Darkness Unescapable

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.