Author's Note: I'm back. Again. You know, I feel like I say that everytime I post a new chapter. I have NOT been neglecting this story by any means. I've just started writing a bunch more stuff, including Lost fanfic with Jacob *squee!* God help me if I ever decide to post THAT. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please leave feedback so I know people are still reading this crap. Cristiel and Burwena belong to me. Everyone else is the property of the good Professor. May he rest in peace.

Book Two: The Land of Horse Lords

Chapter XI: Edoras

The first thing Cristiel became aware of when she woke were the soft furs and blankets that she lay nestled in. They were so soothingly warm and soft on her arms and chest, while her face, being her only body part not swathed in blankets, was greeted with cold, harsh air. The next thing she became aware of almost instantly was an invigorating smell that reminded her of a strong beverage wafting into the room through the open door across the room. The third thing she realized was that the room she lay in was utterly dark, save for a sliver of light that peeked through a crack in the shuttered window above her bed. She rubbed her dry lips together and slowly sat up. She was a little dizzy but gratefully her headache was gone. She gingerly peeled back the blankets she had sunk into, then regretted it as more cold air rushed over her body, shredding the comforting warmth. If her feet hadn't been bare, she probably wouldn't have cared that the air in the room was so biting. Do they not keep steady fires here? she wondered, then: Why are my feet bare? and Where are my things?

The last question was answered as she turned her head in the pillow, and saw her sword leaning against the wall in the corner and her pack laying next to it. She eased herself up straighter, onto her knees, and reached above her head where the single shuttered window was letting barely a gleam of sunlight into the room. She needed to see the day. She fumbled in the dark with the latch for a few minutes, finally undid it, and pushed the shutters open. The brightness caught her off guard and she raised a hand in front of her eyes. Immediately a blast of freezing air rushed through the window and slammed it shut again. She sighed. That was why it wasn't open, or the room would have been even colder. She lowered herself to the blankets again, her eyes readjusting to the darkness. Carefully, she let her legs dangle against the side of the bed, noticing her right ankle had been set in a simple splint and wrapped tightly. But she had no memory of anything that had happened after she fell into this soft bed the night before. She shrugged the thought away and quietly yawned. She must have slept much longer than she was used to. With bleary eyes, she surveyed the room.

The floor was clean and bare, a simple work of stone masonry that spanned into the adjoining room. The bed she sat on was small and sat against the center of the far wall with the single window. A plain wooden table sat next to the equally plain headboard, and on it there had been set a basin of water and a simple cloth, for washing and drying her face she assumed. She quickly made use of these before attempting to stand up. Putting all her weight on her left side, she stood to her feet, or rather foot, with one hand leaning on the side table. All right, that's a good start, she thought. Now to walk.

She carefully shifted a little weight onto her other foot and inhaled sharply, immediately falling back onto the bed. She gritted her teeth and stood again, gingerly taking a step back onto her injured foot. She moaned as the familiar pain ricocheted back through her ankle and she clamped her eyes shut, returning immediately to her good leg.

Suddenly, a perturbed female voice shrieked from the doorway behind her. "What do you think you're doing out o' bed?"

Cristiel turned towards the door and suddenly came face to face with a fiery-faced woman. Her wrinkled skin was sweaty, making loose strands of almost-white hair cling to it, and she wore a dark gray dress with a matching apron. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest in an authoritative way.

"Get right off your feet this instant, or I shall have the Lord Éomer himself come in and dispatch ye!" she screeched, waving her hands at Cristiel. "You wouldn't remember a thing if 'e did!"

As if I don't already, she thought, biting her lip. Reluctantly, she returned to the bed and pulled her legs up on top of the furs.

"There you go," the old woman said with a softer tone. "Now, it's well past noon and you must be starvin'. I'll be back with some stew and then we'll wrap your leg tighter so you can 'eal quicker." She scurried towards the door, then paused. "And don't be gettin' up out o' bed again. You know what'll 'appen then." And she disappeared into the next room.

