Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Darkness Unescapable (#1161)
Author: lazyseptemberdays
Chapters: 7

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Alternate Universe (AU)
Description: Sauron has reclaimed the Ring. One by one, the free lands begin to feel the approaching shadow. There is one last hope for Middle Earth, and it rests on the shoulders of a man weary already of the burden. On a journey to his death, he finds surprising allies and discovers that the pulse of life is not so easily stilled. This story is told mostly from the perspective of Rohan, with Eowyn, Theoden, Eomer and Aragorn...and a few other guest stars...
Published: 03 Aug 2004
Updated: 26 Sep 2004
Warnings:
Type: Action/adventure
Characters: Eowyn; Theoden; Aragorn; Gandalf; Eomer


Chapter 1 - Smoke and Mirrors

The heavy doors and stout beams of Edoras afforded little protection from the cold, in truth.

The cold, moist winter air crept in, causing the gilt on the elaborately carved horseheads to peel away and the paint on the walls to grow dim with mold.

Eowyn did not feel the cold. Cold was kin to her. Cold was her natural state. With numb fingers, she clutched at her heavy velvet skirts, her thumb absently rubbing the newest bare spot in the fabric. With frozen feet, she stalked through the dim, narrow halls. With eyes like ice, she regarded all around her.

Down to the kitchens she went, to perform her daily miracle of inventing some kind of meal from meager and spoiled rations for the denizens of Meduseld.

"An' did you ever hear?" came the whispers even before she reached the door. "Them Southerners, them Gondorians have declared themselves lords of all the lands that border them!"

"Aye!" came the other whisper. "An' I hear that they build great armies with mighty weapons the likes we never've seen."

Eowyn stepped through the door. The expression on her face froze all conversation in the room. No other reprimand was needed. All was quiet industry - and soon enough, a pot of stew was bubbling away, softening the tough, salted meat and hiding the staleness of the bread. Eowyn had even allowed them to add the last of the dried red beans.

Not that she would eat any of it. She would proclaim that others needed it more, though the truth of the matter was that one who is frozen cannot consume, lest it produce warmth.

These rumors troubled her. Her stern mind refused to accept the outlandish claims of magical weaponry and great proclamations of superiority. But like weeds, did not all rumors have roots?

Skirting the throne room where she knew her Uncle sat pondering nothingness, Eowyn sought refuge in the armoury. With cold but loving hands, she tenderly wiped down the heraldry of her father - which had passed to Theoden and now lay unused. And she grasped her mother's sword in her blue fingers.

Her breath came in soft, white puffs on the air as she looked at the sword. Its edges were perfect, newly sharpened. Eowyn knew that old Dolma had done her this favor, and in a time of dearth, favors were the richest gifts that could be given.

As she studied the blade, she remembered that today might be the day that Theodred and Eomer returned from their border scouting. They would stay two days, create chaos and then leave again, leaving her in solitude and silence.

But perhaps they would have news of Gondor. If they had not seen the fire themselves, mayhap they had at least seen the smoke in the distance?
~
A man old before his time sat on a hard wooden throne, gazing through rheumy eyes at nothing. Unkempt white hair fell in greasy strands about his shoulders. His face was chalky and drawn, with sunken cheeks and bags under his eyes from too many days and nights of sleepless daze.

Theoden king mumbled something incoherent. It was too much effort to make his lips form actual words. The sounds that issued forth were more akin to the syllables of the mad. He was trying to tell someone that he was cold. His threadbare heavy cotton cloak didn't keep out the cold air that eddied around the dais. And the thing on his head...his crown, wasn't it?...was crooked.

Why was Eowyn not there to straighten it? Theoden made a disapproving rumbling sound. Grima was right about the girl. Grima was always right. Thank goodness for Grima, son of Galmod.

Another wintery blast sliced through the chinks in the great doors. Theoden made a strained groaning sound. But the great hall of the throne of the Horse Lords was empty, save for guards who had long ago ceased to pay heed to the mad moanings of their fallen king.

Theoden had fallen to dozing when no one had come in answer to his mumbled call. He awakened to the familiar pressure of his bladder.

"Eeewinnn," he rumbled loudly. The guards recognized that as the king's call for his niece. One of them went in search of the lady, bringing her back shortly, having guessed correctly that she would be found either in the stables or in the armoury.

"Eeeewinnn," Theoden said as the young woman entered the hall. He found he couldn't focus his eyes. The girl was a blur of light and dark and movement to him.

The pressure in his bladder increased, and Theoden released it, squeezing his eyes shut, his tongue peeking out between his cracked lips. For a moment, he savored the relief. Then he felt the warm wet on his seat and down his legs. "Eeeewinnn," he mumbled grumpily. He could smell the rancid odor as well.

Why were his days so difficult? When would this simply end and give him peace to sleep?

Eowyn had watched as her uncle relieved himself before the guards and the few others who passed through or milled about in the great hall.

By now, the horror and the embarrassment had blended into a steady diet of disgrace which the shieldmaid was forced to swallow.

"Uncle," she said gently, but without any warmth, as she approached the throne. "Let me assist you."

The old man fussed weakly at her. Without flinching or any sign of emotion, Eowyn grasped her uncle's arm and wrapped her own arm around his back. For an old man, he was heavy, but Eowyn was strong, and she heaved him to his feet.

