Eowyn sat by the side of Derethon, one of her dearest friends. The young woman was gravely ill. The birth of her latest child had been a hard one, and now she burned with fever. The midwife said that if she lasted the week she would more than likely survive, but at the moment she appeared to be fading away.
Sighing, she gently placed the hand she'd been holding on her friends chest and stood. There were still more houses that needed to be checked before she could return to the side of her uncle.
"It does her well that you sit with her," Milas, Derethon's husband said once she stepped outside. "Her color improves when you are near."
Eowyn nodded. "Two more days, Milas. If she lives till then she might recover."
The tall man nodded before walking into the house, a child of six years trailing him. Once they were inside Eowyn breathed deep, forcing herself to calm. There was nothing to be gained through tears or hysterics; she'd learned that long ago.
"My Lady! My Lady!" Carmon, one of her brothers horsemen, raced towards her. Eowyn ran. "What has happened?"
"It's Theodred," were the only words he spoke before she was running for the Golden Hall, fear settling in her stomach. She passed through the doors of the great hall without stopping and ran to her counsins apartments. Eomer was seated next to the young man, who was pale.
"Thoedred," she whispered. Her eyes truned to Eomer, who said nothing, only nodded to the stained cloth covering the young man's chest. Eowyn took a breath before lifting the cloth, and closed her eyes at what she saw. The wound was deep, and even though an attempt had been made to pack the wound, blood still seeped sluggisly from it.
"He will not recover, sister," Eomer said quietly. "The wound it too deep, and I believe poisoned.
Eowyn nodded. They had to tell Theoden, no matter the state of his mind. "How long?"
"We were attacked at dawn near the Reaches. We were over run. Seven of my men died before I was able to escape with Theodred."
She turned. "Escape?"
Eomer nodded. "They fought hard. It was not blood they wanted, Eowyn. It was Theodred. They pushed towards him blindly, not caring how many of their number were slaughtered."
Eowyn hung her head. She wanted more than anything to get away, to scream, to do anything other than stand there, helpless, while her kinsman died. As she stood two servants entered carrying water and bandages.
It would not be enough.
"Come," she said, pulling her brother out of the servants' way. "We must tell Theoden."
The walk to the Great Hall was silent, their footfalls echoing down the corridors. She remembered a time when the hall had been full of the sound of women, children, servants, all scampering this way and that as they went about their business. Now the hall was silent as a tomb.
And there the king of corpses sits himself, she thought as they stood before Theoden. She loved the man. He had taken her and her brother in when their parents died, raised them like his own. Now he sat, a husk of a man ruling over a failing kingdom, too crazed to notice that his world was falling around him. She decided not to mince words.
"Your son is badly wounded, my lord," she started.
Eomer rushed to finish. "He was ambushed by Orcs," he brother said, barely contained violence in his voice. "If we don't defend our country, Saruman will take it by force."
Saruman? He had said nothing of him. She was about to ask what the White Wizard had to do with this when a dry voice rattled.
"Grima... Grima, "
They were the first words that he'd spoken in over a month. Grima, her uncle's advisor, slunk out of the shadows to kneel by the king.
"Orcs are roaming freely across our lands," Eomer continued. "Unchecked, unchallenged, killing at will. Orcs bearing the white hand of Saruman," that said he dropped the black helmet of an orc at the feet of the king, a helmet that bore the White Hand, Saruman's symbol. Eowyn froze inside. Their friend, the one they trusted not only for counsel, but help, had turned against them.
"Why do you lay these troubles on an already troubled mind?" Grima asked, his voice full of censure. "Can you not see? Your uncle is weary of your malcontent, your warmongering." His voice had gone hard.
Before Eowyn could reply Eomer had grabbed Grima and forced him into a pillar. Theoden slipped away, to wherever his mind went when Grima wasn't speaking to him.
"Warmongering?" Eomer spat the word. "How long has it been since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price, Grima? When all the men are dead you would take a share of the treasure?"
