Live Journal FeedChapter Eighteen: Sisterly Bonds
Riding was much more uncomfortable than Hermione had expected. She was weary from being in the saddle for so long, but fearing that she would drift off to sleep and fall, she forced herself to stay awake by nibbling lembas and taking sips of water. I will not slow them down, she thought fiercely, not when Ron’s life may be at stake. The horse was gentle enough, but the constant jolting rattled Hermione’s teeth.
“How much farther?” she called to Legolas and Aragorn.
The Elf looked back at her. Hermione felt a twinge of annoyance – here she was, exhausted and dusty, her bushy hair coming out of its braid, and yet Legolas looked as though he had just risen from sleep and combed his still-immaculately braided hair. At least Aragorn looked like he had traveled just as many leagues as she had.
“Not far,” Legolas said.
“It is just beyond this ridge,” Aragorn added.
They rode to the top and drew to a halt, waiting for Hermione to catch up. Gimli was muttering, “Hurry up then, laddie. We’re not all tireless.”
A breathtaking sight met Hermione’s eyes: a hill dotted with houses and framed by snow-capped mountains. The pristine sight was completed by the presence of what could only have been a palace at the top of the hill. Even from far away, Hermione could tell that its architecture was far more elaborate than any other building; its thatching gleamed like gold in the sunlight.
“Oh – it’s beautiful!” she sighed.
“The city of Edoras,” Aragorn nodded. “And there is the hall of Meduseld, home of King Théoden. I have been here once before, when Théoden was but a small boy. Alas that I could not have returned at a happier time!”
They sat there for a few moments with the breeze as the only sound. Then Legolas said, “Danger lies before us. Saruman’s arm has grown long indeed, that he is able to cause unrest from such a distance.”
“Aye, that’s well said,” Gimli nodded. “Lass –” He turned to face Hermione. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
Hermione drew out her wand and fingered it carefully. “I have to. It isn’t fair that Saruman should steal these people’s lives!”
She let the wand slide into position and held it before her. The feeling of warm familiarity – the feeling of magic ready to be unleashed after long disuse – tingled down her arm as she held the wand, but she spoke no incantation. New energy at the thought of doing magic again rushed into her. She was secure in the knowledge that while she could perform spell after spell without tiring, Saruman’s power came from his very spirit, and each spell he threw at her would weaken him. I can do it.
“Well, let’s go then!” she said, stowing her wand back under her cloak.
They cantered across the plain, closing the distance between themselves and Edoras. A nervousness began to rise inside of Hermione as they drew closer, but the determined half of her pushed it into the back of her mind.
Edoras had looked pristine enough from far away, but a closer look revealed the grim inhabitants. Peasants stared as they rode up to the hall of Meduseld, only the faintest flicker of hope in their eyes. Glancing up, Hermione caught a glimpse of white fabric disappearing into the hall. Someone had spotted them and knew they were coming.
“There’s more cheer in a graveyard,” Gimli muttered.
They finally reached the huge building, which Hermione immediately recognized as a palace. Its architecture, while not nearly as graceful as that of the elves, was nevertheless ornate. Truth be told, the style of the buildings and the round shields of the guards strongly reminded Hermione of the Anglo-Saxon armor she had seen at the British Museum when she was young.
Hermione dismounted gratefully and allowed the horse to be led off. She forced herself to stand upright and walk erect despite her aches and pains. If she was going to rescue the King, she wasn’t going to show any sign of weakness.
The stable hands appeared surprised to see her traveling in such – to them, anyway – strange attire and with such companions. Ignoring them, Hermione silently proceeded up the steps with the other three. A guard was waiting for them.
“We seek an audience with King Théoden,” Aragorn said clearly. “We are friends of Rohan.”
The guard scrutinized each of them in turn. “A strange company,” he said. “Who are you?”
“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Ranger of the North. And this is Legolas of the Woodland Realm, Gimli son of Glóin of the Lonely Mountain, and Hermione Granger.”
The guard looked once more at Hermione, frowning at the unusual method of introduction. “And from where does she hail?”
“The village of Bree,” Hermione said quickly. It wasn’t entirely a lie. “I am – was – a student of Gandalf the Grey. I bring news for your King.”
