Darkness Unescapable

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.