted beneath her, sensing her resolve. “Don’t worry. You only die once, and no one escapes it.”
Arwen hesitated, then pulled a sealed envelope from beneath her cloak — the parchment adorned with delicate Elvish script.
“Please… If you find them, give this letter to a man from the North. His name is Aragorn. He can be trusted.”
Éodred took the letter, eyeing it with some suspicion.
“And how will I recognize this Aragorn?”
“You’ll know him,” Arwen replied softly, with quiet certainty. “There are only two men in the Fellowship — Aragorn and Boromir.”
“Boromir… the eldest son of the Steward of Gondor?” Éodred frowned, recalling rumors and tales. “So there were three of them?”
“No, there are four hobbits with them — halflings, child-sized,” Arwen explained. “And an Elf, and a Dwarf.”
“A Dwarf?” Éodred raised an eyebrow.
“Gimli, son of Glóin,” Arwen clarified.
But Éodred’s thoughts weren’t on the Dwarf himself — though his presence sparked an idea. Her gaze grew distant as she recalled old tales of the dwarven realm beneath the mountains — Moria. A dark, ancient place, but if one had a guide of Durin’s line… yes. If she’d guessed correctly, and they wished to avoid Saruman’s gaze, that could be the only way. And who better than a Dwarf to lead them through the halls of their ancestors?
Her grip on the reins tightened. The mare was restless, sensing her rider’s resolve. The powerful body beneath her was taut, ready to spring forward. She snorted and pawed the ground, eager to be off — as if she too understood the gravity of the journey ahead.
“Thank you, Arwen,” Éodred said, her voice softening as she tucked the letter into her saddlebag. “I’ll deliver it.”
Arwen, gazing up at her, looked delicate and mournful — yet in her eyes shone the same quiet resolve her father had shown in times of great decision.
“Take care,” said the Elven woman gently.
Éodred gave a short nod. Neither of them said more. They both knew the trials that lay ahead.
Moments later, the mare surged forward, and the sound of her gallop echoed through the stone arches of Rivendell.
The narrow trail toward Rohan wound between the hills like a thread. Éodred walked ahead, lost in her thoughts. In her memories.
She still couldn’t come to terms with the fact that Aragorn had sent Boromir to accompany her. Of course, he had wanted to keep the man of Gondor away from Frodo and Sam — but for some reason, he hadn’t told him so directly. And now she had to endure his presence, as if she were some helpless child in need of a guardian.
Suddenly, a root hidden in the grass caught her boot, throwing her off balance. She braced herself for the fall into the mud — but a strong hand caught her by the elbow, steadying her.
“Careful, milady,” came the voice she’d learned to despise over the past few hours.
Milady.
The word scraped against her ears. Even her father’s servants had never called her that. They had used formal, respectful titles: “my lady,” “little mistress,” or simply “Lady Éodred.” But this milady — it dripped with syrupy gallantry, with mockery, as if the title didn’t truly belong to her. As if her status were something borrowed, something fake.
“Stop calling me that, milord,” she snapped, the last word flung like a handful of hot coals.
Ever since she and Boromir had parted from the others, her mood had plummeted to rock bottom. Everything irritated her — his voice, his manner, and especially the sudden stiffness, the cold courtesy that had taken root once he’d learned of her true heritage.
Where was the ease in his speech, back when he thought her just a rough boy?
Now, every milady sounded like mockery.
Every polite bow felt exaggerated, as though he were deliberately highlighting the gulf between who she had once seemed and what he now pretended she was.
Even his gait had changed — he now kept a respectful distance, as though she were a fragile statue, not the same person who had shared the hardships of the road with him for weeks.
Boromir narrowed his eyes slightly, but kept his composure.
“Well then, what should I call you, if I don’t know your name, milady?” he replied with dry amusement.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Éodred shrugged, voice dripping with sarcasm. “How about what you used to call me? Let me think… Kai? Whelp? Clumsy boy? Lad? Little fool?”
For a moment, Boromir’s face darkened, as if fighting the urge to snap back — but he held his tongue, exhaling sharply instead.
“None of those seem to suit you anymore,” he said evenly. “So why not just give me your name?”