Cristiel sighed deeply and fell back into the covers to stare at the ceiling. She thought the old woman was like the cold wind outside, ready to slap you in the face if you intruded or did something she didn't like. She shivered at the thought of the freezing weather outside and pulled a blanket over her legs and up to her chin, proceeding to chew idly on the inside of her cheek. She sat up when she heard footsteps and her stomach growled, just in time for the old woman to appear in the doorway. In one hand was a bowl of something that smelled absolutely delicious, and in the other was a rough cloth folded neatly into a bundle. The woman crossed the room in many short steps and placed the bowl on the table next to Cristiel's head.

"There you go. Better sit up so you can eat it without chokin'."

She did immediately and plunged a spoonful of the steaming hot broth hungrily into her mouth, regretting it as soon as she realized how hot it was. She held the spoon of liquid in her open mouth, eyeing the woman as she began to unwrap her leg.

"I'm Burwena, the head o' the Healing House, and rightly so I think. We've been busy 'ere of late, so most o' my helpers are out with the Riders or tendin' other patients 'cross the way."

Burwena waved a hand towards the door, where Cristiel assumed there were more adjoining rooms like hers. She carefully emptied the somewhat cooled contents of the spoon into her mouth and relished the simple textures of potatoes and mysterious chunks of meat.

"Now, you should be very grateful to the Lord Éomer for his takin' you in. It's not offen we get a lady in 'ere who's injured 'erself quite like you have. He didn't say where you were from, though it's none o' my business. I'm just 'ere to take care o' you until you can walk again, and then you're 'is problem."

She talked and talked as her hands busily set to work on a stronger splint. Cristiel ate the stew quickly, feeling the warmth slide down her throat and fill her stomach with every bite. Burwena glanced up at her only once or twice

"You never had this stew before? You're not from 'round here, I 'spect. Éomer's men came and woke me right in the middle o' the night and said you were sore hurt and needed attention right away. Said you were the daughter o' some ranger from the North, and I say you look it." She paused and let her blue eyes scour Cristiel's face until she was satisfied. "Though I'd say you were of Gondor first, but what do I know? I've never been anywhere much but 'round Edoras and the Westfold, before the wild men started burning and killing . . ." She trailed off and finished adjusting the splint around Cristiel's ankle before giving it a gentle pat. "There you go, all new. Don't get up on it and try to walk just yet." She stood up and brushed her hands off on her apron. "You'll ruin me 'ard work, and you'll hurt yourself even more. We'll get you a crutch later so you can breathe some fresh air, but for now you stay in bed and I'll be just a shout away." And with that, Burwena scurried out of the room.

Cristiel stared at the empty doorway. Burwena was like a cold, energetic wind that had rushed out as quickly as she had come.

She wanted to know how long she had slept, and what the date was. She wanted to meet this Éomer, so she could at least thank him for bringing her to the Healing House. And she wanted to get outside as soon as possible. Being cooped up in this dark, cold room reminded her too much of the Mines of Moria.

She tossed and turned sleeplessly in her bed that night. A shadow crept over her, and in the dark corners of her mind, something waited patiently. She sat up and lay back down more than once, and several hours passed that would give her no peace. She did not know if it was because she was in a different place, or if it was her head injury, but something bothered her to no end.

Her mount was tense beneath her legs. She tightened her grip on the reins as he tossed his head nervously. Horses pressed in on them from all sides, their riders dressed in full battle gear, brandishing razor sharp spears and glimmering swords. A war raged on the plains before her, and sunlight streamed down upon it through a break in the black sky behind. A lone man and his horse galloped along the front lines of the riders, shouting a word that sent chills down her spine.

Death!

Far in the distance, a white monolith, maybe once a city, was burning. Black hordes surrounded it and steadily engulfed it until it was like a charred pile of coal. Her heart clenched for some reason, though she knew not why.

Death!

The riders around her shouted in return and the mass of horses began to surge ahead, towards the plains and the remains of the city. A black cloud descended, surrounding them in Shadow, and eating away at the hope in her heart.

Death!

Somebody was calling her name. A man with blazing green eyes, running in the midst of the battlefield.

Death!

Then the world melted away with a roar, candle wax swallowed by a fiery eye.

Cristiel jolted up in bed, her heart pounding against her ribcage, cold sweat dripping down her face. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and settled shakily back onto the bed. A pale sliver of light shone through the window onto the floor. Strangely, she felt wholly rested, despite the dream. A chill wriggled up her spine as she heard the word echo in her mind again.

