He cursed his delusion
And the sadness he felt
Weeping at what he'd become
Just a fool in the gold of the sun

People running away
Running like strangers
Day after day
Leave him alone

The Motherlode, The Staves.

(Theoden's Song)

She was a skilled rider, that much was clear as she rode Arod hard before them, fading from view over the crest of a high hill. It was wise, he supposed, that she go ahead to ease their way. If all her family thought her dead it would be unwise to shadow her return and explanations with three strangers of different races and a deathless wizard. Èomer alone had accused her, though it seemed she cared little for that assumption. But still, Aragorn wished she had stayed beside them. He did not like to think of her going alone into the poison Gandalf and Èomer said haunted Edoras. Perhaps even a princess alone could not heal it, but he looked to the distance for the shadow of her, wishing her safe journey and fewer secrets when they met again. Their party was not far behind, but even Shadowfax could not run as fast as she when he carried both Legolas and Gandalf on his back. Hasuful carried Aragorn and Gimli, his flanks strong, shining with sweat but they were war horses bred and true, the pride of Rohan carrying them towards the heart of its kingdom.

As she fled he looked for her long after she was gone. He had known she had some secrets left within her, that much was clear in her very bearing. Hedda, she called herself now, and the name seemed to soothe her. As it calmed her he was glad to call her that, the name rolling over his tongue and a little more of her open to him. This was her land, and upon it he could see yet more she hadn't said. Hedda she'd been for fifteen long years, not a princess but still haunting these lands like a shadow of one. Her manner made some sense now, her rough friendship, the pipe between her lips and her leathers speaking of towns and cities, of fighting and freedom.

A rogue, he guessed. Free and unbound to any.

Except no longer. Now she was bound the land beneath their feet, their guide through Rohan and its royal house. She was bound to her cousin, no longer able to hide behind the shade of death and a false name - now he knew she lived. She was bound to them too. Would she resent them for it? Would she run, change her name and her self again as she had when she was young, when she'd run from Boromir? The thought was an unkind one, that if they lived beyond their quest she may slip away, take back her wilder ways. He did not want to see the last of her. She'd let herself slip back into them from Lothlorien and Amon Hen, the Shield Queen among them in leather and Idis left behind with her name. But to save them again she had to wear it once more. Idis, a princess, a voice across these lands to disarm an entire Erod from harming them. He'd been unable to hide his grin at her voice when she'd commanded them, words rough, unpolitical but the order of a captain or a queen. And she had been obeyed, even dead, even a stranger she could command the cavalry with her own strength alone.

In Edoras they found a strange land, dry and hot that he'd seen before, but it was a world that seemed more afraid than he had seen before. The people were afraid, dressed in dry wool and cloth, and their faces turned from their party of strangers as they rode through its capitol. When they reached its hall, a hardy, beautiful thing he recognised it from Hedda's tales. Her stories, the knots and patterns she wore were engraved along rich timber and thatch and every guard barring their way. He could imagine her, he thought numbly, a queen from this seat or guarding its timbers with sword and shield. She may have hidden from this burden, may have run from her name, but this hall and this land suited her well.

"We sent word ahead," Aragorn said to the guard in their way, beard as golden red as Hedda's hair, but he was ignored. They were stripped of their weapons, fear and worry clear in the eyes of these Eorling guards and that set his teeth on edge and turned his gaze sideways to his friends. Their welcome was not warm, no party had met them on their way, only the distant shadow of a woman and a fallen flag bearing a white stallion watching their path toward the hall. If Hedda had come here, it seemed her going on ahead had eased nothing of their path. He would have spoken her name, but he knew not which name to offer, knew not which name she would have given them and what name would spill her secrets freer than she wished. He was quiet, his fists clenched, ready to fight without his sword should he need. He searched each corner of the hall they entered, seeking the princess or the rogue he cared not, only looking for her face or her shadow here.

In the Golden Hall there sat a corpse upon the throne, old and grey, this man was not the golden king, nor as young as his years suggested. He was bowed and bent, eyes watery and red and at his side sat a snake, whispering to his king as they came.