She stopped short and turned to glare at him, chin raised in defiance.
“Because I don’t want to,” she said flatly.
Boromir looked at her for a long moment before shaking his head.
“As you wish,” he muttered, turning away and striding forward. “Let’s go then, milady.”
Her jaw clenched. She wanted to hurl something back — anything — but the words stuck in her throat. She wasn’t even sure why, but her blood was boiling. Not from offense.
From helplessness — the kind that seethed when someone refused to rise to your barbs, when your fury met calm like fists striking stone.
Every step still hurt.
The wound across her abdomen burned like it had been scalded. Legolas had assured her it wasn’t deep, but the stinging pain refused to leave.
Even breathing felt like fire — the gash left a ragged but shallow mark across her ribs.
“Shallow,” she reminded herself grimly, noting that at least the bandages no longer chafed.
Legolas, in his elven grace, had been gentle and attentive. But the examination of the wound — which had required baring her chest — made Éodred shrink with a shame she couldn’t shake.
He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t shown the slightest hint of discomfort.
But it didn’t matter.
She was a woman, and he — a man, friend or not. The vulnerability of it clawed at her more deeply than the wound itself.
Her right palm — the worst of her injuries — was wrapped tightly. The pain was sharp, persistent, and maddening.
Legolas had noted, with quiet satisfaction, that the bones were intact.
Oddly, that didn’t comfort her.
She only scowled at the memory, blaming herself for the moment of hesitation that had left her hand slashed open in the first place.
The bandages she had once used for disguise were now serving their intended purpose — strips of linen wrapped from her palm to her wrist. They had come in handy for Boromir as well: they couldn’t cover his entire chest, but they sealed the arrow wound well enough. Aragorn had done all he could, using what remained of her bandages and some healing herbs he always carried. The dressing was soaked through with blood, but at least the bleeding had stopped.
He walked with a steady gait, as though determined to preserve a shred of dignity — even without the familiar weight of his sword at his side. The broken weapon, like his shattered horn, had been left behind on the mound of twisted corpses. But she saw how pain sometimes twisted his features despite the composure.
And it irritated her.
Not Boromir himself, but how, despite his wound, he looked composed, assured — almost unshakable.
She, on the other hand, felt broken. Even now, when the pain had dulled, it gnawed at her as a constant reminder of her own shortcomings.
Back on Amon Hen, she had been ready to reveal her secret.
At that moment — when she saw him, a warrior of great strength, brought low by the Ring’s power — something in her had stirred.
But something had stopped her. The loss of her medallion — the only thing linking her to home.
A medallion that, later, had saved Boromir’s life by deflecting a deadly arrow.
And now… now everything had changed.
After the skirmish, after the humiliation of having her wounds examined, she felt as though her world had shattered for good.
Everything inside her — secrets, anger, fear — threatened to break free.
She wanted to scream, but stayed silent. Even her eyes had dulled, as if the last sparks of light had faded.
They had been walking for half a day. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, painting the hills in streaks of crimson. A light wind stirred the treetops, and in the distance, a small inn’s firelight flickered into view. Éodred was barely managing to hide her limp — the pain still pulsed insistently, though she tried to walk as if she felt nothing.
Boromir walked beside her, and she sensed his silence was beginning to weigh on him. At last, he spoke.
“Tell me — how do you plan to pay the innkeeper?” he asked with a faint smirk. “Don’t tell me you’re giving him your father’s sword?”
Éodred snorted but said nothing.
She knew perfectly well she had no means to pay.
Not that she’d set off completely empty-handed.
She’d brought a small pouch of coins — carefully saved gold and coppers — tucked away from a modest inheritance.
But she had lost it. In the most ridiculous way imaginable.
It had happened on the third day of their river journey down the Anduin.
She had been desperate. But saying anything aloud would have revealed her secret.
So she sat there, every muscle clenched, trying to maintain a neutral expression. Legs crossed, posture tense, lips pressed tight.
The sun was high overhead. There was no chance of privacy.
Her only option, short of revealing the truth, was to jump into the river.
She stood up, mumbled something about “cooling off,” and waited for the boats to slow. Then she leapt into the water.