He stood, tottering and uncertain as the edge of his robes dripped onto the floor.

"Come, Uncle," she said quietly, beginning to lead him down from the dais and across the hall to the small room off the great throne hall where the king now slept and was bathed, since he could no longer climb the flight of stairs to his own chambers.

Eowyn nodded curtly to a scurrying servant, who understood that she was to clean up the mess on the throne and the little wet trail that Theoden left behind him as he walked.

Another servant was changing the sheets on Theoden's make-shift cot.

"My lady?" she asked questioningly as Eowyn walked into the room with the old king leaning heavily on her.

"Fresh robes for the king," Eowyn ordered calmly. "And a basin of warm water and a washcloth."

The servant nodded and did as she was told. All was grim silence as Eowyn endured the indignity of having to bathe and change her uncle as if he were a child.

In her heart, thoughts of anger and despair vied for the upper hand. This was the king! He was to be a leader of men! And yet, he was nothing more than a drooling lump of flesh who could no longer control his own bodily functions! Where was the honor of the House of Eorl? Words played back in her mind...familiar words...

Meduseld was no more than the lowest of shepherd's cots, with dozing dotards and not enough food to fill a stew pot. Eowyn almost felt dizzy with the unending despair that welled up in her heart.

Theoden had fallen asleep on the cot and was now making choking snores. The servant looked at Eowyn questioningly.

"Let him sleep here," she replied in a chill whisper, then walked out back into the great hall.

She looked at the throne. It was empty now. Though was it not empty even when the king sat upon it? And what was to become of a kingdom with an empty throne, besieged to the North with orcs, and beset to the South by the growing forces of Gondor.

Eowyn drew a deep breath and despaired anew.


Chapter 2 - The Compass of War

Days passed with their harsh light and flat shadows. The hoped-for arrival of Eomer and Theodred never came. Eowyn wandered the halls of Meduseld like a grim ghost, mechanically attending to the household of her dotard uncle.

Worry for her brother and cousin painted dark circles under her eyes. But save for those circles, there was no other color in her face. And there were no words she could say to release those fears that stole her sleep.

Eomund's daughter found herself listening to the snatches of rumor and gossip among the servants, pulled in like fishing nets from the townsfolk of Edoras. But there, too, there were no words that could comfort the white lady.

It was deep winter, with short days and a howling wind like wild, mad horses. The darkness now seemed as kin to Eowyn as the cold. With frostbitten fingers, she struggled to read the accounts of the household by the light of one flickering tallow candle.

She sat at the rough wooden table in the room that served as her study, from which she ran the affairs of the house of Eorl. Her breath came out in shimmering white puffs and obscured her view of the paper before her.

Yet for all the sameness and despair, things have a way of making themselves happen, conceiving themselves into existence from nothingness.

"My lady," whispered a servant, tentatively peeking his head through the door.

"Yes, Symon?" Eowyn said dully, looking up from the sheaf of parchments before her.

"My lady, Master Eykr has returned," the servant said hesitantly.

Eowyn raised one eyebrow slightly. So, the great merchant of Edoras, Eykr, had returned from his trip to Gondor. Suddenly, the full implication struck her. She sat forward instinctively.

"Speak further, Symon," she ordered.

"My lady, Eykr would speak with you - but not here," he whispered.

Eowyn frowned but made no comment. "Where then?" she asked.

"He awaits you at his house, my lady," Symon replied. "And he begs you to make haste."

Eowyn turned her head slightly, concerned and bewildered by such a request. But she betrayed nothing by look or word.

"I shall go there directly," she said quietly, rising from her seat. Symon stepped fully into the room, and she saw why he had not entered before. Over his arm was her coat and cloak. If Eowyn had at all doubted that there was more afoot than a simple merchant's report, she doubted no longer. She threw on her coat and cloak and pulled the hood over her head. Symon stepped aside and let Eowyn pass.

***

The early morning streets of Edoras were mostly empty. The eerie dark blue pre-dawn sky was pierced with icy stars. But Eowyn saw none of this as she slipped through the streets.

Eykr, son of Eykbrand, lived in the finest house in Edoras - except for Meduseld. A large, two-storey building with eight rooms and elaborate horse carvings on the shutters, the house seemed quiet. But Eowyn could see light spilling from the cracks.

She knocked on the door, and a moment later, Eykr's daughter, a woman not far from Eowyn's age, opened it.

"Who?" she started to say.

Eowyn looked at the girl, letting her catch a glimpse of her face.

"Oh! My lady!" the girl gasped. "This way!"

Eowyn followed her inside, noting the roaring fire on the hearth and the basket of kittens that slept contentedly by it. She reflected that her arrival was not unexpected. Truly, the mystery deepened.

The girl lead Eowyn up to Eykr's bedchamber. Eowyn hesitated before entering. She could smell the iron tang even from the threshold. Eykr lay on his bed, gaunt and ashen faced. Red-soaked bandages had hardened to a deep marroon.

"My lady!" he gasped, struggling to move.

"Peace, good Eykr," Eowyn said gently but without warmth, pulling back her hood and coming to stand by his bedside. "I have come at thy behest at this early hour to meet with thee, only to find thee thus!"