Death!

She shivered and rubbed her forehead. The dream she'd had in Lothlórien had not made her feel as uneasy as she felt now. This one was worse. She raised her hands and watched as they shook ever so slightly. She shook her head. She was still in her bedroom in Edoras. Nothing of the dream was real.

She sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed, stretching her legs and arms out with a groan. Being bedridden for a whole day had not been the least pleasant on her body, regardless of the fact that she really couldn't walk anyway.

She glanced towards the door as it creaked open. A girl several years younger than herself entered the room and gave her a shy smile. In one hand, she carried a crutch with a cloth-banded crosspiece on top, while her other hand played nervously with a stray lock of blonde hair.

"Good morning, lady. Burwena said to give you this crutch to use today. She wants you to get washed up so you can feel fresher and stronger. She was sure you'd want to bathe something awful. It's not often that we get women in here, like you."

Cristiel felt the girl's light eyes trail over her face and hair, and she thought she saw one blonde eyebrow twitch. Her hair was probably a greasy sight to behold. Aragorn's face framed in filthy black locks flitted through her mind, and she almost smiled.

The girl handed her the crutch, and Cristiel positioned it under her right arm. She stood up carefully from the bed, leaning not too uncomfortably on the wooden support.

"Lady, if you would follow me—"

"Please, just Cristiel."

The girl seemed taken aback, then turned without another word and continued out the door. Cristiel assumed she should follow. It was awkward work, moving about on one crutch, but she moved quickly and soon got an even feel for it. They went down the length of the Healing House, passing several rooms that were occupied by severely wounded soldiers. On a bed in one larger room they passed, Cristiel saw a body completely covered in a thin linen sheet, its face hidden. She paused in the doorway.

"That's the king's son," the young healer said in a low voice. "He died not a few days ago. His funeral is planned for later today, but we best not linger here."

"How did he die?" Cristiel asked softly.

The girl drew closer to her, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Orcs of Saruman." She took Cristiel's free hand anxiously. "Come."

Cristiel glanced at the body again, feeling a knot form in her throat. Boromir had not been the only mighty warrior slain by the Uruk-Hai. The thought gave her a moment of solace, but it was quickly swept away as tears stung her eyes. She crutched away from the doorway after the girl.

They entered a warm, enclosed room without windows and only a small slotted vent in the ceiling that gave her a peek at the brightening sky. A smooth wooden tub was already filled with steaming water, and a small table sat nearby holding various soaps, liniments, and sponges.

"Hurry and get in before the water cools," the girl beckoned to her. "I've laid fresh clothing behind that screen in the corner."

Cristiel thanked the girl, who left promptly, shutting the door behind. Then she swiftly undressed and carefully stepped into the warm water. She sank in up to her chin and shut her eyes as the water rolled around her. She hadn't had a bath since leaving Lothlórien. That was over two weeks ago, if she was guessing right. She scrunched her nose in disgust at the thought. She grabbed a bar of soap from the table nearby and attacked the ground-in dirt on her body. She scrubbed fiercely at her hair and skin as best she could, watching with slight disgust as the water darkened from the scum and grime that came away. Satisfied and starting to shiver, she climbed slowly out of the water, gripping the side of the tub to keep from slipping onto her bad foot. She snagged the towel that lay nearby and rubbed it down her hair before wrapping herself in it, then looked up suddenly as the door opened and Burwena slipped inside.

"You'd think they'd try to make a bathing room a little more private for a lady," she muttered as she turned the heavy bolt. Then she put on a smile for Cristiel. "I'll 'elp you dress. Come behind this screen, dear, so you don't catch cold."

She did and after she was dried off fully, Burwena quickly helped her into the dress, pulling it over her arms and head and down her legs. Cristiel immediately felt warmer. The ties on the back were quickly done up and she then took the towel to her hair again. Its dark, natural wave fell over her shoulders, so she pulled two pieces back and tied them to keep it out of the way. She hated hair in her face.

She grabbed the crutch and came out from behind the screen to see Burwena walking out with her travel-worn clothing in her arms. At the surprised expression on Cristiel's face, the healer laughed. "Don't worry, dear. You'll get these back. You won't be wearin' 'em again 'til they're cleaned, and no exceptions."