She couldn't take anymore. Theodred needed to be seen to, and she didn't trust the servants to do so. All those who were able bodied and skilled had left long ago, leaving only a few children and old men to see to the running of the Hall. She stopped though, when she felt eyes upon her, and turned. Both Eomer and Grima were staring at her: Eomer in question, and Grima in longing.
"Too long have you watched my sister, too long have you haunted her steps."
Eowyn continued to her room, then stopped at the threshold of the Hall. She wouldn't leave Eomer to deal with Grima.
"You see much, Èomer son of Èomund. Too much." There was the sound of scuffling, and she heard Eomer struggling. She ran to the door and saw him held by four guards while Grima looked on, smug. "You are banished forthwith from the kingdom of Rohan, under pain of death."
No, it can't be. Not Eomer, the thoughts ran through her mind as they bodily carried her brother out. She listened as not only one horse, but several rode through the gates. Eomer and his party were gone. She couldn't believe, she wouldn't…
"I am sorry you had to see that, my lady."
Wormtongue hadn't moved, but his tone had softened.
"What have you done?" she whispered, keeping her eyes averted. If she looked at him now, she might kill him.
"What is best for us all, My Lady," Grima answered, and she could tell by his shuffling steps that he was moving towards her. "Your brother's cries of betrayal have been trying on the king. His mind is too delicate a thing to suffer such abuses. Saruman is our friend, your uncle's friend for more years than you have lived. How do you think false witness against that friend would affect him?"
Eowyn didn't answer. Instead she turned and walked back to Theodred's room, to his deathbed.
Jack watched the heap of burned bodies grow closer,
and fought against the sick feeling in his stomach. They couldn't be dead.
Aragorn had tried to explain that most men in Middle Earth had no knowledge of
hobbits, and they were often mistaken for wandering children. He couldn't
believe that anyone, including soldiers, would have killed and burned two
children.
"They're all right, Jack," Daniel said as they
stared at the corpses.
Jack nodded, and began helping Gimli sort through the
charred remains. He didn't think it was possible, but the dead uruk'hi managed
to smell worse than when they were alive. He noticed Gimli using his axe, and
decided that would be the best way to go. He picked up one of the heavy swords
that littered the ground and used it like a shovel. After a few minutes Gimli
froze, and reached into the rubble.
"Oh, no," Gimli whispered, then pulled out a
piece of burned leather. "It's one of their wee belts."
The silence that surrounded seemed to grow deeper. Jack
closed his eyes. He wasn't a religious man, but he said a prayer nonetheless,
that they died quickly with no pain.
"May they find peace after death," the elvish words poured over him, and he couldn't help but agree.
Aragorn however, was not about to
suffer in silence. Jack had heard a sound like that once before. It's the same
one he'd screamed after Charlie died, when he found his gun lying beside a pool
of his son's blood. Legolas was whispering a prayer for them, but Jack couldn't
believe that they were dead. "Teal'c, Sam, you see anything?"
The two began scanning the ground, and Sam shook her head.
"A hobbit lay here," Aragorn said suddenly, laying a hand gently on the ground in front of him.
The jaffa nodded. "Indeed, and another there," he pointed to another patch of ground.
"They crawled," Aragorn muttered, scouring the ground for any evidence of their friends. "Their hands were bound."
"And how exactly does he know all this?" Jack asked, his tone only barely laced with sarcasm. In the course of their relationship Aragorn had taught him more than a thing or two about tracking.
Suddenly, the ranger pulled a piece of rope from the ground. "Their bonds were cut. They ran over here and were followed." Aragorn was on his feet now. " The tracks lead away from the battle… into Fangorn Forest."
Jack felt the dread in Aragorn's voice echoed in his soul. They were on the edge of the forest, and there may as well have been a ' no trespassing, all violators will be eaten' sign on the trees in front of them. If you could call them trees. More like a mangled jumble of twisted wood from a dope fiends nightmares.
" Fangorn! What madness drew them there?" Gimli whispered. The
"Whatever it was, they may yet be alive," Aragorn answered. "No one can find a hobbit who doesn't wish to be found, especially in the wild. We travel in pairs, stay close and do not go wandering, no matter what you see."