Eykr the merchant looked up at the lady with his mismatched blue and brown eyes.

"My lady, war is afoot in Gondor!" he croaked, finding that his throat was too parched to speak much more.

"You have just returned from thence?" Eowyn asked quickly.

"Aye - he's but two hours returned!" wailed a plump woman in finely spun brown wool. Eykr's wife twisted her apron in her hands. "Attacked by orcs, he was! Orcs sent by the men of Gondor to keep him from returning home!"

Eykr made another groaning sound as if to speak. Eowyn turned her eyes back to him.

"They..." he gasped, then coughed with a wet, rattling sound. "They..." he fell limply against his pillows. "They will march..." Eykr whispered, then closed his eyes and passed over to the hall of his ancestors. The looked at him reproachfully, as he hadn't even stayed alive long enough to finish his sentence - 'They will march from the East, not the south.' But then, the ancestors reasoned that everything happens with a purpose. And they turned their attention from their newest arrival back to the room where the Lady Eowyn watched Eykr's wife and daughter begin to keen and wail.

She backed away as Eykr's wife rushed the bed. There were no words she could offer at this moment, and so she slipped away from the room, down the stairs and out into the cold dawn air.

Throwing her hood over her face, she rushed back toward Meduseld. Her mind was a riot of thought. They will march...

They will march on a kingless kingdom.
They will march on a kingdom where the only ones who could defend fought on the northern borders.

And there was nothing Eowyn could do except sit and await the moment of doom.

Or was there?

If Eykr's words were to be believed, they had not yet begun to march. And therein lay the one hope for Rohan. Eowyn's quick steps turned into a run - for run she must if she was to be on her way to the great city of Minas Tirith before the sun was mid-sky!

Eowyn had scared stepped over the threshold of Meduseld when a frantic servant came running up to her.

"My lady! We have searched everywhere for you!" the girl gasped.

"I am here now," replied Eowyn, taking down her hood. "And I need you to - "

Her words were cut off by the maid, who spoke in a rush, tugging at Eowyn's sleeve to pull her along, deeper into the shadowy hall.

"My lady! The king has fallen gravely ill in the night. He burns with fever, and he can hold neither food nor water," the girl chattered as she dragged Eowyn across the great hall to the small room where Theoden slept.

Eowyn immediately felt chill fear for her beloved uncle. She feared the hand of Grima - the hasty hand that perhaps was growing impatient of waiting for the king to die of his own accord. And then, Eowyn realized that she could not leave her uncle's side. Without her watchful presence, further ill might befall him, and if he were to die without any of the House of Eorl present in Meduseld...then the path was clear for another. And woman though she was, Eowyn held enough sway to stave off any direct claims to the throne long enough for Eomer and Theodred to return.

She sighed as she entered her uncle's chamber, wrinkling her nose slightly at the rancid odor of the airless room. It smelled no better than the meanest shepherd's cot.

How fitting, she thought with despairing irony.

~
Eowyn knelt by her uncle's bedside, gently stroking his feverish brow with one cold hand.

"Uncle," she whispered. "What has happened?"

There was little response other than a groan. Eowyn felt the anger in her heart flare up, yet it was like a flame - consuming and without direction.

Swiftly, she rose to her feet and turned to face the two pinched-faced maids.

"Add coals to the brazier, this room is like a buttery rather than a sickroom," she ordered harshly. "Fetch me a basin of water and the healer's pouch from my chambers."

The two maids ran off to obey the lady's orders, exchanging withering glances once safely on the other side of the door.

Eowyn removed her cloak, though she kept her coat on for warmth. She sat down on the edge of her uncle's bed and studied his pallid face.

"What is to become of us?" she whispered to no one - since no one was really there.


Chapter 3 - The Serpent's Tonic

Theoden was thirsty. And hot. And cold. A thin film of sweat covered his brow and clung to his body. He wanted to be wiped down, for the damp chilled him. His stomach hurt.

And then, through a haze of pain and delerium, a golden-haired girl with cold hands and a soft voice seemed to appear by his side.

Was it his mother? Or the great Morwen, Steelsheen returned from the hall of his ancestors...or there to call him hence?

"Uncle, what has happened?"

Uncle? Ah....uncle...it was Eowyn, his golden-haired niece. But it was such an effort to say anything. Theoden could not move. But Eowyn would take care of him. Thank goodness for Eowyn - and Grima. Grima would help Eowyn, Theoden was sure of it.

"What is to become of us?"

The words seemed so distant, as Theoden drifted in fever and pain. He felt the urge to retch, but that would require effort. His head rolled to the side. Let him choke on his own vomit. Then perhaps he would find the peace of endless sleep, free from this mortal prison of pain.

~

Grima prided himself on the silence of his movements. Though, he reminded himself that there was little reason now for him to slink through the halls that he practically ruled.

But still, habit dies hard, and his footfalls were soft as he approached the king's chamber. Slowly, he pushed the door open a little and moved so that one eye could peer inside through the small opening.

The old fool was not yet dead. But he was weakened. Grima weighed and measured the moves and consequences like a master gamesman contemplating a devestating strategy.

And why was he not dead yet? Perhaps the reason sat by the dotard's bedside. Grima let his eyes linger for a long, delicious moment on Eowyn, watching her as he often did when she least suspected it.

