The wind was playing with the Snowbourne, and the sun caressed its rippling surface as it set behind the White Mountains. I sat on a hill before the river, my knees tucked beneath my chin, hair loose and untamed about my face. Behind me, my mare whinnied impatiently. She knew as well as I that as night fell over the Westemnet, the fields and moors of Rohan became dark and pernicious. That death followed travelers at night like their shadows did during the day.

I stood wearily, my body aching from my long held seat on the hillside. Long had I watched the Snowbourne that day, following is constant currents with my weary eyes. What I sought for, I knew not, but my heart told me that soon, whatever it was that I was missing, I would find. And find it, I did.

I rode back to Edoras with but a little haste. Meduseld, as grand as it was, had become a prison for many, and my heart wished not to be locked up once more. What with the ailing King and his pet snake ever at his side, there was little to celebrate within the great Hall. It had been a home to me for little more than two months, and yet for all its coldness and near cruelty, due mostly to the gloom that came creeping about with the rumors of war, it had been the kindest home I had ever known.

With Meleare stabled and groomed, I retired to my quarters unnoticed much to my gratification. My presence had become a constant thorn in Wormtongue's side, but he was too much of a coward to confront me, and instead prodded some of the burlier, less respectable soldiers into harassing me. But it bothered me little, for I was use to such talk and was fairly sure that I could take them if their tormenting ever came to a fight.

I began to settle in for the night and sat at my dressing desk. I brushed at my hair, staring at the drapes fluttering about my window. I turned back, and was suddenly stilled by the reflection that stared back at me.

My appearance had been the topic of most of the few conversations my mother had ever had with me. She had accused me of being "boyish", "unladylike", "wild", and "uncouth". Her comments rarely fazed me, for she was the only person to ever comment on my looks. This in itself told me that if she was right, then others would have noticed it as well.

I could admit that my looks were strange, almost unnatural for woman of Rohan. Instead of the typical womanly hips and tall figure, I was entirely different. I was almost dangerously thin, with nearly no curves at all. My skin was the color of wheat, golden and warm, and I discarded the fashion of wearing my hair long and braided by cutting it to the length of my collarbone. My hair, even, was an unusual color. It was the color of bronze, a sort of reddened chestnut that drew odd looks, for women of Rohan were almost always blonde.

Of my face, I had a thin nose, high cheeks, and a gentle brow, positioned liltingly over grey eyes. My eyes, of all things, were the one thing that my mother seemed proud of. They were deep, so deep that many had difficulty meeting my gaze, and were marbled with different shades of blue, grey, and lavender, and contained by long, red-black lashes.

Of course, my odd appearance was to be expected, for my mother was half-elven, a fact that was kept hidden from many. How she had come to exist, I had never known, and why she had chosen the world of mortals over the legendary halls and domains of elves, I could not ask, for my mother could be described in one word: cold.

I had never truly thought of her as a mother, for one so silent and shrewd could not have born one as high-strung and merry as me. She had always resented my energy, as well as my affinity with nature and human beings, and as time progressed, she became bent to beat my enthusiasm out of me. Instead of swimming and climbing trees, I was forced to study music, literature, language, and math. It was not these things did not disinterest me, for I seemed to have been born with some natural and undeniable curiosity for knowledge, but my pride was badly bruised by my mother's curtailing of my true passions.

I had grown up in a small southern fief on the border of the Firien Wood and the Mering Stream, not but a few leagues from Gondor. The people of my father's province adored me, but they held a harsh bitterness for my parents. Ada and Naneth, as I had called them after supplementing elvish into as much of my speech as possible, were just leaders, but lent little compassion to their people. And it was rued by some that my mother was clearly not Rohirric, what with her raven black hair and pale gold skin, and that she remained locked up in her quarters throughout the year.

But the people of my fief had always adored me, and naturally, when my mother began the "re-conquering" of her own daughter, the villagers I had known my whole life were quite simply appalled. And as I grew, I saw less and less of the rest of the outside world. I was sequestered away to such a point were I went mad. Quite truly mad. I began seeing things were they did not exist, hearing voices in my head, waking screaming from nightmares of suffocation and containment. Eventually, my mother gave up, and with the first chance she got, Naneth shipped me away to Edoras to serve as a maid to the King.