The last part, she had thought, would be her best chance of getting close to Théoden, for she could hardly walk inside and begin to perform her spell. The guard started at Gandalf’s name, but gave a slow nod. “Very well. But I cannot permit you before the King so armed.”
The companions looked at one another hesitantly. Then Aragorn unbuckled his sword and handed it to another waiting guard. Legolas handed over his bow. Hermione hesitated for an instant before following suit. She unbuckled her quiver, but as she passed it to a guard, she said, “Be careful with the bundle. It belongs to a friend.”
The guard nodded as his hands closed around the quiver and he took it away. After unbuckling her sword, Hermione checked to make sure that her wand was concealed but in easy reach. She felt strangely defenseless without the weight of the Elven weapons at her back and side. She looked at each of her companions in turn; they nodded grimly. Feeling suddenly cold and clammy with nerves, Hermione entered the hall.
The throne room was spacious, with rafters crossing high overhead. But it was dark and had an oppressively gloomy air, for the fire remained unlit. The doors boomed ominously shut behind the companions. With a final shaky glance back, Hermione strode forward towards the throne. King Théoden looked old and weary, his head and back bent as though his crown were too heavy.
“Hail King Théoden,” Aragorn said. “We bring tidings from the North.”
It was not Théoden who replied, for his mouth remained unmoving.
“What manner of company is this, that you so desperately sought an audience with the King?” an oily, nasal voice asked. A man emerged from the shadows by the throne and placed a thin, bony hand on Théoden’s arm, whispering in the King’s ear. His pale eyes met Hermione’s, and his mouth curled in a sneer. “The King does not wish for your company.”
“Let him speak for himself,” Hermione said evenly before Aragorn could speak.
“The King is ill. No one – a woman, much less – can determine whether he will see an audience or nay. Only the King.”
“Only you, you mean,” Hermione said, fitting the final pieces of the puzzle in place. He’s working with Saruman. “At least let me take a look at him.”
Gríma shook his head. “He is not unwell. He need not be examined.”
“Then why did you say that he was ill just a moment ago?”
The man spluttered for a moment before his expression turned to one of anger. “The King does not desire your presence. Leave.”
“I will not. Step aside.”
He did not move.
“Everyone knows where your loyalties lie, I’m sure,” Hermione said. “If the King were able to think for himself, I am sure that he would dismiss you straight away.”
The man looked startled for an instant, but he straightened his heavy robes and smoothly said, “I, Gríma, a traitor to Rohan? I have been nothing but loyal – ”
“Loyal to whoever offers you the best payment, is that it?” Hermione drew her wand and pointed it at the man. “Get down from there.” Legolas made a movement to stop her, but she waved him off. “Get away from him!”
Gríma was staring at her wand with something akin to fear. “She knows Gandalf!” he said, voice rising in panic. “Fools! I told you to be certain they were unarmed!”
A pair of Gríma’s cronies lunged at Hermione, but Aragorn and Legolas fought them away. Gríma tripped over his heavy, dark robes, and was pinned to the ground by Gimli’s foot.
Hermione left the commotion behind and ran to the King’s side. “Your Majesty!” she said, kneeling and placing a hand on his arm, hoping to catch his attention.
Théoden raised his head slowly. His eyes looked misty and vacant. Then, quite suddenly, they seemed to darken and see her. A sneer twisted Théoden’s lips, and an expression close to anger bloomed in his eyes.
“Foolish girl,” he rasped. “You do not know what you are doing.”
The voice isn’t his…It’s not him…Ignore it… “I know exactly what I’m doing, Saruman.” The fingers wrapped around her wand were cold, but her arm was steady as she raised it and pointed the wand.
A gasp behind her made her whirl around. There stood a young woman dressed in white. She looked to be only a little older than Hermione herself, and her grey eyes were regarding Théoden in fear.
“Uncle?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“He’s in there somewhere,” Hermione said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. She knew the incantation, she had read the theory, but she had to pronounce the words first. What if the spell went wrong?
The woman gazed at her in amazement. “Please – can you do nothing?”
“I will free him.” There was nothing left for her to do but speak the incantation and pray that it worked.
“Legilimens! ”
Performing the spell on an Imperiused person resulted in a different effect. She was taken not into Théoden’s mind, but the mind of his captor.
Saruman.