Others might see the golden fall of hair, the steely grey eyes, the noble mien. Grima saw rather differently. His eyes followed the elegant line of her neck, the soft roundness of her breasts, the gentle curve of her back, and slender but strong hips.

He swallowed as he felt a wave of desire wash over him, leaving a tingling in his groin and his mouth dry from too much breath.

Soon...soon. His master would claim Rohan, and Grima would claim his prize - his prizes, he corrected. Not only would he take Eowyn to his bed, but he would be given regency over this land. Saruman would be only too glad to leave Grima as overseer of a grim plantation, as long as the spoils made their way regularly to Isengard.

And in truth, it was the idea of all that power that made him rise and caused his long white fingers to clutch more firmly at the door.

Eowyn sat lost in thought. But a small chill - perhaps from an undetected draft - caused her to break her reverie and look about her. And what she saw made her recoil in disgust. The Worm was spying on them!

She jumped from her chair and went to the door, fury blazing in her eyes.

"What business have you here in this sickroom, son of Galmod!" she hissed.

Grima watched her chest rise and fall with indignation, watching the lines subtly shift beneath the worn fabric of her dress.

He paused for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet the maiden's gaze. And he smiled.

"M'lady, I only seek to know that your uncle rests easily, that I myself might find some respite from my worry for him," Grima said in a whisper, his eyes riveted on Eowyn.

"You speak lies!" Eowyn whispered fiercely. "Thou art truly serpent, and would that I could fork thy tongue in truth to stop its evils!"

"Hasty words, Steelsheen!" Grima said, his tone turning menacing. He reached a cold hand through the opening of the door and took her chin in his hand. He stroked her jawline with his thumb and imagined the feel of her soft, fair flesh in his grasp, melting to him.

"The sooner you recognize me as a true friend to the king, the sooner you will see that I am a true friend to you as well," he whispered, threat in his eyes and promise in his tone. "We do not always like what is good for us, m'lady. But the sooner the medicine is taken, the sooner the malady is ended."

Eowyn's hand came up of its own accord and grasped Grima's wrist in a vise-like grip. Exerting all the strength of her shieldarm, she slowly removed his odious hand from her face and forced it down by his side, releasing it with exaggerated distaste.

"Any remedy you might offer is poison," she said in a low, steady voice, her jaw set. "And the only malady I can see is the plague of your presence!"

"Then I shall withdraw it, m'lady, lest it give further offense," Grima replied coldly, stepping back from the door. "I beg thee not to linger in this sickroom, lest the lady fair fall ill herself."

And with those words, he spun on his heel and silently slipped back into the shadows of the great throne hall, leaving Eowyn watching *him* through the small opening of the door.


Chapter 4 - The Lathspell's Debt

Rain lashed against the side of the Golden Hall. The frost on the plains of Rohan had broken with early spring's torrential rains. Rivulets of mud ran through fields of dried golden hay stalks. Edoras was dressed in brown and grey, without the clean white trim of snow that rendered the city beautiful in the deep of winter.

But no thaw had touched Eowyn's heart. She stood as a sapling rotted by ice, withering and destined not to see the season turn to warmer times. The dull drum of the rain on the roof reminded Eowyn of hoofbeats across the hard plain. Their indistinct roar, coupled with the monotonous plink of raindrops into tin buckets placed around the throne hall, lulled the lady into a doze as she sat at her uncle's feet as the evening's braziers burned low.

There was no dignity in such a perch. But ever since Theoden's mysterious illness, Eowyn had taken to spending every moment she could in Theoden's presence. It was meagre protection of a broken body, but it was something. Theoden slept soundly, his snores and wheezes sounding oddly peaceful. For in the darkness, in the rain, Theoden's weary mind found a state kin to his soul. And it put him at ease. Eowyn was there. Good Grima was not far. And it was not so cold.

He had an itch on his left foot. The thought penetrated his sleep, and he shifted weakly on the throne, trying to make a movement to ease the discomfort. But it was all for naught. His foot continued to itch, and he could not be bothered to open his eyes or to tell Eowyn to scratch it. So, he grunted and fell back into a dark and dreamless slumber.

Eowyn stirred slightly. Her palor was ashen like the grey of her dress, and her skin dry from the winter cold and lustreless from malnutrition. It was so hard, so hard to fight when there was no hope. Her strength became her burden, her honor her prison, and her heart a lead weight in her chest. And so she slept.

All was quiet and still in Meduseld. Even the shadows held their breath lest it disturb the grim peace of Eorl's crypt.

But the world around the dying hall did not cease to move. And from without came a great pounding on the oaken doors. Insistent, electrifying, a heartbeat forcing its way into a corpse.

Eowyn awoke with a start, as did the guards who dozed by the doors. Grima stirred from his watching place in the shadows, his eyes narrowed and lightless.

"Open them!" Eowyn ordered, jumping to her feet, her heart pounding in time with whoever beat the rhythm this rainy night. The guards jumped up and obeyed.

No army stood at the door. No regiment of riders. No Eomer or Theodred.

For a moment, Eowyn felt keen disappointment, but it was displaced by an unusual and long-forgotten sensation. Curiosity.

