The road stretched endlessly before her, beaten and dry beneath the early summer sun. Deorla walked—her boots scuffed, legs sore, cloak tight around her frame. She had no horse anymore.
But she was used to walking.
The land itself seemed at peace now. She saw no riders, no merchants, no enemy scouts. Even the wind was calm. Fields rolled on her left and right, broken only by distant fences or rotted wagon wheels half-swallowed by tall grass. For the first time in weeks, there was no urgency behind her steps.
When she finally came upon the ruins of Marton, she paused—not from weariness, but memory. Once a small settlement with stone paths and market wagons, now it was hollowed by flame and time. The war had gutted it. Roofs lay sunken; its well was choked with weeds. Black streaks trailed from shattered windows.
Deorla passed silently, as though unwilling to disturb the ghosts.
Later that afternoon, after climbing a long ridge, she looked out and saw it: Edoras, golden in the fading light, nestled on its hill like a crown on the land’s brow.
But she did not head toward it.
Instead, she turned eastward to a graveled trail, where earth rose in a sacred rhythm. Two lines of barrows flanked the ancient road—kings of Rohan, buried in honor, their mounds overgrown with flowers and grass. Great stones stood like silent sentries.
The first row held the founders: Eorl the Young, Brego, Helm Hammerhand—legends etched in moss-stained runes.
The second row was fresher, cleaner, with trimmed grass and offerings: Fréaláf, Thengel, Théoden—the king who rode to Gondor and never returned.
Deorla knelt briefly between the two lines.
She did not bow. She did not weep for them as they were her enemies. Still she respected them, they were few of the true heros of Middle-Earth she found worthy of being in her book of respects.
She looked to Théoden’s barrow - her left eye started to burn a bit, as it was Theoden who left the scar on her left eye that day on the fields of battle, but she did not hold a grudge , she stood a moment in silence and whispered,
“The world changes. Even for kings.”
Then she stood and walked on.
By nightfall, the white peaks of the Ered Nimrais loomed like sleeping beasts in the east. Nestled against their foot was near Aldburg in deep forest and well hidden her destination: a semi-large wooden house, with a small shed nearby, half-covered in ivy and shadowed by birch trees. She looked around and it seems all the decoration and things she managed to steal and gather during her service for Sauron was still being well mentained.
As Deorla approached, the door creaked open—not by her hand.
“You took your time,” said a familiar voice, wry and warm.
There stood Firebryn, cloaked in a weathered shawl, red hair turned mostly gray but still wild. Once a smuggler from Dale who moved arms and food beneath the eyes of captains during the war, now she walked with a limp and leaned slightly on the doorframe.
“I thought you’d be bones in a ditch by now,” she added, stepping aside.
Deorla smirked faintly. “I almost was. Twice.”
Inside, the house was clean, though plain—just as Deorla remembered. The hearth was lit, and bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling. A travel pack lay folded on a wooden chair, right where she’d left it.
Deorla set her satchel down, eyes softening for a moment. “You kept it all...”
“Well,” Firebryn shrugged, “you pay me in gold and silence. That’s rare enough these days. Besides—some of us are too old to keep running. This is a fine place to age in peace.”
They sat together as night deepened, no need for more words.
Deorla was safe—for now.
But war never stayed far from her shadow.