Hermione was pleased to see that the spell had taken her elsewhere. The world was a little blurry, but she could make out a tall room with walls of dark stone and a cloth-covered pedestal in the center. She did not have time to dwell on this, though. She gripped the wand in her hand – it seemed that even in this world, she had physical form.
“So.”
Hermione turned to see an old man leaning heavily on a staff, a half-smile playing about his lips. “You are young and rash,” he said in his powerful voice. “Leave now and you may escape unharmed.”
She stood her ground and gripped her wand so tightly that she worried it might break. “Let him go,” she said, willing her voice to remain steady.
“I think not,” Saruman replied. “He will die if I leave.”
It was Hermione’s turn to laugh. “Die? Hardly. You have him under the Imperius Curse. If you leave, he will be free to think for himself again!”
“No,” Saruman repeated.
Hermione raised her wand. “Then I will force you out,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Fool. Do not even try to defeat me.”
She responded with a Reductor Curse that shattered the floor near his feet. Smiling at his discomfiture, Hermione asked, “What?”
Saruman shot back with a spell that knocked Hermione back so hard that she hit her head on the floor. Dazed, she fired a Stunning Spell, blinking to clear her vision. As she stood up, she saw that Saruman had not been knocked out as she had hoped. But he was leaning more heavily on his staff than before….If she could weaken his hold enough to perform the final spell that would banish him from Théoden’s mind, she might stand a chance. And the only way to provoke him into using magic would be to anger him into forgetting about that fact.
“Are you scared?” she taunted. Never in her mind had she thought she would try to imitate Draco Malfoy, but she pictured his sneering face and directed all her thoughts to mimicking his mocking tones. “Frightened that a woman-no, a girl! - might beat you?”
With an unpleasant snarl, Saruman pointed his staff at her – but this time, she was ready. The Shield Charm lessened the effect of his spell, but Hermione felt a sudden weakness rush through her nonetheless. She fell to her knees.
“You were warned, young one,” Saruman said. “I told your friend much the same thing. A pity he did not listen.”
Ron. Hermione’s lips formed his name soundlessly.
“Yes,” Saruman bent cruelly. “Know that you have failed, both to rescue your friend and to save Théoden.” He raised his staff a final time.
Anger blazed through Hermione’s chest. The Unforgiveable was on her lips – she had never hated anyone so much, even Malfoy – she lost control.
“Crucio! ” she screamed.
It was not the spell it was meant to be; Saruman did not fall to the ground screaming in agony. But it was enough to make his aim go awry. He recovered, and Hermione, who was still stunned by what she had tried to do, took the full force of his spell.
Weakness, a draining weakness, rushed through her limbs. But through her misted vision, she saw Saruman leaning heavily on his staff, breathing hard. With her final strength, she pointed her wand at Saruman and cried, “Animus cedum! ”
Saruman was blasted onto his back – Hermione felt the world tilt and then she was falling through darkness…
The last thing she remembered were the faces of her companions looking worriedly down at her. She saw the King rise and gaze at her with wonder – then, knowing she had accomplished the task she had set out to do, Hermione slipped into unconsciousness.
* * *
When she came to, Hermione found herself in a dimly lit room. Someone was patting her brow with a cool, damp cloth. Hermione opened her eyes to see the woman from earlier looking at her with concern.
“You’re alive,” she said. “Your companions were fearful that it was not so, even when Lord Aragorn said that you were still with us.”
Hermione raised her head a few inches. “What happened? Where am I?”
The woman gave a small smile. “You saved my uncle, and for that I thank you,” she replied. “But you collapsed with the effort. The King ordered for you to be brought to a quieter chamber.”
“Oh,” Hermione said. She pushed herself into a sitting position and spotted her wand lying on the bedside table.
“Forgive me,” the woman said. “My name is Éowyn.”
Hermione smiled as she picked up her wand. “Hermione Granger.”
Éowyn was looking at the wand in fascination. “You showed a great deal of power and skill in the ways of magic,” she said. “Only the very wise, my Lady – ”
“Oh, stop it!” Hermione laughed. Éowyn looked puzzled. “No, really, where I come from I’m only a student. And I’m only seventeen.”
“Only – ”
“Seventeen, yes,” Hermione said. “I should be the one calling you my Lady, seeing as you’re the King’s niece…”
“No,” Éowyn said. “You have earned King Théoden’s respect. You may call me Éowyn.”
