They ran for another day and night. The fourth day of their hunt came soon enough, and they trotted along the orc path, their hearts heavy. The orcs, holding to their pace, would've reached Fangorn the at least a night before. By now they were likely long gone. Still, the four hunters held to their course.

It was Miril who first noticed the newcomers.

"What is that," she pointed down the orc path. "They are Riders!"

"Indeed. There are one hundred and five. Yellow is their hair, and tall their spears," Legolas told them.

Aragorn smiled. "Keen are your eyes, Legolas."

"Nay! They are but five leagues away now," Legolas shook his head.

Gimli sighed. "We cannot out run them. Do we stay here to wait, or continue on our way?"

Aragorn stood thinking. "We shall wait. I am weary from the chase, and we have failed the hunt. Though perhaps the Riders will bring news, for they ride back down the orc path!"

The four hunters stood, exhausted, where they were. The sound of hooves grew louder as the Riders approached until at last all four could make them clearly out.

"What do you know of these horsemen," Legolas asked the two Rangers.

"I have been among them," answered Aragorn. "They are proud and wilful, but they are true-hearted, generous in thought and deed; bold but not cruel; wise but unlearned, writing no books but singing many songs, after the manner of the children of Men before the Dark Years. But I do not know what has happened here of late, nor in what mind the Rohirrim may now be between the traitor Saruman and the threat of Sauron. They have long been the friends of the people of Gondor, though they are not akin to them. It was in forgotten years long ago that Eorl the Young brought them out of the North, and their kinship is rather with the Bardings of Dale, and with the Beornings of the Wood, among whom may still be seen many men tall and fair, as are the Riders of Rohan. At least they will not love the Orcs."

"But didn't Gandalf say he heard a rumor that they pay tribute to Saruman," Gimli asked.

Miril scoffed. "I'll believe when I see it. I have never met a member of the Rohirrim, but I know the men of the North they are descended from, like the Beornings."

"Indeed," Aragorn nodded. "I believe it no more than did Boromir, or Miril."

Soon enough the riders were on top of them, yet they appeared not to notice the four hunters. They rode by on their powerful steeds, blonde hair flowing in the wind under their helms. In pairs they rode. As soon as the last riders had passed, Aragorn stood and called out to them.

"What news from the North, Riders of Rohan!"

Without even a signal, the horselords turned back and began circling the four tired hunters. They pointed their spears at the hunters, completely surrounding them. A man taller than all the rest came forward, his spear less than a foot from Aragorn's chest.

"Who are you and what are you doing in Rohan," he demanded in speech like to Boromir's.

"I am Strider, a man from the North. We have come hunting orcs," Aragorn revealed.

"How did we not see you," the man demanded. "Are you elvish?"

"One of us only, Legolas of Mirkwood. My female companion, Miril, is half elven," Aragorn said. "But we have passed through the Golden Wood of Lothlorien and were clothed by the Lady of the wood."

The man stared at them intently. "Odd hunters you are, indeed. For there were many orcs and you would've turned to prey as soon as you'd overtaken them. And you say you passed through that haunted place. Few escape the Lady, they say."

"Do not speak evil of the Lady Galadriel!" Gimli barked angrily.

"And what is your name, dwarf?" He asked.

"Give me yours and I shall give you mine, horse-master," Gimli growled.

"I am Éomer, son of Eomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark." He sat up straighter in his saddle.

"Well then, Éomer, son of Eomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark," Gimli sneered, "I am Gimli, son of Gloin. And I would warn you against foolish words. You speak ill of something far greater than you of small wit can understand."

Éomer sat up and glared at Gimli. "I would cut off your head, Dwarf, if it stood a little higher off the ground."

Legolas leapt to his side, bow drawn. "He stands not alone!"

Miril groaned and shook her head. Aragorn jumped between Éomer and the other two hunters. He threw his hands up in the air.