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King." Gandalf called to the throned man, his crown sitting too heavy on his head, his furs swallowing him. His voice lowered, seeming kinder. Aragorn looked to the shadows of the hall, the guards following behind them all. Had she run then? Had she taken Arod and fled all of Rohan rather than return to this cold place? Had she left them behind rather than face this dark hall? Around them, Théodens guards it seemed, need not give up their weapons his door. "We sent word ahead with our friend, my lord, tell me where is your daughter?"

Théoden seemed to shake, his withered hands clasping the arms of his throne and his mouth twisted and curled. "Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?" He seemed disturbed as if poison stung his very veins and withered his body. His grey gaze, unfocused, half blind as it was bored into the wizard at their head. "My daughter is dead, Grey Wanderer, you sent ahead a ghost to get your way," The king rasped. Beside him sat the Wormtongue, lank hair and pale skinned, weak and beneath them all he had the kings ear. Grima, the snake whispered, feeding him lies feeding him weakness until he stood, as small and skinny in his dark furs as the king himself. When the king spoke Aragorn's bruised fingers curled into fists to hear her spoken of so. So she didn't run. He felt ashamed to have thought anything else. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lathspell I name him. Ill news is in ill guest. He would trick and tease you, my lord - "

"My daughter -" the king interrupted him, spitting out the word as it confused a clouded mind, his wispy brows furrowed. "Bring her - bring the girl to me," He wheezed, drawing the soldier beside him, demanding this of him. His body was fraught, wound tight and the king looked pained and sick to speak, to make his own command. Beside him the clad soldier looked as shocked, eyes alighting over he and the wormtongue, but he obeyed. The soldier nodded, looking afeared but strode from the room with purpose.

"She has travelled far with us, My Lord. We met your nephew on the road, he knew her." He said, drawing forward, though he heard a thugs footprints behind him, keeping close should he draw to near their fragile king.

"A shade, my king, a puppet and a jest. Let her hang with all this company!" Grima snapped, seeming disturbed to hear the king speak at all. To their left a door opened, two guards dragging behind a prisoner bound tightly by her wrists and led by a long string of rough rope like a beast. Like they did not want to risk getting too close to her. There was a sack covering her face, but from the leathers to the way she snapped, fighting against her restraint Aragorn could see her in every inch of her there. His teeth ground together, meeting the eye of her captors. Without a word he marked them for pain, wanting them to hurt even with his sword lost to him, his fists and body could bring about enough to punish.

"A rogue, my king, impure and ugly she seeks to mock you, to mock your line -" He stammered, his hands shaking, clasped beneath his furs as the bound girl kicked out against her captors. A muffled snarl came from beneath the hood, and it seemed she was gagged. Aragorn's eyes were upon her, half the hall forgotten entirely. That a king would allow this, that Théoden had his daughter bound, he must be mad or raving, as lost as Gandalf and her cousin said. Could he not recognise her? Had the king even looked upon her? "Your daughter was buried in the hills years past - this imposter -"

"Be silent!" Gandalf shouted, making half the hall shake around them with his rage. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm!" He said, seeming sickened by the man and from his cloak he drew his staff, throwing off the ragged cloak he wore to cover the bright light that seemed to surround him always. Gandalf the White filled the dark hall with light, and Grima Wormtongue quaked.

"His staff! I told you to take the wizard's staff!" The wraith whimpered, falling back to the steps of the throne and shaking visibly before them. What remained of their splintered party looked sickened by his words, his fear, all his pride lost to him as his thugs twisted to start their fight. "Kill her!" The worm tongue wailed, and Aragorn would have broken all his teeth had his fist not already been buried in his stomach of another. From the corner of his eyes he saw the two guards holding her stare dumbly at his order. They underestimated her skill by far if two was all they thought of hold her with.