“Then…Éowyn. Call me Hermione. I deserve nothing better – I want nothing better.”
“Very well,” the older woman replied. “Tell me, how did you come to be in the company of a Man, Elf, and Dwarf? And bearing weapons made with such skill!”
Hermione sighed. “That’s a long story. I’ll tell you, but not now. I don’t know how much the others will allow me to say. Our mission is dangerous. She looked at Éowyn again. “You want to find out if you can come too, don’t you?”
The other woman looked away. “Always, I wanted to be in the company of the Riders as an equal, in the glory of battle. I can fight, but they do not see that! All they see is a woman who may be a weak point in battle – merely because she is a woman.” She sighed. “You are younger than I am. By your age, my brother had been a Rider for two years!”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” Hermione said. “I did have to fight to go with them – but my two friends were going, and I wasn’t about to leave them behind.”
“Where are they?”
“One…I don’t know. But the other was captured by Saruman’s Uruks. We were following them, but he was taken too far into Saruman’s realm for safety…and he’s completely defenseless…We were hoping that Théoden could provide some sort of help, but…”
“He will help you,” Éowyn said with conviction. “He is grateful for what you have done.”
“Doesn’t he have any children?” Hermione asked. “Why wasn’t anyone around to fight against that…Gríma?”
Éowyn’s expression clouded. “That snake had my brother banished from Rohan while he still held sway over the King. Gríma Wormtongue– ” she spat the name with contempt, “ – has fled since my uncle’s recovery, most likely to Saruman. As for Théoden’s son – my cousin – Théodred was slain in an ambush by Saruman’s Uruks. He was buried just today, after the King’s return.”
“I’m so sorry,” Hermione said softly. “I wish I was here sooner.”
“As do we all. But come! I am forgetting already – the servants are to attend you, to help you bathe and get dressed before the King meets you again. I imagine that you would like to wash the dust of the road away.”
“Thank you!” Hermione said. “A bath would be wonderful.”
Éowyn summoned a servant, who led Hermione down the hall to the bathing quarters. Despite her efforts, they continued to bob and curtsey and call her “My Lady” as they filled the bath. With an effort, Hermione shooed them away, saying that she could take care of herself. The women placed a bar of herb-scented soap next to the tub and a drying cloth close by before curtsying out. Hermione sighed. How would she stop them from treating her so? All she had done was save Théoden by removing the Imperius Curse.
She sank into the warn water, reveling in the feeling of becoming clean. She reached over the side of the wooden tub, picked up the soap, and began to scrub herself all over. She also undid her braid and washed her hair free of dirt. Not since Lothlórien had she felt this clean.
It was only when she stepped out of the tub and dried herself off that she realized that she had no idea what to do next. Her old and dirty clothes were lying in the corner, but she could not very well put them on. She tightened the cloth around her.
“Help!” she called, feeling a little foolish.
A servant, who had likely been waiting just outside, came in with a bundle of burgundy cloth. Smiling, she said, “Here, my Lady. The Lady Éowyn has asked that you wear this.” She undid the bundle to reveal fresh stockings and a shift, but also a well-made dress edged with golden thread.
“No…I couldn’t possibly – ”
”It was the Lady Éowyn's,” said the maid. “But she’s long outgrown it.”
Hermione gawked at the dress, looking it up and down. It looked almost new. “It used to be hers? But it looks so…so…”
“Aye, that it does,” the maid agreed. “The Lady grew too quickly after this was made, and could hardly use it. So she laid it aside. Now she asks – insists – that you wear it.”
“Well…”
Hermione considered the dress, looking at it this way and that. The sleeves were wide where they opened for her hands, but the upper arm was tied in place with laces just above the elbow. A slender belt, which lay next to the shift and stockings, went around the waist.
“All right.” The maid placed it down carefully and took up the shift, making to help Hermione put it on. The young witch held up her hand, saying, “I might need help with the dress, but if you could please turn away while I put this on…”
The maid looked puzzled, but she handed Hermione the shift and turned her back. Hermione tugged it on as fast as she could and reached for the stockings. When she was done, she took up the dress and slipped it over her head. It fit fairly well, considering that it had been made for a younger Éowyn. With the maid’s help, she got the sleeves and back laced up properly, and placed the belt around her waist. Now I understand why people need help getting dressed here, she thought.
