Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and (just to cover all the bases) New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to me. I will not receive any remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. In addition, this work is my intellectual property, and may not be copied or redistributed without my express, written permission.
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This story is rated M for a reason: language, violence, and eventual sexual situations.
The Light Within,
Prologue: Passage
by: Sherrywine
People are like stained-glass windows: they sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within.
~Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
FO 63
The royal hall of Meduseld, the resplendent creation of great king Brego, was as silent and still as a tomb. Its occupants were ensconced in mourning, the ladies of the court shrouded in black, and the servants were somber as they went about their daily tasks. Despite the strong autumn sun and pleasant temperature outside, the sweet-tempered blue jays that made the outer parapets home were lacking in song, and the mead-hall lay similarly hushed. It was as if the entire place had fallen victim to a curse. Such was the result of a beloved king's passing.
Deep inside the walls, Rohan's Queen grieved most strongly of all.
"Milady...?"
The soft voice of a servant girl, Elia, interrupted the quiet of the cool, August day, and the slip of a girl stepped tentatively into the Queen's private chamber. There was a wealth of uncertainty inside her words; the girl was unsure how she would be received. Even if she would be received, for the Queen had closed herself off from all but her own children. The servant scanned the shadowed room, unable to locate the woman who she sought at first.
The Queen stood on the balcony. "My Queen… ?" Elia tried again, knowing her lady would need to hear the information she bore.
Ignoring the servant in favor of drinking in the last vestiges of that warm day on her face, the elder woman breathed in the crisp air sweet with fresh grass and herbs as she stood stiffly on the balcony.
The Queen could not bring herself to turn from the balcony and gaze into the girl's young, sweet face – not today of all days. A mourning day, indeed. The servant was a too-personal reminder of days gone by; with a face that, should she choose to look, would surely be as flushed with youthful life as her own face had once been, and never would be again. The years had passed for the Queen and her King all too quickly. Today was a day of deeply saddened reflection, and she could not shake that heavy specter named Grief.
Sighing lightly, features carefully schooled after many years of practice, the Queen allowed her thoughts to carry her away. She was old, now; the years of her life had passed before her as steadily and swiftly and unrelenting as the coming of spring after a long winter. Those years had crawled so slowly, carrying both heavy sorrows and boundless joys. And yet, with one careful, long look back at the whole of her experiences, time seemed to have flashed away more quickly than she ever could have imagined. It was as if time had moved in a wave of experiences, there one second and receding the next.
There was a time when she was as meek and unsure as the maid herself. Now she was an elder among her people. The Queen braved a look at her deeply veined hands, wincing at how they curved with arthritis and at how paper-thin skin layered over deep blue veins. Old, indeed. On this day of days, for the first time in her life, the Queen truly felt her age.
Yet the mirror did not reflect the person she saw in her mind's eye. Had it only been days past that she and her husband had playfully bemoaned the failings of old age to one another? No longer had they been able to chase and run about with their grandchildren, and the hot flood of desire that had been ever present between them had lowered to a simmering awareness never to be forgotten, though rarely stirred.
"You are as beautiful to me as you were when we met," he had said, big, bony hands cupping her wrinkled cheeks. He had to have been lying, but after these many years, he knew how to make her smile. That gentle side that so few ever saw.. He had never been a man of sweet words of comfort; Éomer was a warrior through and through, and the many years at his side had not blunted the sharp blade his words could wield in a battle of words, nor the wickedness of his intellect. Though he rarely scored her with his weapons of speech anymore, many a man had had the unfortunate experience of facing them.
And then, sooner than she would ever be prepared for, he was gone. It was in these quiet moments that she struggled the most with his passing. It was an empty vacuum of space without him in it. She was left alone – a half of what once was whole. Without him, suffocating and dying a slow death herself. The grief could scarcely be managed. Tomorrow, she would bury the man her heart and her very future had been given to. The enormity of that task she could not face. Not yet. Only years of training had kept her tears from drowning her.
Knowing the servant girl was waiting on her, albeit patiently, the Queen of Rohan finally turned, gracing the young woman with a small smile, the tremble in her lips barely discernible, and certainly not to the young girl in front of her. The gesture could not possibly reach her eyes, despite her efforts. It was enough that she was trying, and all of Edoras could see that, at least.
"Elia," the queen murmured gently, gliding towards the youthful, small girl despite the age of her limbs, "You have news for me."