Cristiel watched her disappear around the corner, then brushed her hands down the dark blue fabric of her dress. It was rougher than she was used to, nothing like the soft Elvish material she had worn all her life. But it was warm and clean, so it would do.

She crutched across the room and went through the door into the open hallway of the Healing House. A few moments later, Burwena appeared in front of her, almost as quickly as she had left. This time she held out an old piece of leather with laces that dangled over her arm.

"I found a nice leather brace that may 'elp you walk more easily," she said. "Come this way and we'll put it on ya."

They went back to Cristiel's bedroom, and Burwena ordered her to sit on the bed. The healer crouched down and pushed Cristiel's dress up her leg, and she held it out of the way for the old woman while she placed the leather pieces around the wraps on her injured ankle. Burwena pulled the laces tightly through their respective eyelets, so tight that Cristiel inhaled sharply.

"Don't worry, miss. The tighter it holds, the better you'll 'eal."

Burwena then stood up with a small groan, went to the corner for Cristiel's boots, and handed them to her.

"Put these on over it, and don't take it off for a few weeks. Your injury will need time to make itself right. And don't you dare start runnin' around. Just because it's good n' tight doesn't mean your healed up, so do yourself a favor and don't 'urt yourself again."

The head healer turned on her heel and left the room to tend to the others in the house. Cristiel turned her attention to her ankle. The laces were done so tightly, she decided to test the brace. She stood slowly from the bed, leaning on the crutch to keep from hurting herself outright. Carefully, she shifted her weight more evenly between both feet and found that the brace offered enough support for her to stand on it. Biting her lip, she dropped the crutch so it leaned against the bedside and took a few test steps. There was no pain. In fact, she had almost lost feeling in her right ankle completely. Encouraged by this revelation, she made her way quietly out of her room and across the hall to the door that she assumed would lead her outside.

The rough wooden door groaned as she pushed it open. She squinted at the sudden onslaught of light and sucked in the cold, fresh air. A brisk wind danced around her as she stood on the threshold, taking in the city. It was the first time she had seen Edoras in broad daylight. The entire city occupied a single hill, rising above vast plains of green that stretched to the horizon and were cut off in the south only by soaring white mountains. The city itself was rustic. On the hillside below her, houses, stables, and shops with dark thatched roofs and weathered sides huddled against the wind. Their occupants wore mostly dark clothing, although it could have been that they didn't wash their clothing often. Edoras was not a bustling city, but people moved here and there, more often than not beside or mounted upon a horse.

She turned and looked up the road. It led to the crest of the hill where a majestic palace stood above everything, its walls decorated with carvings and filigrees of gold. The palace opened onto a wide stone terrace that overlooked all the city and the plains beyond, but despite the impressive nature of the city, it was cold and silent, save for the whistling wind.

The wind picked up and the sky began to grow overcast, causing the temperature to drop. Cristiel went back inside, but only to grab her elven cloak; she was sick of being stuck indoors for a day and a half. She wrapped it tightly around her as she stepped outside again. The leather brace Burwena had loaned her, combined with her leather boots, held her ankle firmly in place, and though she went slowly and with a limp, she could walk without too much pain. If Burwena caught her without her crutch, the old woman would surely have her head, so she left the vicinity of the Healing House to avoid repercussions.

The tangy scents of manure and hay blew towards her on the wind. She followed a foot path behind what she assumed was the royal stable until she found a door, and she quietly opened it and went inside. At least forty long faces turned toward her, with forty pairs of shining brown eyes gazing at her curiously and forty pairs of ears perked forward and alert. She chuckled at the attention these fine equines had suddenly vested on her, and suddenly wished her pockets were full of apples and carrots. She went up to the nearest stall, where a tall chestnut watched her with young eyes. She held her palm open and let the stallion graze his velvety lips over her skin. He lipped her fingers and gently nibbled for tidbits, then disappointed, he dropped his neck over the stall door and nudged Cristiel. She laughed quietly, reaching for something to hold onto so she wouldn't fall over. She ran a hand up and down the stallion's long face, her fingers tangling in his course forelock. She scratched between his ears, watching as they dropped to the side like a donkey's.

"You are a very forgiving one," she said, barely a whisper.

"You should see what he is like under saddle."

