The Secret of Rohan

Through the quiet dawn of Rivendell, the Fellowship of the Ring departed the sheltering woods, setting out into the unknown, where each step might be their last. The road ahead was harsh, ever-changing, and shadowed—and every one of them, from the brave Aragorn to the soft-hearted hobbit Sam, understood there was no turning back. In a matter of days, they passed through Eregion and skirted the snow-covered ridges of Caradhras, where the icy wind cut through them to the bone. Crossing endless grey plains and wide hills from which the distant peaks of the Misty Mountains could be glimpsed, they pressed forward—supporting one another in a silence broken only by the rustle of leaves or the far-off cry of an unseen bird. Along the way, signs of other life were few: a lone deer startled by Gimli’s sharp gaze, or a pack of wolves glimpsed in the pre-dawn mist. The nights were cold, and the days exhausting, and the stillness of the forest seemed to weigh upon them—a quiet reminder of the looming darkness of Mordor. Thus, having overcome these trials and strengthened their resolve, they reached the base of the Grey Mountains, to the beginning of the ancient western road—a path once laid by forgotten peoples, now nearly lost to time.

***

They walked slowly, worn out by the cold of Caradhras and the weary road full of hidden dangers. Even Merry and Pippin, usually eager for any adventure, had lost some of their usual spark—though neither of them complained. No one did, but each felt the growing weight of the Ring, especially those sensitive to its ominous power. "Manen na? Ata?" Aragorn asked, drawing level with his sharp-eared companion. Legolas narrowed his eyes, glancing cautiously toward the path ahead. His fingers moved instinctively to his bow, as if sensing something just out of reach. Aragorn had noticed the riders too. At first, it had been nothing more than the usual sounds that had followed them since they left Rivendell. Back then, such noises raised no alarm—for these lands had not yet been touched by war, and the nearby woods could easily hide not just peaceful travelers, but wolves as well. But as the Fellowship pressed onward, Aragorn had heard the restless drumming of hooves more than once—and it seemed that sound was following them. Only now could he make out the clear rhythm of two sets of hooves, moving swiftly at a gallop. He shared his concerns with Gandalf, Gimli, and Boromir, though there was no need to speak of it to Legolas—an elf’s hearing was so keen, he could detect a pursuer without stooping to the ground or straining to listen. “Uin ú-dalath...” Legolas murmured, his gaze fixed on the road. “Le no minno menna raitha vi rîn.” Aragorn knew the elf was right. As a ranger, he too understood that their approach would not go unnoticed. Soon they reached a lowland, and it became clear that without a rest, the Fellowship simply would not endure the next stretch of the journey. After assessing the terrain, Aragorn called out loudly: “Rest, my friends! I’ll take the first watch. The hobbits are off duty tonight — get some sleep.” He said it with care, mindful of the halflings whose exhaustion was plain, but the looks exchanged by Boromir and Gimli made it clear this wasn’t just about sparing the hobbits. “We take watch in pairs,” Boromir replied, scanning the area with sharp eyes. “This place… it’s not safe. We never know who might cross our path.” The Fellowship began preparing their camp. Sleep, however, remained a luxury few could afford. Only Sam dozed off, but even his short rest was broken by a sudden movement. Legolas had leapt to his feet, bowstring taut, his eyes gleaming, fixed on the darkness ahead. The rest of the Fellowship immediately sprang into position. Aragorn drew his sword without hesitation, stepping forward to shield the hobbits. Boromir raised his shield and unsheathed his blade, ready to meet whatever came. Gimli gripped his axe tighter, and Frodo and Merry instinctively huddled behind their companions, doing their best to stay out of sight. A long silence stretched before them—then a figure appeared on the trail. The rider moved slowly, as if each step drained what little strength he had left. The weary horse lowered its head, hooves stumbling on the rocky path. It was clear both mount and rider were on the brink of collapse. The rider looked around, seemingly unaware of the weapons trained on him and the wary stares fixed in his direction. For a moment, all was still. Aragorn stepped closer, lifted his sword, and brought it down flat against the rider’s shoulder. The stranger flinched and turned to meet his gaze. His eyes were large and dark brown, filled with fear and confusion, staring directly at the ranger—unblinking, with a look of almost childlike bewilderment. Obeying the unspoken command, the rider slowly slid from the saddle and stood before them. With a flick of his sword, Aragorn knocked back the hood and leveled the blade at the youth’s throat. Before them stood a young man, his chestnut hair cropped short. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. His features were delicate yet striking: a high forehead, smooth skin, and slightly raised cheekbones that hinted at youth and inexperience. His clothes were coarse and worn, concealing most of his form, though a narrow strip of his neck was visible—flushed faintly pink, even in the pale pre-dawn light. Altogether, he looked more fragile than threatening. Seeing their “pursuer,” the Fellowship eased somewhat. Gimli muttered something under his breath and returned to his stone seat. Legolas, however, kept his bow raised, eyes still wary. Boromir stepped up beside Aragorn, his gaze fixed intently on the stranger. “Who are you? And why are you following us?” Boromir’s voice rang firm, though not threatening. At that moment, Legolas and Gimli had launched into another quarrel, drawing the boy’s attention. He turned his head to watch the elf and the dwarf, his expression a mixture of fear and curiosity—as if he’d momentarily forgotten the sharp blade pressed to his throat. Aragorn frowned and lightly tapped the boy’s cheek with the flat of his sword—just enough to pull his focus back. “Answer,” Aragorn said, his voice restrained but resolute. The youth swallowed hard, his brown eyes returning to the ranger. He gathered himself to speak. “My name is Kai. My father was a defender of Rohan,” he said, trying to sound steady, though his voice betrayed a hint of strain, pitched slightly too high, as if it hadn’t fully settled yet. “He sent me to the Council… but I was too late. I had to follow you. To catch up.” Aragorn and Boromir exchanged glances. Doubt flickered across their faces. “What do you want?” Aragorn asked sharply, the sword still unwavering at the boy’s throat, his eyes searching the young face for any trace of deception. “I want to go with you… to Mordor,” the boy said softly, but with conviction. As he spoke, his hand moved toward his coat, prompting Aragorn to press the blade more firmly to his neck in warning. The boy froze immediately and raised his hands in surrender, showing he meant no harm. Only when the tension had slightly eased did he slowly reach behind him and draw a weapon that had been hanging loosely at his side—a hand-and-a-half sword. It was a surprisingly elegant blade, almost too beautiful for such a young warrior. The steel shimmered with a cold, silvery glow, as though lit from within, and the guard was carved with stylized horse heads, reminiscent of the emblems of Rohan. The hilt was wrapped in fine leather straps, tight and smooth, and slightly longer than usual—designed not for a common soldier, but for a more refined hand. A stone set into the pommel, framed in bronze, gave the weapon an ancient, noble appearance. “I wish to offer my service,” Kai said, voice trembling but gaze steady. “To be the tenth.” Those words stirred unease in the Fellowship. Each of them fell into thoughtful silence, weighing the boy’s proposition. Boromir furrowed his brow, eyeing him carefully, trying to judge the truth in his eyes. “You, lad, are asking to join the most dangerous quest in the world,” Gandalf finally spoke, stepping forward, his gaze piercing. “Are you sure you know what you’re asking for?” “Yes!” Kai answered without hesitation, seemingly forgetting the blade still pressed to his throat. He moved forward impulsively, and Aragorn pressed the sword a little firmer, forcing him to stop. “In return, I ask only that, when we come back, you vouch for me—so I might become a warrior worthy of my city.” His words, filled with youthful naïveté, drew a loud laugh from Boromir. Aragorn allowed himself a faint smile as he finally lowered his sword, still watching the boy closely. “A court page offering his services,” Boromir scoffed, giving Kai a slow, appraising look. “Now I feel much safer.” The youth stiffened, a flicker of offense crossing his face. He stared Boromir down, lifting his chin stubbornly, clearly not ready to yield so easily. “I’ve competed in two tournaments,” he declared firmly, not blinking, eyes still locked with Boromir’s in what could only be described as a challenge. “And earned flags for bravery.” He glanced at Aragorn, as if seeking support—hoping that at least the ranger might see something more in him than a boy trying to pretend. Aragorn, watching this stubborn slip of a youth, felt a flicker of respect. Despite his inexperience, and perhaps even his foolishness, there was fire in Kai’s eyes—a fire not often found in the young. “This isn’t a tournament, boy,” Boromir said sharply, his