The Anduin’s current was sluggish and lazy. The water wrapped around her body, soothing the heat. She swam deeper, strong strokes pushing her through the cool stream, and at last, she let herself relax. Relief came instantly — and with it, a strange feeling of freedom.
The water warmed around her, and for a few blissful minutes, all she thought about was how she’d escaped disgrace.
When she resurfaced, the boats weren’t far off. The Anduin’s banks were calm — forests, hills, idyllic pastures.
She climbed back in, pleased and lighter than she’d felt in days.
Only later, while drying her shirt, did she notice it — her coin pouch was gone.
She must have dropped it while diving.
She had told the story later, earning sympathetic smiles from the others.
Even Sam and Frodo — with whom she’d barely exchanged more than a few words during the journey — had spoken up, offering warm, light-hearted jokes that actually lifted her spirits.
But now, on the road toward the inn, Boromir’s comment felt like a deliberate prod — a jab at that foolish memory.
“I figured the Steward’s heir would cover the bill,” she tossed back, shooting him a sideways glance.
“Hmm. I doubt my purse covers two rooms and horses to ride.”,” he mused, glancing down at his belt as if weighing whether to offer it up in trade.
“Leave your belt alone,” Éodred said dryly. “Your gold will suffice.”
“That’s just it. All I’ve got left is copper…”
Boromir’s voice was calm, but there was a flicker of concern in his tone.
“It’ll be enough for a couple of horses and a room,” she snapped.
“But…” he hesitated, and Éodred turned toward him, brow arched.
“What?” she asked. “We’ve been sleeping side by side all this time, and it never seemed to bother you. Do you still think that somehow, by some miracle, I had a man’s parts between my legs on those nights?”
Boromir stopped dead in his tracks. His face flushed — and had it not been for the beard, he might’ve turned redder than the winter sunset behind them. He clearly wasn’t used to women speaking to him that way — even after “Kai” had lately indulged in a few scandalous jokes around the fire.
“Why the stunned silence, milord? Or are you picturing it?” she added with a mocking lilt, her voice trembling with repressed laughter.
Boromir cleared his throat and took a step forward, avoiding her gaze.
“Fine. Maybe they’ll think we’re… a married couple,” he muttered, as if trying more to shield himself from the idea than her.
Éodred halted, narrowing her eyes.
“You think so?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Who else would they think we are?” he mumbled without meeting her eyes.
She blinked, stifling a laugh.
Oh, she knew perfectly well what sort of woman she’d be mistaken for, arriving at an inn with a man.
She knew — because she’d grown up around women who, when the guests stopped coming and darkness settled over the land, turned to such means to survive.
But his awkwardness… it amused her now.
“We don’t look much like siblings,” he added, as if to strengthen his argument.
She couldn’t help it — her grin widened. Ahead, the flickering light of the inn appeared through the trees.
“That’s sweet of you,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone they all assumed you’d fallen into sin.”
She burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the quiet forest.
Boromir blinked, then lowered his gaze and sighed.
“Oh Valar, grant me patience…” he muttered, following her toward the inn.
Éodred kept laughing, even though every breath sent a flash of pain through her wound. But the sting was nothing compared to the joy of shaking off the weight pressing on her chest.
For the first time in what felt like days, her laughter brought a strange relief — as though the darkness had been pushed back, just long enough for warmth to slip in.
Even the pain in her tightly bound hand seemed to ease for a moment.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Boromir trailed behind her, head lowered, keeping his distance. His shoulders were tense, his boots heavy on the ground — but he said nothing.
He clearly had no intention of speaking again until they reached the inn.
Éodred smirked, a hint of quiet triumph tugging at her lips.
Her laughter slowly faded, but it left behind a lightness she hadn’t felt in days.
Even if only briefly, it lifted her mood — dulled as it had been by pain, exhaustion, and dread. She adjusted her sword belt and walked on, already wondering how they’d handle things if the innkeeper turned out to be too sharp-eyed.
Neither of them said another word before they reached the inn.
The silence between them was nearly deafening.
But Éodred didn’t mind.
Sometimes silence said more than any words ever could.