Gagged and blind as she was, Hedda never missed any fight around her, let alone this one as it began. Aragorn wished he could simply watch her do it. She snapped back her bound hands so suddenly her captor lost his hold on the tail of it, stumbling as his attention was upon Gandalf, the one he thought was the true danger instead of the girl behind. The rope swung freely and she kicked up the heavy weight of it, whipping him hard and blind across his chest, making him step back with a curse, fist raised to strike her. That time was all she needed to reach for the hood, snapping it off her face and baring that mess of golden red and burning, furious eyes. She glared at the broad, slow men around her and snarled. Actions quick and precise she gathered the rope still in hand, winding it around her wrists further to shorten it into a weapon, a rough morning star of her own.

She could not move much, still bound and shaken but the rope made enough of a weapon to whip across the face of a heavy, hairy brute who reached for her, the rope drawing blood across his cheek and eyes. Blindly he took a step closer and the rope could not help her in such close combat. She swung her bound fists together in an ungainly punch to his throat, choking him and he fell to his knees, unable to breathe. For himself he was brawling with the men around him, avoiding the swing of knives and swords that sailed over his ducked head. Kicking the breath out a dark haired sell sword, he stilled his long enough to snatch the knife from his belt and toss it behind him into Hedda's waiting hands.

He had no time to look for her in her own battle, but he heard the snap of rope and the sick, wet sound of the knife in flesh as he tossed a heavy body over his shoulders, rolling until he hit the floor, grunting and cursing. He chanced a look and saw her crow aloud and knot her forearm around the neck of an axe wielder at his back, leaping onto his back and using her whole weight to throw him to the ground in a sly spin. A pick pockets trick, he noted, to keep away from the blade, to be light footed and fast, to be unseen. The kings guard stood still, behind them as they finished the thugs that were so plainly of a different breed. Wormtongues men, he guessed, the kings own soldiers did not draw blade against them. They were wiser, it seemed, and not in Grima's employ. They could see magic and divinity in Gandalf's every word and action and they saw through spell the snake had cast over their king.

The guards were done quickly enough and Aragorn went to her side. She was sprawled over the body of a struggling brute, but when he reached her she brought the butt of her blade down hard on his temple, knocking him still and sleeping. When he reached for her shoulder he narrowly avoided her fist, clearly not anticipating a touch when she was still so ready to fight. He caught her hand in his palm, a wry smile grazing his lips as the worms men scattered, keeping their distance from the both of them. He helped her to her feet slowly, examining her to look for marks of her capture. He saw red, raw skin where the ropes had rubbed against her and smoothed over them gently with his thumb. He did not like to see her hurt so, he liked it less how often she ignored that pain. He was glad to see her, gladder still to see her fight. "Not the welcome you expected?" He asked her, reaching for her chin, turning her face to see the faint bruise marking her jaw, stroking his thumb across it, trying to keep contained the snap of anger that flared at the daring of whoever had captured her here, in her own halls.

"I expected little else," She tried to smile, but her eyes were distant, her fingers coming to cover his hand and pull him back into the shadows from where Gandalf was calling spells. She angled delicately behind him, going unseen but her gaze was on the throne, just over his shoulder. A wry smirk on her lips she looked to him. "Were you riding anything but the pride of Edoras's stable, you may have arrived to see my execution."

Aragorn wondered if that was gratitude before his attention was caught, turning back to their great wizard. "Théoden, Son of Théngel. Too long have you sat in the shadows." Gandalf cried, pure magic pouring from his mouth, power sending the old man back sharply against his carved throne. Foul words poured from him, each cutting and Aragorn knew she should not hear it, but when he looked to her she was quiet, guarded and still. When Théoden was free, and gold returned to his skin and hair, her mouth fell openly weakly, taking a single step to pass by him and reach for her king. Her face was unreadable, uncertain, but a flash of pure gold and white crossed their path and she snatched her body back, far from the throne is quick, nervous steps. At the kings side a pale haired woman calmed him, speaking kindly as the kings colour returned to him. Another princess of Rohan.

This story is not up on A03 as well! Under all the same titles and names.

Do we like Aragorns voice? Do you have any questions? Let me know x