Cristiel jumped and turned at the new female voice.

"Forgive me for startling you. You must be Cristiel. Burwena told me about you and asked that I help make you feel comfortable here. I am Éowyn."

"Hello," Cristiel replied with a small smile, studying the woman. Éowyn was tall and slender, quite pale, and probably no more than a couple years older than herself. Her hair was golden, cascading down her back in long, wavy locks that shimmered in the wafts of light that came through the skylights in the stable ceiling. Her eyes were steel blue, and she was dressed in an elegant, white gown trimmed with elaborate gold embroidery. Cristiel self-consciously fingered the plain dark fabric of her own dress as she eyed Éowyn's.

"The man who brought you here is my brother, Éomer," Éowyn explained. "I would introduce you, but I am afraid he is being detained." Those last words were said with spite.

"Whatever for?" asked Cristiel. "He was very courteous to me, and isn't he one of Rohan's captains?"

"Third Marshal actually. My uncle, the king, has not been himself as of late, so I am afraid the blame can be placed completely on Grima," she spat.

Cristiel untangled her fingers from the stallion's forelock. "Who is Grima?"

A fire seemed to rise in Éowyn's blue eyes. "Grima Wormtongue is the king's sole advisor. He is a snake and," she leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper, "I suspect a spy of Saruman's."

Cristiel raised her eyebrows. "Grima had your brother Éomer thrown into prison for what? Bringing me here?"

The other woman shook her head. "Grima does not know you are here, and he need not know. Hopefully your friends will be swift to return for you. As for Éomer, he rode out with many of the Rohirrim about five days ago, against the king's orders."

"To defend your country?"

"Yes, to defend Rohan," Éowyn replied, her voice shaking.

Cristiel wasn't sure what to say now. She had come to a country where the king's mind was poisoned by an associate of Saruman's, and where one of their top military leaders had been thrown into prison for defending his own country from the enemy. She sucked on her lower lip in silence as she mulled over these thoughts.

"Can you walk, Cristiel?" Éowyn said suddenly.

Cristiel glanced back at her. "I suppose, but not very well."

"Come with me. There is a place in the palace that is more private than this stable where we can talk without worrying about prying ears."

Cristiel nodded and followed Éowyn outside the stable and further up the hill. The palace loomed above them, more ominous looking against the white sky.

"This is the Golden Hall of Meduseld," said Éowyn.

They went up the steps, Cristiel very carefully and slowly, and passed through the great doors that opened on Éowyn's command of the guards. Éowyn took Cristiel's hand suddenly and pulled her into the shadows of the hall, out of sight of the throne where a decrepit old man sat hunched over, looking barely alive. A black haired man with pallid skin and dressed in a black robe knelt beside the throne whispering into the king's ear. Cristiel assumed that the man was Grima Wormtongue. She already didn't like the sight of him.

"Come!" Éowyn whispered, pulling her hand.

They went swiftly from the throne room and through a series of back hallways and corridors that Cristiel would never remember the way out of. Then they rounded a corner and entered a spacious bed chamber. Éowyn quietly shut the door and went over to recline on a bench that sat against the wall. Cristiel stood in the center of the room, eyeing the great fireplace, the white linens on the bed, the tapestries that graced the walls.

"These are my private quarters," said Éowyn. "We will not be overheard here nor shall we be disturbed."

"It is all lovely."

A small smile broke through Éowyn's hard demeanor. She leaned forward. "First of all, I must know where it is you come from. My first guess would be Gondor, but you carry yourself differently from all Gondorian women I have met."

Cristiel blinked at the woman's forthrightness and played with her fingers behind her back. There was no point in lying. "I traveled from Rivendell with nine companions," she said truthfully. "One was lost in the Mines of Moria. Another . . ." Her breath caught in her throat and she bit her lip. She could not bring herself to tell Éowyn about Boromir. She struggled with her composure, inhaling a deep, shaky breath. "The rest have since gone their own ways."

"Rivendell? I have heard strange rumors of the lands of the elves, but did not think I would meet one who had seen them. Yet you are no elf!"

"I was raised by them. First in Lothlórien, then in Imlad—in Rivendell. My mother was an elf and my father one of the Dúnedain."

