"Haradrim atop Mûmakil will arrive from the south," Rowan said, gesturing at the map. "Charging them head-on will be a slaughter; instead, use the horses' speed and agility to attack the giant beasts' flanks. If any rider faces them, aim for the heads—specifically, their handlers."

She and Haldir, along with other captains of the different holds of Rohan that had answered the mustering, stood in King Théoden's tent, discussing the battle of Pelennor Fields. Éomer stood beside his seated uncle.

It was hard not to look at the Third Marshal of the Riddermark whenever she looked toward King Théoden and not smile or duck her head, blushing. He seemed to enjoy her embarrassment, for he shared her smile every time they locked gazes and his eyes sparkled with humor and love.

The men murmured uneasily, some admitting they thought the four-tusked-monster-of-an-elephant was a myth.

"What of the Witch-King you spoke of?" the king asked, bringing her back to focus. "How do we defeat the one they say 'no living man can kill'?"

She had expected this question at some point, but had yet come up with a logical answer... other than revealing Éowyn's role as an undercover Rohirrim named Dernhelm.

"Well, he—"

A Rohirrim burst into the tent, panting.

"My lord, forgive my brashness, but we found this on a dead Gondorian on our way here." Raising his hand, he presented a black-feathered arrow painted red at its tip.

"The Red Arrow!" King Théoden exclaimed.

Rowan stared at the shaft, speechless.

In the book, the Red Arrow did what the lighting of the beacons did in the movie: call for aid. But if the courier was sent with the arrow weeks ago, and was already dead before he reached Dunharrow...

She whipped around to face the king. "We must go, now. Things are progressing quicker than I foresaw."

As usual, Éomer had his eyes on Rowan, and seeing the fear in hers, told him all he needed to know.

King Théoden rose. "Call the heralds, Éomer. We ride to war."

He gave a brisk nod and held her eyes until he ran past. The other captains in the tent and the Rohirrim that had brought the Red Arrow hurried out.

"Ensure Éomer survives, Rowan," the king said; she turned back to him as she and Haldir were leaving as well. "Please."

He somehow knew he was about to die—it was in his eyes. There wasn't fear, but acceptance.

Seeing him at peace with his upcoming death relieved her guilt at having to let him die.

Rowan nodded. "You have my word."

As she and the elf ran out of the king's tent, the entire encampment was in a tizzy as men extinguished fires, Rohirrim mounted their steeds, horns blew, orders were called, and riders ran here and there.

Haldir reached their tethered horses first and freed them. Rowan hurried into her tent to don her helm, light breastplate, vambraces, and greaves.

When she re-emerged and jumped on Nárind, an outfitted-Merry—looking like a miniature Rohirrim rider—approached.

"Lady Rowan, allow me to ride with you. No rider will bear me. Please do not leave me behind—everyone I care about has gone to war."

She hated to beat down his spirits even more. "I cannot, Merry. You are bound to ride with another. Dernhelm will seek you out."

The last two sentences lifted his head. He stepped back with a smile.

"I will see you on the battlefield, Master Meriadoc," Rowan said before kicking Nárind and she and Haldir rode down the winding road to join the king at the head of the massive army of horses and riders.

"You have no doubts concerning this Dernhelm?" Haldir asked when they had reached the bottom and rode side by side again.

"None," she answered. "She knows now how much she is needed, and will find him."

The elf didn't question who 'she' was—there was only one other woman besides Rowan in Dunharrow.

King Théoden, Gamling, Éomer, the Royal Guard, and other captains met them at the front. With another fanfare of horns, the thunderous noise of thousands of hooves echoed throughout the mountains.

***

In the four days of endless riding, the sky grew darker and darker. Peter Jackson couldn't create the battle of Pelennor Fields with so little light like what's in the book. Orcs did not care for sunlight, so Sauron conjured dark clouds to cover them in their trek from Minas Morgul. The film touched on the fact slightly, but not as close as to what Rowan experienced.

She had to strain to see her hand before her face at night. During the day, though, things could still be made out. At least she didn't have to worry about Merry being spotted with Éowyn and word reaching King Théoden—who had ordered him to linger in Dunharrow.

When the clouds grew so dense and the sun could no longer be seen so no one could tell what hour it was, Haldir kept track of time for them. He could also see better in the dark, so he led the army on safer paths.