It was not a question. The Queen already knew what information the girl had come to share with her. The servant met her clear gaze tentatively before sliding away, in awe and embarrassment. This was her Lady, a woman she knew to be many things: kind of heart, gentle and loving of spirit, delicate of bone and muscle, but strong and as enduring as the mountains in the distance. This woman had seen and done many things, weathered many hurts. But never, never, never had anyone seen that look upon her face.
A soul shattered irrevocably.
The Queen thought she knew what the servant saw as she looked into in her face. Deep grooves of time, marked there by so many years of laughter and love, now stamped clearly with grief. She was unaware of how transparent she had become, and saw only how there was pain mirrored in the young servant's eyes. All of Rohan was grieving just as she was, for its' good king lost to death's embracing sleep. It was all so unexpected. As a woman, the Queen wanted to lay down and die along with him, but as a Queen, she knew there was no other choice but to endure. So while Rohan grieved the loss of noble, prosperous, good years that had passed under Éomer's reign, his Queen could not afford to. Her husband would have expected no less from his consort.
How would she get through the next day? Even now her mind strayed from duty.
The Queen despaired and trembled inside, knowing all that would be expected of her in the coming weeks. Even as her spirit cried out in anguish, she could barely breathe for want of her man beside her. She had forgotten what life was like without him in it. Forgotten what it was like to mourn a life forever changed and gone from her sight. My love, I need you so...
But so, too, did the whole of Rohan need her. They would need her strength and wisdom now more than ever. There was little choice. Squaring her shoulders, the queen drew herself up and took a deep breath, having all but forgotten the servant girl waiting nearby who watched her with questioning eyes. Yes, she would do this, because her husband would have wanted it – nay, more than that – he would have expected her to shoulder this as strongly as she was able.
Her son would ask for her wisdom in his first days as King, of course. His advisers would continue to look to her for guidance even after his coronation. She was needed, now, more than ever. But how would she manage without the other half of her very being? It was a question she could not answer. She did not know, and perhaps never would. Truthfully, her old age and growing list of infirmities reminded her that the resiliency of youth had faded from her life with the passage of years.
The Queen's thoughts ran away from her again, as they did more often of late, but the young servant's soft voice brought her back to the cruel present.
"The King of Gondor has arrived, milady," the servant reminded her. Ah, yes. Aragorn and Lady Arwen had arrived. So, too, had a delegation from Ithilien who had come to mourn the King's passing, among them the King's own sister and brother-in-law. But the servant girl would not know outright that they were separate parties, given that for so long they had been one along the craggy roads of Rohan. The Queen inclined her head in acknowledgment of the announcement, the motion regal if stilted. She wondered how many others from the years past would come to grieve for Rohan's mighty king.
"I will be there momentarily, thank you," she murmured, turning again to the balcony, drawing whatever comfort from the vision of the city below that she could. Though the Queen had lived in Rohan for many years, her voice carried a note of foreignness that the servant girl found no less odd than the first time she had heard it. It was faint and barely discernible above the reedy, thin quality grief had given to the Lady's speech, and it would be impolite to inquire about it. Knowing she had been dismissed, Elia curtsied deeply and backed out of the chamber as silently as she came, leaving the door slightly ajar without a word. Heavy silence descended within the room once more, save for the faint shouts of men and women and children going about their lives in the village below, that could be heard through the open balcony doors.
The stillness and renewed quiet of the room no longer comforted the old Queen, but instead turned to suffocating loneliness. Her grief, it seemed, would not be assuaged today no matter what she tried. Never in her whole life had she felt this kind of crushing sadness.
Even looking at her empty marriage bed, filled yet with many happy memories, brought pain. Her legs shook weakly within her stockings, wobbling and swaying under her slight weight. Unable to support herself any longer, the Queen took the few remaining steps toward her bed before collapsing within its soft folds. Heedless of her clothing or hair, she buried her face in the sheets. I could sleep for a thousand years.
Life as she had known it was changed; those who knew her best would understand how difficult that would be for her. Never had she been fond of the ever-changing nature of time. She was old, but for the first time in her life, she felt aged. Truly aged and tired. Turning her head into a down-stuffed pillow, she breathed deeply, willing herself to rise and continue as her husband would want. His masculine, woodsy smell surrounded her then, strong and pure. Her husband. Musk and horse flesh and pure Éomer. Tears came, then, for the first time since his passing, and a breathy, soft sob escaped her chest, feeling as hot as a volcano and twice as unstoppable. Burning tears coursed her face, and for the first time in days, she cried freely.