"You lived in the Golden Wood? Éomer has told me that land is cursed!"

"It is not," Cristiel replied quietly.

There was a short silence. Cristiel shifted uncomfortably onto her right foot and quickly off of it again.

"Oh! Forgive me. Please, come sit. You should not be standing on an injured leg." Éowyn moved over and patted the empty part of the bench. Cristiel sunk onto the wood with a grateful sigh.

"I'm not used to being crippled like this."

"Of course not. No one is."

"No, I mean that—well, back home..." she felt a knot form in her throat as the word passed over her tongue. "Back home, I would run, and ride, and explore the forest. I wasn't like all of the other girls." She smiled as she remembered the glare Tawariel had sent her one afternoon in the woods, after she had made fun of the elleth's love for Lindir and mocked her distaste for the dirt in her fingernails. "Now I can barely walk." She raised a hand and combed her fingers through her hair.

"If you don't mind my asking, how did you injure yourself?"

The curiosity in Éowyn's eyes was clearly evident to Cristiel's amusement. She suddenly wanted to tell Éowyn about everything. About the Fellowship, Frodo, the ring, Boromir, the Uruk-Hai. But she knew Aragorn would not take lightly her openness about such a serious matter, once he found out she had revealed all. So she kept her mouth shut and carefully chose her words.

"I was running from orcs on a very steep hillside in the wilderness, and I wasn't paying attention and jumped over a fallen tree. I must have landed wrong on some rocks, but I don't remember much after that because I also hit my head." She pushed back a black lock of hair and pointed to the long, scabbing gash on her forehead. It was the truth, mostly.

"Oh." Éowyn's blue eyes grew wide. "That must have been very painful."

Cristiel nodded.

"Burwena mentioned something about a sword. Do you fight?"

Cristiel stared at the floor. "Not as well as I thought I could when I left Rivendell."

Éowyn didn't say anything in reply, and after a minute, Cristiel looked up to see the woman's brow furrowed thoughtfully.

"What is it, my lady?"

Éowyn gave a small smile and took Cristiel's hand. "You must have been very brave to travel such great distances on foot, and in the company of so many men. I have dreamed of doing great deeds of valor, but I fear I will never be afforded such an opportunity."

Cristiel could see the fire in her eyes as she spoke, and thought to say something of the dangers of rash action, but was distracted by a commotion that came echoing up the hall. They both glanced towards the door. Then the sounds of a scuffle and flying punches brought both women to their feet.

"It's coming from the throne room," said Éowyn. She hurried towards the door and disappeared down the hallway in a flurry of white.

Taking up a handful of her dress, Cristiel went after her, limping as quickly as she could. The brace was making her ankle numb, but at the moment she didn't mind. She went down the corridor, following the noise coming from the Hall. Yes, it was definitely a violent scuffle. And there was a loud voice she thought she recognized, but she shrugged it away as impossible.

She rounded a corner and the voice suddenly grew louder, hitting her in the face. She crashed through a door and found herself standing at the front of the throne room. Aragorn held back a nervous Éowyn, and Cristiel felt Legolas move behind her. His hand closed firmly about her wrist, probably to keep her from doing anything foolish when she realized what exactly was happening. To her left was the king, writhing and groaning in his throne, but that was not what held her attention the closest. Standing in front of the throne was an old man with long, white hair, dressed in billowing white robes. He held out a lithe, white staff in both hands, and his blue eyes were blazing.

"Impossible!" Cristiel breathed.

The wizard's attention was set on the King. "I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound."

Gandalf thrust his staff towards the king, who was slammed back into his throne, gripping its arms and attempting to press against the wizard's power.

"If I go, Théoden dies," growled the king, or rather Saruman in the king's body. He was slammed against the back of the throne once more.

"You did not kill me. You will not kill him," Gandalf replied, his voice full of authority.

Théoden/Saruman snarled at the wizard. "Rohan is mine!"

"Begone!" Gandalf ordered, pressing forward.