Two cloaked figures strode into the hall, the rain running off their cloaks and dribbling designs on the dirty floors. Without any hesitation, they approached the throne, even as Grima slunk into position behind Eowyn, ready to prompt his king.

"Eeeehhhh, oooooohhhhddd," Theoden wailed suddenly. The opening of the doors had let in a blast of fresh spring air, chilled by the clean rain. It sent shivers through Theoden and he wanted it stopped. He flailed his right hand a little in a gesture of protest.

Eowyn turned and watched her uncle's display, her expression cold and unchanging. She turned back to the two hooded figures who stood before the dais.

"Few travel on such a night," Eowyn said. "And fewer still find their way to this hall. What brings you hither?"

The cloaked figures seemed to exchange a glance, and the grey-cloaked one stepped forward. He gently pushed back his hood to reveal a wrinkled face with lively blue eyes and a full grey beard. There was a sharp, hissing intake of breath behind Eowyn, signifying Grima's displeasure. The blue eyes grew hard as gems for a moment, looking through the pale maiden to the white-faced man behind her.

"You had not many summers to your name when last I saw you, Eowyn Elfsheen," the old man said, a gentle, smiling lilt to his voice. "But I cannot imagine that I am so forgettable as you make me feel!"

Eowyn swallowed and studied the man again. His face was familiar, and the warm, firm voice. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her side.

"Gandalf?" she whispered tentatively, feeling as though she balanced on the edge of a blade.

The old man smiled warmly at the young woman and nodded. "Yes, and I - "

"Gandalf Grayhame! Lathspell I name you!" Grima's hiss cut through the wizard's words. "No good follows you!" He came around to stand by Eowyn's side, putting a pasty, long-fingered hand on her bony shoulder. "For on this last visit, did not death follow in your wake? Was not the life of Eomund enough of a plaything for your purposes and plots?"

Grima glanced at Eowyn, hoping his words would shape her memory. She was weakening, he had been sensing it just as he sensed the growing reign of the spring sun. She might be susceptible enough to his suggestion by now.

The brown-cloaked figure shifted slightly, but uttered no word. Eowyn looked at Grima, her grey eyes dull and tired. "Eomund? My father?" she said, bewildered.

"He rode after orcs on the Stormcrow's orders, my precious lady!" Grima said, approaching his lips to her ear. "He perished for naught, dragging your mother with him in grief. By his hands are you orphaned, my lady! Surely none such as he has welcome here!"

Eowyn blinked slowly, her body swaying slightly from fatigue and the pressure of Grima's hand.

Gandalf held his peace, his eyes fixed on the lady. For all depended on her word now.

With great, aching weariness, Eowyn turned to Theoden, as if he might suddenly awaken and speak as of yore. But no word came. Grima sensed victory, and it was the anticipated sweetness that precipitated his misstep that rainy night.

"You are not welcome here!" he proclaimed, stepping to the edge fo the dais. "Return to the night from whence you crawled," he slurred, his pulse quickened by the taste of power. "The king is too weak for guests."

A moment of silence lengthened.

"Then they shall be the guests of the king's niece."

The voice was firm but weary, like the ring of a well-worn sword. Grima spun around and stared at Eowyn. She looked at him without expression, her will weighed upon yet unbending. His lip curled in a snarl, but he stayed any action in front of the wizard and the other stranger. There were other ways of dealing with the lady. He turned on his heel and walked out, disappearing into the shadows.

Eowyn turned to Gandalf and her gaze was wintry upon him. "Tonight you shall sleep under this roof," she said quietly. "But you should know that your presence costs me dear."

Gandalf frowned. He was in no position to repay favors, and he knew the favor she would ask of him. "Tis a poor guest that makes no return for hospitality," he said hesitantly. "But I beg my lady to trust that I will repay in my own way in my own time."

A spasm of grief and anger crossed Eowyn's face for a moment. The brown-cloaked figure shifted again.

She nodded to a servant to care for the guests. Symon stepped forward and gestured for the two guests to follow him. Before they left the throne room where Eowyn would sleep, spending yet another night at Theoden's feet, her voice rang out in the hall.

"Just remember you are in my debt, Lathspell."


Chapter 5 - By the Same Hand Redeemed

The sun hadn't risen yet, or perhaps the clouds hung so heavy over the land that daylight could not pierce them to touch earth. Gandalf entered the throne hall of the Horse Lords. Eowyn slept at the feet of Theoden, curled up with a moth-eaten blanket wrapped and bunched to provide both cover and pillow. Theoden snored softly, a line of viscous drool hanging from the corner of his mouth.

There was great grief in the wizard's eyes as he beheld the shameful sight. And he felt a flush of anger that there was so little he could do. Were times different and his powers not stretched to their absolute limit already, he might have been able unravel the spell Grima Wormtongue had woven so tightly around the man's soul.

Eowyn stirred, dark circles of unrestful sleep painted under her eyes.

"Eowyn," Gandalf whispered, only his voice had an echo to it, a call that came not from the human throat. "Eowyn, awaken!"

Eowyn stirred and her eyes wearily opened. She beheld the grey-robed figure before her and sat up.

Gandalf smiled at the still-sleepy lady. "I bid you follow me, Eowyn Elfsheen," he said gently.

