Nearly 1,500 of Rohirrim were ready to ride out of Edoras for Dunharrow in forty minutes. During the organized chaos of preparing horses, King Théoden had somehow sent out riders bearing messages to other frontiers of Rohan for all Rohirrim to gather at Dunharrow. Even though Rowan knew they could react efficiently, it still impressed her.

Rúmil, the Galadhrim, the women, children, and the elderly of Edoras watched them leave the city, headed east. Haldir rode beside her, among their clique of Rowan, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. The Prince of Mirkwood and the dwarf had been the odd ones out amid the Rohirrim until the captain of the Galadhrim joined them.

His brilliant gold armor with red fabric stood out like a sore thumb with the riders of Rohan's browns and greens. The Elven saber and exquisite bow strapped to his back didn't correspond with the majority of spears, small round shields, short bows, and swords attached to hips. He rode the horse just fine, but he was mismatched with it—as an elf, Haldir belonged in the trees with a bow, not astride a white mare.

But he fit in with their odd-pairings-group. A Dúnedan, a fellow elf, a dwarf from Erebor, a hobbit astride a pony, and a woman from the modern time. Rowan chuckled to herself.

Yes, he was a perfect inclusion.

The first night Rowan took Haldir aside to tell him the truth about her visions, and not to tell anyone else. He knew she was different, but he expressed his surprise at how different. Haldir praised her on her ability to adapt—to blend—seeming like she belonged in Arda.

"He will never suspect," the elf-captain said quietly before heading back to their clique's small fire.

Rowan watched his form grow darker as he walked away, then lighten when he reached the fire. Haldir folded down to sit beside Legolas.

He will never suspect? she repeated in her head. Who did he—Did he mean Éomer?

If he did... Did he say it in approval or like he condemned the thought of her keeping something from the Third Marshal of the Riddermark?

She thought hard on the reason as she headed back to their camp.

***

Their company had stopped for the evening alongside a patch of woods. Tomorrow they would reach Dunharrow.

Everyone knew war was on the horizon, but the atmosphere among the Rohirrim wasn't tense or thick with fear—instead, it was relaxed. At the edge of the woods brushing down Nárind, Rowan asked Éomer, who was doing the same to his horse, why.

"Because there is a Seer in our midst who has foreseen the battle and has instructed us all to prepare early. Your company has also proven their worth as mighty warriors, so the men are heartened greatly. There is no panic of the unknown, nor is there a frantic rush to fight."

"Even though I cannot foresee everything, I still bring security?" she asked.

He nodded. "Knowing some of the future is more comforting than knowing none."

His words stunned her. She hadn't thought about the convenience of her knowing the guaranteed parts of The Lord of the Rings story—she had only focused on the events that changed. Mainly, what she failed to predict.

She was continuously learning to view things in a different light.

Nárind and Firefoot suddenly snorted, pawing at the ground, trying to show dominance and be threatening while glaring at the woods.

Rowan followed their gazes to the trees—they weren't dark and foreboding like those in Fangorn Forest. Ease radiated from the woods, and the inviting shade provided respite from the overbearing sun. But based on the horses' reactions, it was misleading.

Éomer stepped in front of her protectively, not taking his eyes off the trees.

"Go spread the alarm in the camp, Rowan," he said. "We're not alone."

"And leave you here to handle whatever lies in wait—" she began.

A god-awful roar interrupted her as a massive dark blot burst out of the woods, charging toward the man, woman, and two horses.

The beast was enormous—as tall as a horse, but triple in width. Dark brown fur covered its body in coarse patches of hair. Longer hair ran down its spine like a Razorback's. Long, sharp tusks jutted out of its snout. Amber rimmed the black eyes.

More burst out of the trees behind it. They varied in size and were in darker or lighter shades of brown. One's coloring was redder than the other's.

"Boars!" Éomer yelled as he reached an arm behind him to bring Rowan down as he leapt to the side.

She had never seen a boar before her eyes in the modern world, but she had seen pictures of the large, vicious pigs. But these boars easily dwarfed those. The largest one—the one that had appeared first—actually had a broken spear lodged into its backbone. Shafts of arrows dotted its hide, and others', as well.

Its weight vibrated the ground as the lead boar charged past. Nárind and Firefoot whinnied and reared, kicking their sharp hooves to ward off the others from harming Rowan or Éomer.

The Rohirrim encampment had awoken at the Third Marshal of the Riddermark's warning. Now, shouts joined the rumbling of hooves as riders spotted the boars and gave chase.

Rowan and Éomer headed to catch their horses' reins when a boar ran between the steeds and their riders. She knew boars in the modern world were pretty intelligent, and these hadn't lost any smarts with the size increase—this one had seen what they planned and stopped them. Another hassled Nárind and Firefoot, so they couldn't assist their owners with those sharp hooves and gnashing teeth.

Both unsheathed their swords and worked together to kill the boar as they danced around it when it lunged, stabbing and slashing its tough hide. If Éomer had his spear, they could've fought it at a distance—with Rowan hurling throwing knives at its eyes—but the swords had them up close.

The boar turned its head to deal with Éomer and, as per the routine, it was Rowan's turn to attack its unprotected side. Her arm pulled back the sword as she stepped forward.

But the creature had also learned the pattern.

Sacrificing its right side to be attacked by the Third Marshal of the Riddermark, the boar whipped its head around to catch Rowan in her stomach. Fortunately, she was too thin for the sharp tusks curling up alongside its snout to impale her—her torso fit perfectly in between.