Théoden shut his eyes, twisting in his seat as Saruman struggled to keep control of the king's body against Gandalf's spells. Suddenly, he leaped from his throne with a loud cry and Gandalf raised his staff against him with an equally fierce cry. Whatever power the wizard had used suddenly forced the king to collapse back into his seat, and the king now looked barely alive, as if he had looked at all alive before. He keeled over with a feeble groan and Éowyn rushed to his side. There was a tense silence in the hall as the king suddenly appeared to grow younger. His scraggly beard disappeared, the lines that permeated his face lessened, and his skin slowly regained a healthy glow. Finally, life returned to his eyes.

"I know your face . . . " he whispered, staring at Éowyn.

Éowyn's features rose and Cristiel saw her smile for the first time. The white lady grinned as subtle tears trickled down her cheeks. She cupped the king's face in her hands.

"Éowyn," Théoden repeated quietly, seeming to recognize her as if he had not seen his niece for many years.

Breathing slowly now, Gandalf removed himself from the steps of the throne, drawing Théoden's attention.

"Gandalf?"

"Breathe the free air again, my friend," the wizard said with satisfaction.

Murmurs rose from the court that had gathered. Legolas loosened his grip on Cristiel's wrist and she watched in fascination as King Théoden rose carefully to his feet with Éowyn at his side to assist him. He straightened himself slowly and gazed out with worn eyes over those gathered in the hall.

"Dark have been my dreams of late," the king declared. He raised his hands and studied the worn callouses that littered his long lifeless palms.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped your sword," said Gandalf.

Théoden's eyes seemed to lighten at the words and he reached for where his sword should have been hanging on his left. But he grabbed at empty space.

"Where has Grima put it?" the king muttered.

Suddenly a clear voice called out from behind them. "Take this, my lord!"

Cristiel turned to see a tall, well-built man with blond hair come striding down the length of the Hall. He wore no armor or helm, but carried a long sword flat in his hands. The crowd parted as he approached and he knelt before the king, holding the sword hilt aloft.

"What is the meaning of this?" said Théoden suddenly.

One of the court members stepped forward. "My lord, it is I who you may blame. Perhaps I acted too soon, but I was filled with such joy seeing you return to us that I thought nothing of it. I released Éomer from his chains and brought his blade as he requested."

"To lay at your feet, my lord," Éomer said.

The king stood where he was, not moving, just staring down at the kneeling man whom Cristiel realized with a little embarrassment was the same man that brought her to Edoras.

"Will you not take the sword?" Gandalf pressed.

Théoden hesitated, then he reached forward and took the hilt firmly in his right arm. What was once a thin and weak arm seemed to regain strength in front of their eyes, and Théoden thrust the sword into the air, giving a jubilant cry:

"Arise! Arise now, Riders of Rohan!"

The soldiers watching from the sides of the Hall sprang to their feet, brandishing their swords as if they had been called to war.

"Take back your sword, Éomer!" Théoden said. "Háma, you must find my own sword. And bring Grima to me when you do."

The court member that had released Éomer stepped forward, bowed, and left the Hall. The king turned to Gandalf.

"If you have counsel for me, Gandalf, I will hear it now."

"You have already taken good counsel. Éomer is loyal to you and to Rohan. As you should know by now, Grima Wormtongue is nothing but a man of crooked mind and a spy of Saruman."

Cristiel turned from the conversation as it moved to political matters, and smiled expectantly at Legolas. "It's good to see you again," she said quietly.

"Indeed, it has been two whole days that you were not falling far behind us, nor complaining as badly as Gimli."

It took a second for the elf's teasing reply to sink in, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "I was being genuine."

The corner of his mouth lifted in a cocky smile. "So was I."

She almost huffed but instead changed the subject. "Did you find the hobbits?"

Legolas nodded. "They are safe."

"But they are not here," Cristiel said, glancing around to make sure she was right.

"Perhaps it is not as safe here as you thought."

She opened her mouth to reply, but was distracted when a group of men entered the Hall. Following Háma, two soldiers held tightly the arms of a grumbling, greasy-haired man with frighteningly pale skin. They dragged him before the king and forced him to kneel as Háma knelt before Théoden, holding out a long blade whose scabbard was gilded with gold and set with green gems.

"My lord, here is your sword. Grima had it in his keeping along with many items which my men have sorely missed."

The king took his blade and unsheathed it, holding it out in the air, testing the weight. Then his eyes veered towards Grima, whose face drooped in horror.