“It suits you,” the woman said, handing Hermione a bone comb to take the tangles out of her hair. She tugged the knots out of her bushy locks carefully, afraid that the comb’s teeth would break, but after much painstaking work she managed to get her hair relatively smooth. After slipping on her boots – her clothes would be taken elsewhere and cleaned, the maid told her – she went back to the chamber to retrieve her wand and found Éowyn waiting there.
“You look lovely,” Éowyn said. “Here, I will braid your hair for you.”
“I can do it – ”
“Consider it part of my gratitude,” Éowyn said. “Please?”
Hermione sighed, but sat on a stool so that Éowyn could do her work. The other woman’s fingers flew, quickly weaving her hair into an elaborate braid that was pinned into a knot at the nape of Hermione’s neck.
“It’s going to come out later,” Hermione sighed. “Normally I can’t even get it in a simple braid without effort, but it looks very pretty. Thank you.”
Éowyn nodded. “Come, it is time to see the King.”
Hermione picked her wand up from the bedside table before following Éowyn out the door. As they walked down the hall, Hermione marveled at the architecture and tapestries that covered the walls.
“Do you have a library?” she asked eagerly.
“Library?” Éowyn said.
“Books?”
“No, our history and stories are all passed between generations by the spoken word. Scribes in Gondor have recorded our history for us, as we have no written language of our own.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, disappointed and baffled at the same time. How could anyone carry on without books?
They entered the main hall to find Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli gathered around a table. A pair of young children were seated at another, eating what was set before them hungrily.
“Ah, so there really was a lass under all that dirt!” Gimli joked, grinning as he lifted his tankard of ale. Hermione smiled back at him before she turned to follow Éowyn.
The throne room was considerably brighter now in the later afternoon, with the doors flung open and the fire lit. King Théoden sat upon his throne; Hermione curtsied when she stood before him out of respect for his title.
“No, rise!” Théoden said. “You need not bow to me, young sorceress, for you have saved my life.”
Startled, Hermione glanced back at her traveling companions, but they nodded in encouragement. She looked again at Théoden. His face was less lined than it had been earlier, and he seemed much more aware of his surroundings. A grateful smile was on his face. “Éowyn has told me that you are yet young. Where did you learn such magic?”
“I learned from Gandalf, after a fashion,” Hermione said, sticking with the story she had given earlier. “But my magic is a little…different from his.”
“Different, but powerful all the same. I am sorry to hear that your teacher fell in the Mines of Moria.”
Hermione bowed her head. “We all miss him.”
“As do I. I regret that my parting words to him when I saw him last were not given entirely in friendship. Alas, I wish we could all make merry in thanks to you, but there is a more pressing matter at hand.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean to say – those two children have brought ill tidings.” He nodded his head at the youngsters seated across the hall. “Wild men and Uruks are attacking villages of Rohan in the Westfold, heading ever closer to Edoras.”
“Your Majesty…”
“You were taught by Gandalf. I trust your wisdom.”
Not wisdom. But I’ll think it over. “What are your options?”
Théoden sighed. “I am loath to order the people to leave Edoras. And yet – ”
“With all the wood and thatch used here, it would burn easily,” Hermione mused. “Do you have soldiers? Any defenses?”
“No. I – I’m afraid that they went with Éomer when he was banished by Gríma.”
Hermione chose her words carefully. “Saruman will not be happy with my freeing you. You can be sure that he will send more armies this way – and more, considering that he is working with Sauron.” She had come to that conclusion days before, realizing that Saruman could only have captured the Hobbits and Ron if he was after the Ring. “Your Majesty – I’m very cautious by nature, and I can only see one choice: to leave Edoras and go to safety.”
“Safety!” Gimli burst out. “You should stand and fight!”
“Helm’s Deep has protected the people of Rohan before,” Théoden said. “We can outlast any attack in there.”
“He doesn’t have the men to mount any sort of counterattack, Gimli,” Hermione said. “Isn’t the best plan to go to safety?”
“The Uruks look to destroy the people of Rohan!” the Dwarf exclaimed. “Saruman is their leader; he will not give up until everyone is slaughtered!”
“Two thousand men are riding with Éomer,” Aragorn added before Théoden could say anything. “Send a few swift riders out to search for them and bring them back. They will return.”
