Darkness Unescapable

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."