It flung her backward anyway. The sudden ramming of its snout into her stomach then landing on her back after somersaulting through the air knocked all the air out of her lungs, and left her lying there, stunned.

Éomer screamed her name, not knowing she wasn't severely wounded.

Rowan forced herself to roll over and get to her knees. She looked to see Haldir had joined the Third Marshal of the Riddermark in fighting the boar. The man and elf-captain didn't take turns—wearing the beast down—they jabbed and slashed relentlessly.

Slowing, the boar lowered its head and charged toward the elf-captain, aiming to stick him with a tusk or fling him away like Rowan. But Haldir spun down to the side, making the boar miss, and thrust his long sword upward through its chin and out the top of its snout.

Bleeding and exhausted, it collapsed. Éomer stabbed it through its heart to make sure the tank-of-a-pig was dead.

A roar snapped her around to see another boar with its head lowered, charging her. Rowan rolled out of the way and jumped to her feet. Just as it came to a stop and turned to face her, Nárind plowed into the beast, rolling it over. When it gained its bearing and faced the horse, Nárind reared, kicking his sharp hooves into the boar's face. The pig screamed in pain, blinded.

With the boar turned to the side and not being able to see her, Rowan ran up and shoved her sword through the soft skin behind its ear and into its brain. It didn't make any dying cry—just jolted still, then crumpled.

She jerked her sword out of the boar's head. Nárind softly nickered—like checking up on her—as he moved over and nudged her shoulder. Rowan told him she was alright as she scratched his head then kissed him for thanks in helping her.

"You are uninjured?" Éomer asked when he and Haldir jogged over to her.

"No. I was too small for the boar's tusks to puncture skin."

The Third Marshal of the Riddermark sighed. "Good. I feared the worse."

They looked at the encampment where Rohirrim riders chased evasive boars to kill, for the beasts wouldn't flee. About twenty boars ambushed them; seven remained.

"I must—" Éomer began.

She finished. "Go. Find King Théoden and Éowyn. Ensure their safety."

He nodded to her and the elf-captain before calling Firefoot, mounting, and riding toward the camp.

"Few are able to fell a boar and escape unscathed," Haldir said.

"There are boars in my modern world, but smaller. I've never met one, but I've read that they're weak behind the ears. I hoped these boars shared the same weakness."

"Wisely done," he praised. "Our boars know their weakness and guard it fiercely. Warriors are rarely given such an opportunity as the one you took advantage of."

She looked at him. "So, are you saying I'm just lucky?"

"It is more than just fortune you have, but cunning as well."

"You have to say that boar's tusks missing me was luck, though..."

A small smile tugged at the serious elf-captain's lips. "Yes. I suppose it was."

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli appeared from the encampment, heading for them. When they were close, the dwarf said, "We heard you flew, lass. Like an airplane?"

Rowan laughed; Haldir looked at her with confusion on his face.

"Not quite as high, Gimli, but, yes."

***

After an extra day of riding—because they had to chase down and kill every boar, or they would hunt them until all the Rohirrim were dead, and because of injuries and lost horses—the large company of riders reached Dunharrow—already transformed into a massive campsite with pitched tents, and many horses and Rohirrim.

Only King Théoden's Royal Guard—including Éomer and Éowyn—Merry, Haldir, and the four hunters rode up the winding road cut into the cliff, overlooking the sprawling encampment of soldiers. At the top, running through a narrow crevice, was the dark road leading to the Dimholt under the Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli would head that way soon to recruit the Army of the Dead.

With the skirmish delaying their arrival, Rowan wasn't sure if they were still ahead of the time of the assault on Minas Tirith. Had the hindrance sped up the expectance of the battle, or slowed it? Would the Rohirrim arrive in the middle of the battle like in the book and movie?

Regardless, she may have to send the three hunters to the Paths of the Dead if the Dúnedain didn't show—like in the book—and since Elrond wouldn't arrive with Andúril, like in the movie.

As they ascended, Rowan ran over what she would say to convince them to go. She could just tell them the Army of the Dead was needed, and Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli would do what she said no problem. But she would have to give a reason for their sudden departure to King Théoden and Éomer.

She couldn't put off telling anyone. Things needed to be put back on track.

The ground leveled out again when they reached the top. They weren't as high like in the Pass of Caradhras, but the air was slightly thin and colder up here than down below. That issue was due to the fact of the Dwimorberg looming over them and a bone-chilling wind blowing out of the foreboding and forbidding entrance to the Dimholt lying ahead.

Even with distance between them, Nárind snorted and pawed the ground—uneasy with the evil mountain's presence. He wasn't the only horse to display displeasure.

She patted his neck in reassurance. "I know. We'll be okay."

After leaving their steeds in a makeshift pen with rope hemming them in, everyone went in search of food. Rowan would tell Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli what they had to do as they ate; she'd word it differently for everyone else.

"My lord, Aragorn!" King Théoden's voice reached them.

All turned to see the king, Éomer, and a Royal Guard standing beside three figures clothed in gray raiment. Each had his cowl removed, so one was a dark headed man with a scruffy beard and craggy face—he reminded Rowan of Aragorn when he was the mysterious Ranger known only as Strider.

The other two were elves—fair, dark headed as well, identical twins, and looked like Lord Elrond duplicates. Elladan and Elrohir.

Her eyes went back to the man. So, he—

"Halbarad!" Aragorn called as he went forward to embrace his Dúnedain kin.

Rowan smiled, relieved. She didn't have to come up with words to explain Aragorn leaving the Rohirrim.

He'd do it himself.