The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Memory of Trees]

Emerisse wouldn't have stood out in a crowd: dark hair and a smooth, heartshaped face are typical in Gondor, are accepted everywhere. Even in fair-haired Rohan, she could be passed over and unremembered like the fallen leaves in winter, one among a hundred thousand. Then why was it that people turned and stared as she passed? Perhaps it was the fierce glint in her blue eyes and the no-nonsense way she carried her sword. Perhaps it was simply the dark, boyish clothing or wind-blown hair. Or perhaps it was the deep pride that her father and grandfather had taught her shining from within that made heads turn. Either way, there was no getting round the fact that Risse was different.

She pulled Windfire to a halt before the building marked White Horse Inn. Leaning forward, Risse traced the gentle curve of the horse's glossy neck lovingly. "Enough, sweet ," she whispered, making Windfire's ears flick back towards her, "You've done your day's work. Go now and rest." Risse slid lightly to the hard-packed ground and took Windfire by the haltar. "C'mon now."

She left the horse with the stablemaster and whickering softly after her. Risse was exhausted and ravenous after the long ride across the mountains and plains that had brough her here. "I only hope," she pleaded, in a sort of prayer, "they have room. It's y cold out here!"