"Take this worm out of here!" Théoden commanded, and his men did as they were told. The whole court rushed outside behind the King out of curiosity as to what might happen next, and whether the king would be merciful or deal justice.

Cristiel followed slowly behind, making it out the great doors of the hall. The commotion had spread down the stairs of Meduseld and into the palace courtyard. She limped up next to Legolas, leaning on his arm for support as her ankle was beginning to throb again. From there, she could see the entire city of Edoras and what was happening below between Grima and Théoden.

The shriveled former-advisor rolled in pain on the hard stony ground. "I've only ever served you, my lord!" he cried, blood dripping from his nose.

Théoden made his way carefully down the stairs, gripping his sword and leering over Grima. "Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!" he replied angrily.

"Send me not from your side!"

Théoden raised his blade, ready to strike off Grima's head.

"No, my lord!"

Cristiel inhaled sharply as Aragorn raced down the steps to the king, where he caught Théoden's sword in the air, holding him back from the kill.

"No, my lord. Let him go."

He whispered more words that Cristiel couldn't hear, and Théoden lowered his sword.

"What does he think he is doing?" she muttered to Legolas. She watched in astonishment as her father offered Grima a hand.

Grima eyed Aragorn carefully, as though considering the offer of possible redemption. He then spat on the offered hand, scrambled to his feet, and pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered around them. Free of his duties, he lunged down the road and disappeared into the shadow of the royal stables. All attention was now shifted to King Théoden.

"Hail Théoden King!" cried Háma suddenly, his voice exuberant.

The gathered crowd shouted in return and bowed respectfully. Rohan's true ruler had returned.

More than once that morning, Cristiel had counted the days on her fingers since Boromir's passing. Six. Not even a week. The void in her chest often felt like it was filled with cold lead, but the sting still did not match the combined physical pain of the injuries in her ankle, arm, and forehead. And since King Théoden had just been made aware that his only son was dead, the funeral preparations being made for the deceased were to Cristiel, secretly, in honor of Boromir, though she knew she would never see his face again. He had gone over the Falls of Rauros and most likely his boat had shattered on the rocks at the bottom of the river.

As she sat listlessly on a bench in the Hall of Meduseld, watching members of the court scurry to and fro in their haste to carry out the king's orders, she wondered if she would even be able to cry for him. She looked at her hand as it lay on the raised table. How numb she felt, and distant.

The weight of another body made the bench she sat on shift. She glanced over to see Aragorn with a concerned look on his face.

"Did Éomer obey my strict orders that you be well taken care of?"

She let a faint smile grace her lips but still stared at the tabletop. "Yes."

"Why do you not look at me?" Aragorn put a hand on her cheek and gently turned her head.

She didn't answer his question. She studied the lines in his forehead, the creases around his steely eyes. He looked worn from his days of constant running. But it didn't seem limited to physical weariness.

"Boromir did not die in vain," he said. "He fought for the hobbits until his final breath."

She met his gaze. "I know. And now he's gone." She almost couldn't believe how wooden she sounded.

Aragorn removed his hand from her cheek and placed it on the hand that rested on the table. His calloused thumb drew circles on the back of her palm, and she instantly felt a calm wash over her.

"Do you remember when Gilraen passed away?"

"I—" She paused to consider. "I never really knew your mother. I remember you crying. You held onto my hand so tightly that it hurt. I was twelve." She noticed a sad light flicker briefly in his eyes when she spoke.

"I think Boromir would have you grieve for him and not dwell on his passing," he said firmly.

She straightened, breaking eye contact. "It's hardly been a week!"

"And have you cried?"

She felt tears sting her eyes and she blinked them away. "No," she whispered. She looked at her hand again, watching as he continued to caress it softly. Boromir gripping her hand suddenly flitted through her mind and her eyes welled. She remembered how he had kissed her that night, by the river, under the stars. A tiny sob escaped her throat and she looked back at Aragorn.

"Don't ever leave me again, ada," she said with a shaky voice.

He searched her face for something, anything. But instead of providing an answer, it contorted with sorrow. What had begun as a trickle from her dark eyes turned into a stream, and he reached for her.

From the opposite end of the Hall, Éowyn watched as a sobbing Cristiel was embraced by a ruggedly handsome man, in a tender display of what she could only regard as brotherly affection.