Eowyn blinked, then glanced behind her to her sleeping uncle, then back to Gandalf, a look of worry on her face.

"Have no fear for Theoden King," Gandalf whispered in reply to her unspoken comment, his eyes twinkling. "He shall not be alone."

"How?" Eowyn murmured as she looked around the empty hall. There was a movement in the shadows, and she jumped to her feet, ready as always to stand against Grima and whatever evil he carried with him when he approached.

But no serpent approached. Instead, a tall, lordly man whose eyes had seen many winters stepped forward. It took Eowyn a moment to place him, but she soon realized this must be Gandalf's travelling companion from yestereve, whose face had been concealed by his cloak. The man bowed slightly to Eowyn, and she curtly nodded in return.

She stepped off the dais to Gandalf's side. "Let us speak in open air, then," she whispered. "The very walls listen."

Gandalf led them out through a small side passage, avoiding the noise and notice of the great doors. They walked a ways in the grey pre-dawn light, taking the path that ran toward the crypts of the kings of Rohan, buried in the hillside. Eowyn felt the chill of the morning on her skin, and her heart raced as they walked. Finally, Gandalf deemed them far enough away. He stopped and turned to face her. Eowyn stopped as well, standing still and cold as a statue, awaiting his words.

But Gandalf did not speak. Instead, he pulled out his pipe and busied himself with trying to light it despite the dampness of the air. Eowyn watched in a growing fever of impatience. Finally, she could wait no longer.

"They say war will march to Rohan from the south, from Gondor," she said, her fists clenched by her side.

Gandalf took a few puffs to get the embers going and merely looked at her from under his bushy eyebrows.

"We are beset by orcs in the north," Eowyn said, her heart constricting as she thought of Eomer and Theodred's unending battle to hold the northern border from an unstoppable tide.

Gandalf grunted, chewing on his pipe a little.

"Grima will be the death of us all," she said simply.

Gandalf frowned but remained silent.

"Will you say nothing?" Eowyn cried passionately.

Gandalf took another puff. "Heavy are your burdens, my lady," he said gently, sadly. "Would that I might lift them from your fair shoulders. But you are not alone in struggling against a growing, ravenous darkness."

He watched as his words sunk into her tired mind.

"War marches upon us all," he continued. "But not from the south. From the East. From Mordor."

Mordor. The word sent chills through Eowyn. She knew many stories of Mordor, but they were mostly fables told to children to prompt obediance lest orcs snatch them from their beds and carry them away to be slaves to the Dark Lord for the rest of their lives.

"Speak plainer," Eowyn commanded. It was early for riddles and vague clues.

Gandalf almost smiled. "Sauron has reclaimed the one ring - "

"What ring?" Eowyn interjected, bewildered.

"The one ring to rule all others," Gandalf said simply. "The one ring that puts within his grasp the ability to bend the wills of all races to his own. The ring that he lost three thousand years ago when Isildur cut the ring from his hand. The ring that Isildur then failed to destroy and which in turn destroyed him."

Eowyn nodded slowly. She didn't fully understand, but willing to listen.

"Now, the ring has found its way back to its master, and there is no army in Middle Earth that can stand against the hordes of Mordor when they pour forth from the Black Gate," Gandalf said, watching the flicker of emotion in Eowyn's eyes. He took another puff of his pipe. "His evil grows as a plague upon the hearts of men. Even now, Gondor is torn by civil war, the legions of Harad grow bold and raid further and further north. Corsairs plunder the coast of Dol Amroth, and foul things crawl out from the shadows of Mirkwood to make conquest of the free lands of the North."

"And Rohan crumbles from within," Eowyn whispered.

Gandalf nodded.

Eowyn looked down at the ground for a moment. Her heart was in a tumult of emotion. She looked up at Gandalf and asked, "If there be no hope, then why do you travel with such purpose?"

Gandalf smiled. "I have not said there is no hope," he countered. "There is one hope, that we shall be by the same hand redeemed. The ring must be cut from Sauron's hand, and this time, truly destroyed."

"Next you shall tell me that you are on your way to meet Isildur in Gondor, resurrected to atone for his wrongs," Eowyn said with a snort. She had expected something better by way of a plan. This seemed hopeless, at best.

"I have no need of Isildur," Gandalf said with a chuckle. "For I have Isildur's heir set to this task."

Eowyn's eyebrows shot up. "The man who travels with you?" she queried.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn, last of Isildur's line," Gandalf said. "All hope for Middle Earth rests on him. And I have sworn to help him to the end."

Eowyn took a quick, pained breath. "And so we are simply to wait for the stroke of doom?" she said, half to herself, half to the wizard. "We are to do nothing, for there is nothing we can do."

Gandalf was grieved by the bitterness in the maiden's voice. "Keep good courage, my lady," he said. "For you will have need of it, ere the end."

Eowyn's expression grew hard.

"'Tis not courage I lack, Gandalf Grayhame," she said through clenched teeth. "But I fear that even if Isildur's heir succeeds, there will be nothing left of Rohan except shepherd's cots and carthorses."

She turned on her heel and strode quickly back through the damp grass, her slippers crunching the hard ground. Gandalf watched the woman disappear back up the hill and into the Golden Hall. She was right, he mused. It was not courage she lacked, but rather hope. And he charged himself that her hope should be redeemed by the same hand that crushed it when he made claim that there was aught he could do to help the House of Eorl.