Théoden shook his head. “They are leagues away, with many days’ head start. Theirs are the swiftest horses. And even if we could reach them, I could not risk such an open act of war against Saruman. I cannot risk the lives of my people!”
“You have no choice!” Aragorn said. “Saruman seeks to destroy the very people you wish to protect! Find Éomer’s company of men, draw them back.”
The King looked coolly back at Aragorn. “Who is King here?”
Aragorn made no reply.
“Please,” Hermione said quietly. “King Théoden – Aragorn has a point. Éomer’s men will come back if they are called. I have seen them; they are loyal to you. I fear that the only choice you have is to make for safety and wait until Éomer’s men arrive before making a stand. If you don’t…Saruman will continue to attack. I’m sure of it.”
Théoden stood and paced restlessly.
“What will you do?” Hermione asked.
He took a deep breath and faced her. “I shall order the people of Edoras to take refuge in the fortress of Helm’s Deep. There we shall wait for Éomer’s men. That is my wish.”
* * *
Later, after they had eaten, the companions chose to wander out of doors. The city’s residents were gathering their belongings in a flurry of motion all around them. Éowyn had found a more serviceable gown for Hermione.
“Helm’s Deep!” Gimli muttered. “I say they should stand their ground. He chooses to flee rather than to fight!”
“We’re not all as brave as you, Gimli,” Hermione said. “And besides….Théoden has the lives of his people to think about. If they had the soldiers they needed, perhaps I would think that staying here would be better. But the fortress sounds like the best option to take.”
“Yes, but they will be trapped,” Legolas said. “Saruman’s army will have strength in numbers. How long will the people of Rohan last against so many?”
“And with all those machines of war,” Gimli added. “Saruman is determined to destroy them, that’s certain.”
“And that’s why they have to head for Helm’s Deep!” Hermione said. “They can’t just stay here and wait to be killed!”
“They should at least make a stand at the fortress, then,” Gimli said. “If it’s as good as Théoden says it is…”
Hermione glanced about her. “Look around you, Gimli. These people are not soldiers. Théoden knows that and wants to make sure they are all safe!”
Aragorn spoke. “Then, Hermione, you must convince the King that battle may be necessary. Éomer and his men are leagues away; it will be days before they arrive, even if they are found. I hope that there will be no need to stand and fight, but we must be ready,”
“As ready as we can be without proper soldiers,” Hermione said bitterly. “All he wants is to keep the people safe. Trying to outfit them for battle…they aren’t soldiers! It’s suicide!”
“It is a trap, no matter which way you look at it,” Aragorn sighed. “There may be a need to fight.”
“And I say that there might not be! He says they can outlast the Uruks by staying within Helm’s Deep!”
“You are still young and do not know the ways of battle,” Aragorn said, in a presumably gentle voice. “It is likely that Saruman has weapons the like of which we have not yet seen, and against which the fortress would prove ineffective. He will lay siege to the fortress.”
“They can’t possibly fight!” Hermione said. “Look at them – all are too old or too young, and most have probably never even handled a sword!”
“Hermione –” Legolas said.
“There’s nothing more I can say to Théoden,” she said, cutting him off. “I’m going back to find my things so I can be packed.” In reality, her belongings were already stowed in her bags, but she felt the need to get away.
With that, she whirled around and began heading up to Meduseld. Someone probably made to follow her, because she heard Gimli’s voice saying, “Let her be. She’ll want to be alone.”
She had understood what they were trying to communicate to her, of course. But she could not convince Théoden to make his people stand and fight, not when they were so unprepared! So many lives were in her hands – and she was frightened for it.
Already she feared for her own life and those of her companions. If she had thought that worrying whether Voldemort would attack was real fear, she had been wrong. Voldemort was, to her, still a very nebulous idea. She had never encountered him face-to-face, not like Harry had. This fear – the fear that she and her friends might not survive if there would be a battle – was much more tangible.
It was a huge risk for Théoden to take, hanging his people’s lives on her advice. She had not reckoned that he would do such a thing, considering that she was so young.
You see? An inner voice asked. This is what happens when you meddle.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to ignore the guilt that was rising inside of her. What had she done? All she had wanted to do was find Ron. And now she was not even sure if he and the Hobbits were still alive.