The elf had chosen to rest where they were now, near the Druadan Forest. The needle-covered ground muffled footsteps of men and horses. A river bubbled nearby so the riders could quench their own thirst, along with their steeds', and the fresh pine scent of the woods eased the dread the constant gloom brought... slightly.

But news of what scouts had seen worried them. None could get near Minas Tirith to report on the White City's condition. What they discovered, though, were hordes of orcs and men from the South guarding the roads into the heart of Gondor from Rohan. Trenches had been dug and stakes driven into the ground along the way to prevent coming aid, especially riders on horses.

Rowan had spent all of today wracking her memory of The Return of the King book to recall how the Rohirrim get to Minas Tirith. This scenario they were in—with the trenches, stakes, and host of the enemy barring their passage—seemed familiar. But why?

Just as she dismounted, a tall form approached her from the side.

"We are being watched," Haldir whispered.

She froze, and her eyes shot to the dark tree line. "By what, or who? Can you describe them?"

"Squat, hairy men. They wear only woven grass about their waists." The elf paused. "They appear eager to approach and speak, not attack."

It clicked now.

"The Woses," Rowan said. "They assist King Théoden in getting to Pelennor Fields undetected in the book. We must speak with them."

They headed for where the king and company were to make a makeshift camp among the outer trees of the forest, with covered lamps, to discuss strategies. Walking beside her, Haldir prevented her from tripping over a root or stepping into a hole.

She informed the king of the answer to their current problem with the Woses helping them. Haldir was asked to approach them and request their leader to speak with King Théoden.

The elf-captain wasn't gone long before he returned with a Wild Man. He was just as described, too: short with stumpy legs and fat arms, coarse, thick, unruly brown beard and hair all over his body, wearing only a grass skirt (that's how Rowan saw it), and dirty.

"My lords and lady, Ghân-buri-Ghân of the woods," Haldir introduced.

"Elf-man says Horsemen need a way to Stone-city and kill gorgûn. Kill Orc-folk. Drive away bad air and darkness with bright iron. Wild Men help." His voice was deep and guttural, and his manner of speaking resembled how movies showed cavemen speaking. Ghân's dark eyes continuously flittered to her and away, then back again.

"How will you and your folk help us?" Éomer asked.

"Wild Men know all paths. Ghân-buri-Ghân lead you by road where no pits are, no gorgûn walk, only Wild Men and beasts. Road is forgotten, but not by Wild Men."

King Théoden only needed a glance at Rowan for her confirmation. "We will receive your offer, but what do you desire for your reward?"

"Leave Wild Men alone in woods and do not hunt them like beasts anymore."

He nodded. "So be it."

***

As soon as the impromptu meeting concluded, the Wild Man disappeared into Druadan Forest to spread the plan, then returned with other woodmen to lead them on this forgotten path. Ghân himself walked beside the king, but he took every chance to look back at Rowan.

She had an admirer. Haldir and Éomer surely noticed it; the Third Marshal of the Riddermark watched Ghân closely, while the elf seemed amused.

It took many more hours of riding and walking beside their horses to cross perilous and narrow passes down in a valley. Once they emerged again, Rowan could scarcely make out the evidence of an ancient road driving through the thickets.

Ghân-buri-Ghân pointed ahead. "Follow road to burning Stone-city."

King Théoden turned to him. "Good fortune go with you for your guidance."

The Wild Man looked up at the king. "Ghân-buri-Ghân ask one thing more of the father of Horsemen."

"Ask it."

The stubby, dirty man turned toward Rowan. "A hair for Ghân-buri-Ghân from pretty She-Horseman to remember."

She was touched. He was strange and unlovely, being downright filthy and wild... but he was sweet.

"Of course," she said as she plucked a long strand from her hair and leaned down in the saddle to hand it to him.

Ghân accepted it gently, like her hair was a baby bird, and gazed at it in his palm so reverently.

"Is that all?" Rowan asked.

The Wild Man looked up at her, his eyes twinkling. "Ghân-buri-Ghân keep treasure safe, forever."

He and the other Woses took off for the woods and disappeared within the trees' shadows in seconds.

After they left, scouts were dispatched to ensure they were safe making camp in the woods to rest for the rest of the night—they would ride out for Minas Tirith in a couple of hours as to arrive with the dawn. The scouts returned with good news.

No one commented or looked down on Rowan sleeping near Éomer. Everyone knew the battle tomorrow could mean the end of the lovers, so it was best to take what time they had together.

And Rowan wasn't sure if both would survive tomorrow, either.