“No i Melain na le, meleth nín,” he had said. May the Valar be with you, my love.

Then, galloping across the plain with Gimli at his back, Eomer at his side, and forty elven and human warriors following close behind, Legolas tried to focus on the task ahead.

This was no time for stealth. A few hundred yards from the trees, Eomer raised his hunting horn and blew—Ta-rat-ta-raa, Ta-rat-ta-raaaaaa!—and his men let loose the dogs.

Into the woods they flew, with trackers and footsoldiers close on their heels, and the mounted warriors following behind, crashing through the bracken and hacking through the bramble.

Within minutes they had found their quarry.

Gimli, wasting no time, rolled off Arod’s back, drew his small throwing axe, and buried it in the back of a fleeing Orc.

Legolas, still mounted, raised his bow and shot. “One!”—he dropped a big Uruk Hai looming up behind Gimli—“Two!”—he skewered a small Orc lying in wait for Valandil—“Three, four, five!”—he felled three goblins converging on Orodreth.

“After them!” cried Eomer, as the remaining Orcs, abandoning their dead and dying, fled into the undergrowth. “Do not let them escape!”

“Come, elvellon,” shouted Legolas, wheeling Arod. He reached down and grasped the dwarf’s arm—

…

A ball of light exploded before Legolas’ eyes and, there, silhouetted within it, stood a dark figure. He was tall like an elf, with a man’s muscular chest and powerful thighs, but his head…

Reluctantly, Legolas met the creature’s wild eyes—and the werewolf snarled, blood-flecked spittle dripping from its cruel jaws.

…

“Elf,” yelled Gimli, “elf! Either pull me up or put me down!”

“Gimli?”

“What is wrong, lad?”

“Eowyn,” gasped Legolas. “We must get back to Eowyn!”

…

They found Eomer, deeper in the Forest. “How can you know,” he cried, hacking right and left at the Orcs who scurried, panic-stricken, before his onslaught, “that this thing—if it exists outside your—your vision—has anything to do with my sister?”

“Master Wystan,” shouted Legolas, nocking and loosing an arrow, “read my dream.”

“You dreamed of a wolf?” Eomer urged his horse forward.

“Yes.”

The King grunted, pulling his spear from its straps. “What are you,”—he weighed the weapon in his hand, took aim, and threw—“what are you going to do?”

“Gimli and I will turn back,” shouted Legolas, picking off an Orc that tried to rush Eomer as he bent to retrieve his spear.

The King grunted again. “Yes,” he said—though it was plain that he was sceptical of his friend’s premonition. “I have said all along,”—he thrust his spear through an Uruk Hai—“that you should not encourage her warrior-games.”

“Eowyn is a fine warrior,” cried Legolas, loyally, “but I must go to her, Eomer—I must go now. This is not something she can fight alone. May the Valar be with you, mellon nín,” he added. “And pray to them that Gimli and I reach her in time.”