____________________________________________
Legolas watched the trees of Fangorn with apprehension. In all his years seldom had he come to a place so dark. The very plants whispered, spoke among themselves concerning the intruders. Of him they saw little threat, for even these old trees knew and respected elves, though he didn't doubt they would attack if provoked. He had little doubt that every tree in the wood knew of their presence, and all were speculating on what to do about it. Few dared to enter Fangorn, even of his kind, and almost always at the greatest desperation. There were tales of whole caravans of people and goods entering the forest only to disappear.
Among the elves Fangorn was revered. The oldest of the old had once inhabited its twisted trees, for those trees were rumored to have stood there from beyond even the reckoning of the elves. Legend spoke of Fangorn once holding up the sky, before the Valar lifted it above the earth. But now that majesty was lost. A sadness permeated the forest, and an anger that was directed at those who would dare harm it. He turned, and saw that the path they had followed was blocked, clogged with branches and brambles that hadn't been there moments before.
He knew an ambush when he saw one.
"These trees do not wish us to leave," he said, almost to himself, but there was little doubt that Aragorn heard him.
"As long as we harm none, we should be fine," the ranger answered from behind him.
There was a groaning near them, a whispered laugh. Legolas was not so sure.
"Um, does anyone else feel a little unwanted?" The question came from Jack, and Legolas almost laughed. There were times when he couldn't tell whether the man was joking or being serious.
"Orc blood," Gimli prodded the patch of greenish-black blood with his axe.
Legolas nodded. The puddle was huge, but the orc that created it nowhere to be seen.
"These are strange tracks," Aragorn said behind him. Legolas had already looked at the large sink, and noticed another almost twenty feet away, almost hidden in the thick undergrowth. Trolls did not make such tracks, nor any other creature he'd ever seen.
Something ancient must have survived in Fangorn afterall.
"This forest is old," he said finally. "Very old. Full of memories," a sound drifted past him, the slight beat of fae wings, followed close by the ghost of a scream. "And anger. The trees are speaking to each other."
"Yeah, that makes me feel a lot better," O'Neil commented.
Suddenly there was a burst of noise. The trees were yelling, their voices pilling on top of each other until all he could hear were the muted groaning of straining wood. Something had angered the trees beyond their intrusion.
"Gimli, lower your axe!"
Legolas turned. Gimli had raised his axe, and held it poised, ready to strike. No wonder the trees had become even angrier.
The dwarf, though, looked at them dubiously, but made no move to do as ordered.
"Gimli," Samantha moved towards him, and gently but firmly lowered the axe. At her interference the trees returned to their whisperings, and he fought the urge to smile.
That urge disappeared when movement caught his eye. Something was drifting among the trees, swift and determined. "Aragorn, nad no ennas!" he whispered in elvish as he climbed to the top of a small rise, trying to catch another glimpse of the man, for he was sure it was a man.
"Man cenich?"
The rest of their party gathered around them. "The White Wizard approaches," he said simply, shifting his eyes to where he could just make out a slash of white moving behind them.
"Do not let him speak," Aragorn said as he slowly reached for his sword. "He will put a spell on us! We must be quick."
The slightest of nods was all the confirmation they gave. Legolas readied his
bow.
It did no good.
His arrow and Gimli's axe were knocked away effortlessly, and several swears punctuated by the sound of dropping metal let him know that the rest of his companions had been disarmed as well. The light was blinding, and even if he risked another shot, there was little guarantee that the arrow would find its target.
"You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits," the light said.
"Yeah, little guys, about this high, pain in the ass, you don't have them, do you?" there was a muffled 'oomph', so he supposed that one of their companions had silenced their colonel.
"Where are they?" Aragorn asked, desperation in his voice.
"They passed this way the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?" The light had lessened, but even his eyes could not pick out the features of the man before them.
"Who are you? Show yourself!"
The light dimmed, and Legolas felt his heart stop for the barest of instants.
Gandalf.
He was alive.
Translations:
Aragorn, nad no ennas! Aragorn, someone's out there
Man cenich? What do you see?
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