irritation now plain. “Go back to your mother.” “This is a free road, old man,” Kai shot back with a smirk, throwing him a defiant look. “I don’t need your permission to walk it.” From the cocky grin on Kai’s face and the way Boromir tightened his grip on his sword, Aragorn could see this was headed in the wrong direction. He placed a hand on Boromir’s shoulder to calm him. “Don’t lose your temper,” he said softly. “Let him take it back.” A tense pause followed. Kai and Boromir stared each other down like two stubborn rams about to lock horns. Kai blinked first, then glanced at Aragorn. With a mock-sweet tone and a slight bow, he said: “My sincerest apologies.” “Not to me,” Aragorn replied coolly. “To him.” “I can’t,” Kai said, straightening up and meeting Aragorn’s gaze with surprising firmness. He was small and slight, but there wasn’t a trace of fear or submission in his eyes. “He insulted me first.” Boromir hissed through his teeth, unable to contain himself. “I’ll teach him some manners,” he growled, stepping aside and drawing his sword. He tossed his cloak to the ground, rolling the blade from hand to hand with the ease of a seasoned fighter. He didn’t plan to strike low—but he certainly intended to teach a lesson. Kai, watching him carefully, took a deep breath and followed suit. He cast off his cloak and stepped forward into the makeshift ring. “Go easy, Boromir,” Aragorn warned, knowing it was too late to stop this. “Don’t kill him. Just make a point. And make it quick.” “With pleasure,” Boromir muttered, advancing. The duel began. Boromir fought with practiced confidence. His strikes were fast, precise, powerful—as if he was holding back only just enough. Kai, on the other hand, struggled to wield his heavy sword. His swings were clumsy, his blows lacked strength, and each time Boromir struck, he barely managed to parry—fighting more with sheer will than with skill. The sword kept slipping in his hands, but he gritted his teeth and refused to back down. “Not bad for a servant boy,” Boromir sneered, shoving Kai back as he staggered again. “Feels like I’m fighting a hobbit.” The jab stung. Kai changed tactics. Realizing he couldn’t win by force, he relied on agility. Instead of meeting Boromir head-on, he began dodging, retreating, weaving through the terrain. Nimble and light-footed, he ducked under low branches, skirted around trees, and even rolled under a fallen log, leaving the Gondorian stumbling for a step or two. He managed a few quick strikes—light, but accurate—catching Boromir off guard. “In Valinor’s name, what are you doing?” Boromir snapped, fending off another unexpected feint. “Stand and fight like a man, you miserable coward!” Boromir was losing patience. His blows grew wilder, heavier, fueled by anger and frustration. But each one struck nothing but leaves, bark, or air. Kai, now more confident in his nimbleness, kept slipping out of reach, striking here and there—just enough to be a thorn. But skill and experience could not be overcome by agility alone. Kai’s breathing grew heavy. Every strike came slower. At one point, he even dropped his sword, hastily picking it up and gripping it by the blade, using the hilt to deflect incoming blows—awkward and desperate. Finally, Boromir knocked the sword from his hand and sent him sprawling to the ground, beaten and exhausted. “Enough!” Gandalf’s voice cut through the air just as Boromir raised his blade again. Kai, gasping for breath, raised his hands in surrender. His face was pale, frightened—but his eyes still held that spark of defiance as he looked up at Boromir. Silence fell. The Fellowship, watching the scene unfold, said nothing. It was Merry who broke the tension with a loud round of applause, grinning from ear to ear. One by one, the others began to drift back toward the camp, preparing for the night. The weight of the past days seemed to ease slightly—released through this brief, intense clash. Even the tension surrounding Kai’s sudden arrival had faded, as if he had, in some strange way, already become part of the group. All except Boromir, who was still simmering with wounded pride. “So now Gandalf thinks we should bring him along?” he muttered bitterly. “Madness! As if the hobbits weren’t enough—now we’ve got this one too!” Aragorn sighed. He’d asked himself the same thing when Gandalf sat Kai by the fire. But now, he didn’t feel like arguing. “All I know is, the boy’s worn out,” he finally said. “Sending him back tonight, with a half-dead horse, would be madness. Might as well kill him here and now. Let him rest. In the morning, we’ll decide. The Fellowship is nine, and he is bound by no oath—only his word.” Boromir grumbled something under his breath but said no more, casting one last long look at Kai—as if still weighing him in his mind.