Gandalf took another puff of his pipe and wandered in time and thought.


Chapter 6 - From the Darkness Within to the Darkness Without

Aragorn kept watch over Theoden while Gandalf and Eowyn fled the haunted walls of Meduseld to speak. He felt that he kept watch over the dead.

Eowyn had returned from her interview with Gandalf, alone and grim-faced. As she crossed the throne hall, she had looked at him, and the despair of her glance had buffetted him like the hard winds of Rohan's plains. She had disappeared deeper into the hall, but returned soon carrying a tray. On it was a board with some dry bread and strips of tough, salted meat. This she handed to Aragorn. Then, she picked up the bowl that was on the tray and began to painstakingly spoon the thin, unsweetened gruel through Theoden's dry, cracked lips.

Isildur's heir watched her in silence as she fed the king, catching drips and spit-ups with the wooden spoon like a mother with a babe. He ate his bread and meat, swallowing the mess as best he could. He wondered if the Lady had eaten anything. Somehow, he doubted it.

At the end of this pitiful repast, Eowyn placed the board and bowl on the tray and looked at Aragorn as if deciding whether or not to speak. She took a deep breath.

"I would beg my lord's indulgence on a favor," she said quietly, her voice cold and even.

Aragorn inclined his head. "I am my lady's to command," he replied courteously.

"Keep watch over the king in my stead," Eowyn said simply. "I will prepare such supplies and aid as can be spared for you for your journey, but I dare not leave him without guard."

"I am grateful for the generosity of the Lady of the Golden Hall," Aragorn replied hesitantly. "Do you truly fear for the king's safety?" he added, unable to stop himself.

Eowyn's eyes narrowed a fraction as she gazed up at him. "You know very little of what passes within these walls," she said, and her voice was now ice. "And you should count that as a blessing, lest the knowledge drive you to despair...or madness."

Aragorn frowned. He wanted to object, to point out that he had seen more than enough upon their arrival with the painful scene with Grima. But Eowyn's closed expression and uninviting manner stayed his words.

"No harm shall come to Theoden King this day, my lady," he replied instead, bowing slightly to her.

Eowyn made no answer other than a quick nod, then turned and left the hall.

Aragorn turned back to Theoden, who now burped in his sleep and flexed his fingers instinctively around the armrests of the throne. He studied this fallen king, taking in the details with the piercing eye of a ranger who can hear the very heartbeat of the earth.

The king was not yet so old, Aragorn decided. It was the pox of Grima's power that made his pallor grey, his hair shaggy and his eyes crusted and rheumy from too much sleep. The skin of the king's hands was not yet shrivelled, and broad shoulders carried ragged robes. For a moment, Aragorn understood Eowyn's despair and frustration, playing nursemaid to a man still strong and only bewitched.

"What are the dark dreams in which you wander, Theoden King?" Aragorn whispered to the man. But there came no response. "Would you yet be king of your people again?"

Theoden burped and choked a little, stirring on the throne.

Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment, stilling himself and reaching back within his memory, and the blood memory of his forefathers. He felt the pulse of Numenor's race within himself. He summoned the wisdom of his race and felt it wash over him. Aragorn stood straighter and looked with the eyes of a king upon this stricken son of man.

"Fetch me a bowl of boiling water," he commanded one of the servants that scurried across the hall. The servant looked at him and was about to object that he had better things to do than fetch water for...but this stranger's gaze brooked no opposition. Soon, he returned with the bowl and left it on the edge of the dais for Aragorn.

The ranger took the bowl in one hand and sprinkled small, white dried flowers into it. Soon, the fragrant steam filled the air, and the atmosphere of the throne hall was not so oppressive. Aragorn held the bowl under Theoden's nose and watched as the warmth and healing of the athelas found its way into the king's enforced slumber.

Theoden's breathing grew steady and a faint flush of life returned to his sunken cheeks. He opened his eyes tentatively, blue eyes that were still unseeing of the world around him but not quite so dead as they had been.

"Theoden King," Aragorn said softly, his eyes fixed upon the man. "Theoden King, I summon you from the darkness."

Theoden's body shifted on the throne, his fingers flexed out as if in struggle. He blinked wearily, dizzily. Aragorn laid his warm hand on Theoden's forehead, willing his own energy and spirit into the man, like a mighty blast of cold air and light into a dank, dark place. Theoden twitched and shook his head, gasping as if awakening from a nightmare. His eyes grew more focused and he looked around, disoriented, confused but no longer fooled.

"I....I am here!" he gasped, his words distorted from lips out of practice at forming syllables.

Aragorn smiled gently. "Hail Theoden King," he said softly, bowing to the man.

Theoden stared at him, bewildered. Then, he looked around the empty hall and down at his filthy robes. "What has befallen the House of Eorl?" he asked, his dry voice cracking.

"A long night has passed, my king," came Gandalf's voice from the threshold of the great doors. Daylight poured into the hall and the smell of dewy earth and spring winds flooded the air. "But morning has come and the king has returned."


Chapter 7 - Promises Not Lightly Given

Gandalf approached Theoden, who struggled to stand. Aragorn helped the king to his feet, as Theoden stared about him in dismay.

