Darkness Unescapable

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."