"Oh, Éomer..."
The Queen allowed herself this moment of weakness, unable to bear the weight of her duties any longer. It turned quickly to anger when a knock sounded at the door, interrupting that badly needed moment of personal space. Before she had a chance to turn her disturber away, the door opened to reveal the young, so familiar face of an old friend. Recognition, followed by shock, struck the elderly woman. Joy mingled with grief to see that face in the doorway. Gasping, the Queen righted herself sloppily from the bed, seeking to rise. The woman had moved too quickly, though, and the Queen found herself together on the bed with her. Wordlessly, she was taken up in a warm embrace.
"I never expected to see you here again," Rohan's queen breathed out from within those slight, comforting arms. Sighing heavily, overwhelmed by emotion, sobs welled up from her throat once more. It grew into the keening wail of a woman who could take no more. After a moment trapped within its clutches, conscious thought returned, and all the Queen could think of was gratitude, for the comfort of an old, old friend. "Thank you..." she choked. "Thank you for coming." She pulled away to stare at the other woman, as if she could not believe her presence. Her eyes met her friend's sad, ever-haunted gaze incredulously.
"There are many things that might have kept us away," The newcomer replied huskily, her cracked voice – equally emotional – was comforting. "But no fears or doubts were so important as knowing you were dealing with this," she finished. Solemn gazes connected. "I'm sorry." The Queen could feel her friend's sadness. Anguish could be heard clearly in the woman's voice. "So, so sorry. Haldir and I came as soon as we were brought word from the courier."
The Queen nodded, knowing already the Marchwarden would be close. For the past fifty odd years, he had remained at his beloved wife's side, scarcely straying from her company without cause. Blue eyes clashed with green; concern, as well as a darker emotion, lingered like a shroud between them. The Queen knew how much it had cost her friend to leave the safety of her enchanted woodland home, and was more than grateful she had come to support her in this painful time.
"How are you doing?," her friend demanded, roughly, after a moment's silence. "Tell me honestly – no bullshit." The crassness of her words was jarring after so long without hearing it spoken in such a manner. The woman's odd gaze pierced right through her soul in that strange way her friend had always been able to do. When she didn't answer immediately, the younger woman made an impatient noise in her throat, knowing it was the Queen in her friend who would seek to cover the raw truth from everyone. "This is me you're with now, you know; Not with the kids, not with the others. Me."
It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to her in such a casual, unusual manner aside from Éomer, and her words sounded almost as foreign to her ears as they both truly were to this land. The Queen laughed softly, truly comforted by her friend's presence in a way no other could have provided. She couldn't put her thoughts or feelings into words. Helplessly, the Queen shrugged, willing the words that would not come.
Her friend grew more impatient quickly, as was just like her. "Damn it. You don't have to be strong with me," she pleaded. "I can see your pain." She could see a lot more, too, and the effort at keeping her shattered mind from collapsing under the weight of emotional battering was almost more than she could take. The Queen winced at her friend's words. Was it so obvious, then? But of course it was.Tears welled in the Queen's eyes as her beloved Éomer's face hovered in her mind's eye. Her stoic resolve to hide the depth of her pain crumbled into nothingness, and the words flowed more freely.
"I feel like my heart is gone," she murmured softly at last, rubbing her hands together in an unconsciously comforting gesture. "Ripped clean from my chest." She slipped into her natural, emotive style of speaking without thinking, lifting an arm unconsciously. "Worse even than when Bean..." she trailed off, eyes unseeing, unable to turn her mind away from all that she had lost in the years past. Her hands clenched in sudden anguish, twisting uncomfortably in her lap, and a trace of anger laced through the pain in her features.
"And...damn it, I'm definitely old now," she said with a hint of a smile on her lips. "You can say it... " She lifted shaky hands to rub at her face even as the old joke between them made her smile through the tears that managed to track down her face. She had always joked about her friend's fractured agelessness. Compared to her, her friend looked as new as a spring lily; she hadn't aged a day since the first time she had been seen in this land, while the Queen had grown more wrinkled and gray with every day that passed. The old Queen's whole body shuddered with her next breath as she struggled for control.