Hermione found Éowyn in the main hall, looking through a trunk. The older woman pulled a sheathed sword from the very bottom of the trunk. She drew it out, laid the sheath to the side, and began to practice forms in a fluid motion. Hermione watched, recognizing a few of her moves.
“You’re quite good, you know,” Hermione remarked. “Who taught you how to use a sword?”
Éowyn held her blade in front of her with practiced ease. “My brother taught me, when we were young – before he was old enough to be a Rider. Now I simply remember the forms and practice on occasion.” She motioned to her right. “Your own sword is over there. It is very well made.”
“Thank you,” Hermione said. She walked over to the table, finding her bow, quiver, and sword all intact. The bundle of Ron’s things was still tightly wrapped. “The Elves made it for me, in Rivendell. I needed one for the Quest. Aragorn taught my friends and me how to use them, though my best weapon is the bow.”
“Would you like to practice?” Éowyn asked.
“Against you?”
She nodded.
“You’re going to win, I’m not used to fighting in skirts.” Hermione drew her blade out and smiled. “But I’ll try.”
They took up positions across from one another and raised their swords. Hermione studied Éowyn’s stance, trying to determine what moves the other woman would use. A counterattack using Elven forms would probably work very well to Hermione’s advantage; it was likely that Éowyn had never used those particular moves.
The blonde woman attacked swiftly, and the strength with which she wielded her blade surprised Hermione. It was immediately clear that Éowyn practiced regularly enough to know exactly what she was doing. Hermione herself had not used her sword frequently enough to move through the various Elven forms as smoothly or as swiftly as she would have liked, and Éowyn’s skills were enough to force Hermione back for several feet…
Soon enough, however, the moves came back to Hermione. Éowyn’s expression turned to one of slight surprise to intense concentration as they continued to spar, this time with Hermione on the offensive.
There was a slight movement off to the side, but Hermione paid it no heed. Her opponent, however, was momentarily distracted, and Hermione took the opportunity to disarm Éowyn with quick movement. The blonde woman’s sword fell to the ground with a clang.
“You both fight well,” came Aragorn’s voice. Hermione faced him, but he directed his next words towards Éowyn. “It is somewhat surprising to find yet another young woman who knows how to properly wield a weapon.”
Hermione looked at Éowyn. The other woman was flushed – and it could hardly be from the short bout of sparring. Her mouth opened and closed once soundlessly before she turned to put the sword away, saying, “The women of Rohan know that those who cannot use swords can still die upon them. I fear little – death and pain are no object.”
“Then what is it you fear, Lady Éowyn?”
She paused before saying softly, “To be locked away, until any chance of glory is beyond my reach. I have not had the freedom that Hermione was given, to fight beside men in battle. How else is renown to be gained? That is something I cannot see.”
“Éowyn,” Hermione said, “I’m sure that there has to be some way – ”
“It would never be allowed,” the other woman cut in. “It will be my fate, to be overly protected thus.”
“You are the daughter of kings, and a shieldmaiden of Rohan,” Aragorn said. “I do not think that will be your fate.”
To Hermione’s surprise, Éowyn turned a slightly pinker color at these words. “Thank you, my Lord Aragorn. Now I must see to the preparations once more.” She turned away and began to pack more items into the trunk on top of the sword, her hair swinging before her face as if to hide to rising color.
Aragorn beckoned to Hermione. “Your preparations are completed?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I have a spare dress – one of Éowyn’s old ones – and the clothes I have been wearing for the Quest packed away, together with my weapons and some food.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you did not want to wear a dress while traveling?”
“Éowyn insisted.”
“Have you spoken to Théoden?”
“No!” she said vehemently. “You heard me earlier – there’s little I can do to convince him. What else am I supposed to say? The people here in Edoras are not fighters – they would be massacred!” She endeavored to keep her voice low, as Éowyn was still nearby. “Could you just leave me alone?”
Aragorn’s mouth tightened, but he wordlessly walked away. Hermione strode back over to where Éowyn was so that she could put her sword away.
“I am almost ready,” the other woman said. She sighed and looked around. “I have lived here for years. It is almost terrifying to think that it might not be here if – when we return.”
“It will be,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice confident. In speaking with her companions she had deduced that Saruman wished to destroy the people of Rohan, not their possessions. “We will return. We must.” Sheathing her sword, she took up her belongings and made for the stables.