"We mean no harm to the Riders of Rohan nor their steeds. When you have heard our tale, perhaps you will understand why my companions reacted such. You will listen, won't you?"

Éomer shifted in his saddle. "I will. But first, tell me your right name."

"First, I must know. Whom do you serve? Do you serve Sauron, the Foe of the West?" Aragorn asked simply.

"We do not serve him, but not are we at open war against him. If you are fleeing from him, you best leave Rohan at once!" Éomer insisted this. "Whom do you serve?"

"I serve no man," Aragorn said proudly. "Yet I pursue the servant of the Enemy wherever they go. Such it was when we were tracking the orcs. The Orcs whom we pursued took captive two of my friends. In such need a man that has no horse will go on foot, and he will not ask for leave to follow the trail. Nor will he count the heads of the enemy save with a sword. I am not weaponless."

Aragorn threw his cloak back. "Elendil! I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn of the Dunedain! I am Elessar, Elfstone, Dunedan! I am heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor. Behold the sword that was broken and has been reforged! Will you aid me, or thwart me? Choose swiftly!"

Everyone looked at Aragorn in awe. He seemed to have gotten taller, more noble. Miril smiled as she watched Éomer look upon Aragorn in amazement. She knew this side of Aragorn.

"Strange times these are indeed," Éomer murmured. "Legends springing out of the grass. And what of you, lady? What is your name?"

"Miril Lominzil," she bowed her head a little. "Daughter of Halbarad of the Dunedain and friend of Rivendell."

"Well met." Éomer turned back to Aragorn. "Lord, what brings you here? Long has Boromir son of Denethor been gone seeking answer West and his horse returned riderless. What doom do you bring?"

"I bring the doom of choice," Aragorn said. "You may tell Theoden this: war is upon him. He must choose to either fight or surrender. But now, what of the orcs that we have been hunting?"

"They are destroyed," Éomer told him. "All of them were killed."

"Did you come across our companions? They are small folk, less than half my height," Aragorn asked.

"We found neither children nor dwarves," Éomer shook his head. "Not even among the slain."

Aragorn grimaced. "They were neither of those."

"They were Hobbits," Gimli cut in.

"What is a hobbit?" Éomer asked. "This name is strange to me."

"Halflings," Miril clarified.

A man beside Éomer laughed. "Halflings are but a myth. Just old children's tales. They are not real."

"A man might be both a myth and real," Aragorn shook his head.

"Éothain," Éomer said to his companion, "Go. Take the éored and prepare them to ride."

The man nodded and rode off with the others to lineup. Éomer turned to Aragorn and his companions. They spoke of many things concerning the Fellowship's journey but left out all regarding the Ring. In the end, Éomer was amazed but agreed to help them.

"You are fortunate, for we have four horses without riders now after the battle. They will bear you whither you will go," Éomer told them. "But you must return them to Meduseld when you have found your companions, and thus you shall prove to Theoden that my trust was not misplaced."

"Three only we will need," Gimli insisted. "I will not ride."

"You must," Aragorn sighed. "Haste is needed!"

"You shall ride with me, my friend," Legolas laughed. "I shall tame the beast for us both!"

Aragorn mounted upon a grey stallion called Hasufel, Legolas and Gimli rode the white Arod, and Miril mounted the black Tor. They bid farewell and good luck to Éomer before riding off the way the Riders had come from. Their cloaks billowed in the wind as they went.

Miril could feel the bulging muscles of her new steed beneath her as Tor galloped on. He was no Daeroch, that was for certain. Daeroch was built for agility, but Tor was built for speed and power. She whispered in his ear an elvish thank you, and it almost seemed to understand her.

"Aragorn," she called, riding to catch up with him. "Aragorn, who is Éomer?"

"I knew his father, Éomund. He was a good man, as I am sure Éomer is as well." Aragorn said.

"I hope to come to Meduseld," Miril smiled. "I want to know more about these horselords."

"Illuvatar willing, we will all come there."