"I don't have a clue how to handle this... " she admitted helplessly, meeting her friend's gaze once more. It was hard to admit that she was adrift and unable to cope. "He was the King." Her eyes were expressive, and worried with an old fear. "I was never meant to be Queen of anything, except he went and made me one," she reminded her friend insistently. Her voice was softly horrified, and the helplessness within her voice tugged at her friend's heartstrings. "Now he's gone..." she trailed off, "and I don't know how to handle it. I was never supposed to have to do this without him. This world has been crueler than I ever believed possible." A note of regret hung in her voice.
Her breath rattled in her old lungs. Her friend's gaze grew sympathetic even as it hardened momentarily. There were many cruel things to be found in Middle Earth, her friend knew. Thoughts of the past trickled into her mind. "You know, there were a lot of things that were never supposed to happen to us, my old friend, and yet they have." Old hurts still lingered between them. Blame and accusation had long since passed away for both of them, but some old wounds never healed. The two women, one old with age, and the other, young and in the bloom of life, shared a long, knowing, weary look. Finally, the younger woman sighed, and reached out for the Queen. Young hands clasped old and held firmly. "But," the younger woman allowed in a gravelly voice, "I suppose it did turn out for the better." She sighed again, leveling her gaze at her friend again, cracking a smile when the older woman's countenance broke.
"And tell me this, old friend," the young-looking woman began, "Does this event make you wish you had gone back after all, when you had the chance? That you had never met Éomer?" The woman couldn't resist the question. Once a point of contention between them, the lost opportunities of the past had been cushioned with time. For her, at least. Haldir had been worth every tortuous pain she had endured in Middle Earth. She was curious about the Queen's reply. Though she would have been able to read her deeply regardless, the woman saw the play of emotions on the Queen's face like a book.
The Queen looked momentarily alarmed and hurt, then paused, contemplating the whole of her happy, joyous life in Rohan, laced with pain and tragedy. How could she regret the years she and Éomer had spent together? It was unthinkable. "No," she said. "I don't." The Queen shook her head, stared at her veined hands, curling with arthritis in her lap. Her friend's eyes were compassionate and firm when she raised her eyes to meet her gaze.
"Then do not look for regrets after all this time, old friend," she replied. "Not now, near the end. It will only drive you mad."
2012
She was dreaming... again.
Gwendolyn Carrick had experienced the same scene over and over in her dreams so many times it failed to surprise her that it was occurring yet again. Some things a person carries with them always, even if they don't want to. Her best friend's words echoed through the dream-state, and she was forced to acknowledge the truth in them. If she had a choice, Gwen would never have remembered anything of this night, much less dreamed of it. She didn't have a choice at all.
She was running. Adrenaline pumped through her veins with every dreamed - no, every remembered heartbeat. Sobs tore their way up her throat as fear took hold in her gut, and her ears recognized the sound of the terrible taunts that chased her once more. "You can't run from me, Gwen. Gwen. Gwen..." His voice echoed in her mind, and, instinctively, she flinched even in sleep. The scene whirled maniacally, impossibly, making her dizzy, and Gwen tripped, catching herself against a tree and shuddering at the pain of her twisted ankle. There was no sensation at the touch of her fingers on the tree. She couldn't recall how the bark felt against her skin. How odd.
She ran, despite her ankle.
He had pursued her unceasingly that night, or so she had been told. Gwen didn't recall this about her ordeal, at least in her waking hours, but the cuts on her feet had taken weeks to heal. In the dream, she could see his endurance clearly exceeded her own, and that he gained ground on her easily... so very easily. In her dreams it seemed almost inhuman that he could move so quickly, even if logic told her it was only her subconscious fears that made it seem that way.
The terror had risen in her so quickly, she remembered, like a living, breathing entity. Even in her dreams, why this was happening to her was not apparent. It had seemed, then, and still seemed, now, to be simply a random act of violence. Gwen wanted to shake herself awake, to draw herself away from the terrible, painful memories, but she had never been able to manage it before, and tonight was no different. It was as if her mind forced her to relive every moment, over and over, night after night, to force her to accept it until she was healed. Scarred, but healed. She had lived this once, though. Truly lived it, and once was enough. She would learn some lesson from this, Gwen was certain.
Like always, she was forced to watch from her dreaming vantage point as the man with demon-bright, savage eyes beat into her. The smell of alcohol on his breath was so strong it made her gag. He had been a beast, clawing at her breasts, biting her neck. Ravaging her skin. She had been a black and blue mess for weeks afterward. The nurses in the hospital had assured her she was safe, and she had been physically, at least; no amount of assurance could dispel the dreams from her sleep or the fear that had lingered in her heart for months afterward. The dreams had come nearly every day for months after it had happened. It was not surprising that she would dream of his horrible, twisted face, and perverted eyes during this night, in particular.
