The wind across the northern plains was crisp and cold, carrying the scent of pine and mountain frost. The company rode in steady formation — thirty Riders of Rohan at the fore, followed by the elegant column of elves from Rivendell. Banners of green and silver rippled side by side, fluttering like old friends finally reunited.
It was strange, Edwen thought, to see such different peoples riding as one. The Rohirrim's armor gleamed with gold and bronze, rough and practical, while the elves' mail shone pale as moonlight, their cloaks whispering softly in the wind. Yet despite the contrasts, the rhythm of their march soon found a shared heartbeat hooves striking the frozen earth in unison.
By the second day, the Riders began to relax around their elven companions.
At one camp, a broad-shouldered rider named Halric was showing an elf-smith the intricacies of a saddle girth, while the elf patiently demonstrated how to reinforce the leather without adding weight. Another elf a healer named Lindir sat cross-legged beside a wounded horse, humming a tune that soothed the beast as he bound its leg.
Even among warriors hardened by loss, there was laughter again.
"Never thought I'd see an elf polishing horse armor," one Rider murmured as they sat around the fire.
"Nor I a man who drinks ale like it's water," came the smooth reply from the elf beside him.
The camp broke into laughter deep, genuine, unrestrained. The sound rolled across the hills like thunder breaking after a long storm.
On the third evening, as the company camped beneath the starlit expanse of the Wold, Edwen stood apart from the others, gazing southward. The faintest glimmer of torchlight on the horizon marked where the plains of Rohan began to stretch out like a sea of gold.
Arwen approached quietly, her steps silent in the grass. "You miss it," she said softly.
"I never stopped," Edwen replied. "Even when I thought I'd never see it again."
She joined him at the crest of the hill. The night air was cool, filled with the distant chorus of crickets and the faint hum of the elven fires behind them.
"It's strange," he murmured after a pause. "I spent my whole life learning how to be a son of Rohan. Then I find out I'm something else entirely. A full-blooded elf among men. Yet… I still feel the pull of the plains, the sound of the horses, the smell of the forge. It's home, even if I don't fully belong there anymore."
Arwen's gaze was distant but kind. "You belong to both worlds, Edwen. That is not a curse — it's a bridge few could walk. You can see what others cannot."
He gave a low, tired laugh. "Elrond said much the same. You're both far too wise for my liking."
"Wisdom and weariness often share a face," she said quietly.
A comfortable silence fell between them. The stars stretched vast and bright above, and for a long while neither spoke. Then Arwen turned to him with a faint, knowing smile.
"When you speak of Rohan, your eyes light like fire. That is how I know your heart still beats there."
He looked at her really looked and something gentle and unspoken passed between them. Not love, not yet, but something that could become it, given time and healing.
"I will rebuild it," he said at last. "Not just the walls and the roads but the hope. The world will remember what Rohan stood for."
"And you won't stand alone," she said, touching his arm briefly. Her hand lingered just long enough to warm the cold steel beneath his bracer before falling away.
Days passed, and the road began to change. The rough mountain trails gave way to the rolling fields of Rohan wide open, wind-swept, and golden under the early sun.
The moment they crossed into Rohan's borders, the Riders began to sing. It was an old song deep, thunderous, full of longing and triumph. The elves listened in silence at first, then slowly, softly, their own voices joined weaving light and sorrow into the men's bold melody until it became something greater than either alone.
The sound of it carried for miles.
By the eighth day, they reached the outlying villages broken fences, burned fields, families trying to rebuild after raids. When Edwen dismounted to speak with them, the villagers stared in disbelief.
"My lord… it's you," one man whispered, falling to his knees.
Edwen lifted him up at once. "No lords today. Just a man returning home."
The people gathered wide-eyed at the sight of elves among them, marveling at the fine weapons and strange instruments they carried. Arwen moved among the children, tending small wounds and speaking gentle words, while Edwen organized what supplies could be spared.
For the first time in months, the air of Rohan felt alive again.
That night, under a clear sky and the hum of distant fires, Edwen looked over his people and his allies the scars, the laughter, the stubborn hope that refused to die and he felt something settle in his chest.
It was not peace, not yet. But it was the beginning of it.
As the dawn rose, gilding the plains with light, the golden banners of Rohan and the silver of Rivendell caught the wind together.
And ahead, on the far horizon, the hill of Edoras awaited crowned with the Golden Hall, gleaming faintly like the promise of a new age.
Edwen exhaled softly, eyes bright beneath his helm. "Home," he said.
Arwen, beside him, smiled. "Then let us return it to what it was meant to be."
With a word, he spurred his horse forward, and the host thundered down the valley toward the heart of Rohan, toward rebirth, and toward destiny.