"Where are the marshals?" Theoden demanded weakly. "Where is my son? Where is Eomer? Whither have gone the riders of the Riddermark?"

Gandalf nodded sympathetically. "They ride the borders of your beleaguered kingdom, Theoden," he said. "Orc pour over your lands like water, and the valiant riders of your house seek to dam the flood."

Theoden stared at him in horror.

"My lord!"

The anguished cry came but a moment before Eowyn had flown across the hall to stand at her uncle's side, displacing Aragorn. Theoden looked down at the fair face, as if searching his memory for her name. Was it his dear sister who called him thus? Was it Morwen Steelsheen returned?

Eowyn. It was Eowyn. But oh the look of despair in her eyes might break his heart. He had failed! Failed his people, failed his family, failed to withstand the ensaring cobwebs of wordspells woven around him like a spider binding her prey.

"Eowyn," he whispered brokenly. "What has brought thee to this pass?"

Eowyn nearly let go of Theoden, so great was her shock. He spoke as of old, with firm words and lordly timbre.

"Uncle! How is this...are you..." Eowyn could not finish her questions, for suddenly there were too many.

Theoden stared long and hard at Aragorn, who bore the gaze impassively.

"I am returned, and only death will take me from my rightful rule again," he said grimly.


~~~

There was little ale and less food, but what there was of it was given freely to the people of Meduseld that night. Torches burned in the great hall, and all celebrated the return to 'good health' of their beloved king.

Hale song, hearty laughter and furtive lovemaking in dark corners filled the Golden Hall, and it seemed that a shadow so newly departed could not so soon return.

"What you say is madness, Gandalf," Theoden said quietly as the two of them sat on the dais, watching the revelers. "Yours is a quest without hope."

"Nay, Theoden King," Gandalf replied unflappably. "It is a quest *for* hope. The last hope of Middle Earth."

Theoden sat and sipped the mead in his bronze chalice. It was good to taste food and drink again, to actually taste it.

"And what would you have the Horse Lords do?" Theoden asked coldly.

"Ride to the aid of Gondor," Gandalf replied instantly. "There are yet those who fight valiantly to defend Minas Tirith, and to see Rohan rekindled would draw the eye of the Enemy from his own lands."

"And onto mine own," Theoden growled. "To see that my half-starved people are like lambs for the slaughter. I'll not do it. I'll not invite war to Rohan, nor would I empty her of riders to go defend another kingdom. For where was Gondor while I slept? What aid did they send us? What succor in dark times did they think to offer their brethren? Nay, Gondor prides itself on its pride. I will pride myself on seeing my people survive."

Gandalf paused, many things of past and present and future unfolding in his mind. "As you say, my king," he said mildly. "As you say..."

The wizard's eyes drifted over the gay Rohirrim, finding the dark figure of Aragorn standing alone and still. No. Not alone. For a familiar golden head stood at his side. The wizard smiled thoughtfully.

Eowyn had approached Aragorn with a chalice, to offer him her thanks for the healing of Theoden. He had accepted her thanks and drunk deep of the warm mead. But he was troubled.

"My lady," he whispered. "I still fear for you within this hall."

"You do?" Eowyn said with a small laugh, somewhat awkward from disuse.

"The king's advisor, Grima, son of Galmod - "

"Have no worries for him, my lord," Eowyn replied quickly and coldly.

Aragorn stared at her, his eyes questioning her. Eowyn smiled, a small, soft smile of satisfaction.

"Wormtongue is gone from here," she said. "He fled not long after my uncle awoke. But he was dispatched without undue trouble by good Hama, and his cursed tongue now lies still."

Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief. "I am glad he will no longer trouble you, my lady," he said softly.

Eowyn looked up at him sharply, then looked away. "It is passed now, I would speak of it no more," she said curtly, for indeed, such memories were not pleasant to think of. Not on a night that was supposed to be joyous.

For a moment, they were silent together, watching the people mill about. Aragorn's thoughts drifted back to Arwen. She had said she would wait for him until the last ship left for Valinor. She had said she had faith in him. But he felt sands of time slipping through his fingers, and he could almost see the sails of the white ship unfurling in the last dawn in Middle Earth. But thus he would sacrifice his heart's desire to ensure that Middle Earth had another morning. To ensure that the White Lady of Rohan might find joy again in a spring come again. That the folk who worked the land and tended the shops, and even brewed the ale they now drank could do so in light and freedom.

"I know what it is you seek to do."

Eowyn's voice was soft, meant for him alone. He looked down at the maiden again. "Indeed?"

"Aye, and had you asked me this morning if I believe it could be done, I would have doubted," she said. "But now, I have hope."

Aragorn's expression was inscrutable.

"Then cling to it, my lady, for you will have need of it in the days to come," he said.

Eowyn looked up at him. "I do not know what my uncle will do to aid your cause, Lord Aragorn," she whispered fiercely. "But I will do all in my power to help. You have the word of Eomund's daughter."

Aragorn was touched and he bowed to her. "I am honored, and I - "

His words were cut off by a joyous shout. A paige had arrived, breathless and jubilant.

"Prince Theodred, Lord Eomer!" he cried out. "They are returned! They are come!"
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