As it turned out, Meduseld already had enough handmaids, and my mother's obvious and well known ignorance of Rohirric custom allowed me to slip into the much more conventional role as a Shieldmaiden of Rohan. Of course, men looked at me with skepticism. 'How could a scrawny thing like that wield a weapon?' they would ask. Little did they know that I had been able to wield a longsword since I was seven, and had hit a bull's-eye with a longbow at five from over two hundred paces away.

My assorted talents certainly filled out a long list, but in honesty, they didn't seem to matter. For I was that girl. The one that no one talked to, that everyone looked at but never noticed. The one that people were afraid to laugh at yet laughed at anyways to wash away their fear.

The pain had never escaped me, yet I had become a master at pushing it back. I held my head high and kept my eyes clear, for my life was a constant hazard. I did not cry, ever. It was a source of pride for me, that no matter how hard life became, the tears did not fall. That every strike and every scar had earned nothing more than a wince. I was strong, I knew it, and yet every day of my life seemed to be a struggle in which I fought to convince myself of that.

And with my thoughts buried in dark memories, I succumbed to the growing dark of night and fell into something like sleep.

The next day was much the same. I woke early to complete my chores and training, and then rode to the Snowbourne, settling on the same hill as the day before about an hour before sun-rise. This time, I had brought a grindstone and set to sharpening my daggers and hunting knife.

Behind me, Meleare snickered to herself softly as she cropped the grasses and herbs growing on the hillside. I reached out every once and a while to stroke her foreleg, and she would blow warm air at my face in thanks.

Meleare had been the one constant companion I had ever had. She was very young, as war horses went, for she had been a gift on my thirteenth birthday. My mother had hated the prospect of her daughter riding a creature designed to kill, but my Ada was Marshall of the Fenmarch, and so he encouraged every bit of protection I could harbor for myself. Meleare was more than a shield though, she was a friend.

The sun rose relatively quickly. I was surprised at how well I could distract myself from whatever it was that was haunting me. My irrational obsession was something I could not explain with words. All I could understand was that my heart seemed to be tugging towards the land beyond the Snowbourne, as if some magnet had caught hold of my soul and was dragging me away to the north with an undeniable force. Yet I sat still on the hillside, confident that eventually whatever it was that was pulling me would give up and come to me.

It was just after dawn when I saw them. Three horses, one a brilliant white, another grey, another chestnut, were racing towards Edoras. I rose, watching as they sped through the Snowbourne and continued up the hill to the city. I watched after them for but a half-second before leaping onto Meleare bareback and charging after them. I kept a fair distance behind them and they did not appear to notice me, for I was quiet and Meleare's footfalls were light. They slowed only as they passed by the funeral mounds of the court. When they took back to the reigns, I followed them to the city gates, and watched them dismount as they were confronted by first several wary soldiers, and then the gate keeper, who led them to Meduseld. I continued following before reaching the stables. I dismounted when they did, watching the riders cloaked backs anxiously as I handed Meleare to a stable groom and raced through the city quickly to the servant's entrance of Meduseld. I made my way to the hall via the kitchens and stood encased in shadows beneath a pillar.

I did not appear to be the only one absolutely shocked at the four figures now striding purposefully towards Théoden 's throne.

The center most figure and most prominent to my eyes was an old, grey haired man. I would not have noticed him if it were not for the way my skin seemed to crawl at the sight of him. It was not an unpleasant feeling, but rather a warning to me that his man was more than he appeared, and he did not appear to be much at all.

The man next to him was handsome and dark, with a rough mane of black hair about his head and a regal spark to his weathered eyes. My skin itched as I beheld him as well.

On the other side of the elderly man was a shockingly short and stout figure. I knew at once that he was a dwarf, but never had I ever expected to see one of his kind. Thick was his dark hair and beard, and he looked quite fearsome, but the wrinkles about his eyes told me that he was a merrier fellow than he now appeared.

I was glad that I looked at those three before the last, for it seemed that as I beheld him, little else mattered to my eyes.

Tall, stately, sculpted. He was a creature out of a fantasy. His golden locks shone even in the dim light of Meduseld, and his bright grey-green eyes sparkled furiously. He had a high forehead, straight nose, and full, almost feminine lips. His layered tunics and cloak could not hide his toned body, and not an inch of him was more or less than what it should have been.

Perfection was the only word that truly seemed to do him justice.