It was a year to the day from her attack.
In the dream, when the tormentor's movements became hurried, less taunting, and more deliberate, Gwen knew the end was thankfully near. The dull black of the blade scarcely gleamed in the moonlit sky, and the cold of that September seeped into her very bones until she felt she would never be warm again. As the knife slashed her skin, Gwen's sleeping form traced the white scars on her body, groaning as pain leaped and pulsed down her body. Heat suffused her skin, and she began to burn from the inside out.
He had sought to kill her, that much she was certain of. What she might never understand was why. With a final, plunging stroke, he nearly had taken her life. That plunge to the gut, as always, wrenched Gwen from sleep, her body dripping wet with sweat and tears, her chest heaving with the force of her gasps, and fear pounding through her veins. For a moment visions of the past clung to her sight, Gwen clutched her side as pain swamped her already electrified body, covering the shiny patch of scar tissue below her ribcage. Black spots burst into her eyes, shocking her. What the fuck was that?
Something was happening. Her wounds pulsed with energy, and it made her heart stutter, but she refused to give in to the blackness calling to her. Instead, she chanted, "You survived. He did not take you, and he never will. He didn't win." She repeated the words, a mantra, over and over until her breath began to even, and the blackness receded. Whatever energy had sizzled within the tent was gone. With a sob, Gwen faced reality and let go of her fears. She had been lucky. So lucky. All the other victims had been raped...brutalized...tortured, really. But she had not been. Gwen had been saved.
Lucky.
Her tears ceased to flow as her gasps for air had calmed to deep breaths. They would always be just dreams, Gwen knew logically. Never again real. And that – that had been the true comfort she had gained from her sleep. Still panting, she glanced around her, trying to recall herself and the events of the previous day. The morning light filtered through the small canvas tent, creating a dim illumination within. She saw the beautiful woven green of her favorite throw blanket covering her. The thick waves of deep chestnut hair curling over her breasts. The slimness of her fingers. She had been blessed with this ability, of finding beauty in common things. It had saved her life, once, and kept her from going insane from wondering why she had been attacked.
Determinedly, Gwen shut the thoughts of her past trauma away, and sought the newness of the day, mind whirling.
There was something quite remarkable about the beginning of a fresh day. Perhaps it was the sense that at each waking moment, the hours that followed would be a chance for something new and different to occur. Maybe something special, something good. Or something terrible. The lingering, hateful thought was immediately banished. Her demons were wrong: the new day was an opportunity to walk an unknown path, to learn that which was previously unheard of. The promise of each morning was an irresistible call for her.
Gwen sat up from her thick sleeping bag with a leisurely stretch and a half-yawn, a small smile gracing her face. It really was a beautiful morning. Her friend Jessie's idea for an impromptu weekend camping trip in the hills of southern California was just what she needed to help get her through the particularly difficult week. Gwen's stomach growled raucously, interrupting her internal monologue and demanding food, and with a small laugh she flung the blanket from her lap carelessly and crawled from the pallet.
"Jessie!" She drew out the syllables, calling to her friend in a sing-song voice. I wonder if she'll have breakfast ready. Jessie was the early-riser of the pair of them. When her friend didn't respond immediately, Gwen's brow furrowed in concern and confusion. Or maybe not. Unzipping her tent, Gwen crawled out and into the September sun. Expecting to see the tall pines of the countryside nearby and the lake in the distance, she was surprised and confused when there was nothing to be seen around her but open, swampy field around her, with high, unkempt grasses surrounding her. Far in the distance, to the southwest, was a massive, darkly green forest, but not one sign of the lake could be found. Things just looked... wrong.
Never one to fall into instant panic, Gwen mentally cataloged the possible explanations for the change in scenery and came up with precisely nothing logical at all. But what could explain this? Well… Jessie could be playing a joke on me, but that doesn't seem like her at all. Gwen saw no sign of her friend anywhere around either, not even her tent or bag. Stumped, she did a slow turn around the camp, searching for any clue where Jessie could have gone. Nothing. What in the devil is going on?
Gwen, stood, baffled, glaring into the sunlight. Where the hell am I?
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