Author's Note: I inadvertently took something of an extended vacation. It was unconsciously done and I did not enjoy it in the least. However, I am glad to be back! Though I (obviously) struggled in writing this chapter, I also had a lot of fun writing it, once I got my groove back. I wanted to give the Rohirrim a deliciously complex culture, which I hope you will allow to develop over the next few chapters. You should also know how humbled and flattered I am by each and every one of you that reached out to me in my absence. Your words, your encouragement, and your accolades regularly astound me. I'm glad that you are enjoying this little project of mine and I hope that I have not lost some of you by my long absence. If I have, let me extended my deepest apologies. But for those of you who are still willing to put up with me, though I have proved myself now to be of the most untrustworthy sort, I am indebted. I'm glad to be back.
And forgive me, I couldn't resist the Beowulf reference.
Please enjoy!
. . .
Ch. 35 The Once and Future King
Aila woke but did not stir, did not or could not open her eyes against the pale light of the new morning. That light, and the cool air of the morning, wafted in through open windows. The house was quiet, stilled, sublimely peaceful; and Aila had no desire to disturb it. She could smell the smoke of a newly built fire, a thick and heady scent, and also feel its warmth in steady waves against her face. Its warmth and its crackling song blended with the slow cadence of the morning's rhythm. Her heartbeat matched that rhythm, slow and purposeful, plush and satisfied. Each breath was singularly gratifying and fulfilling. And only her face was exposed to the alternated warmth of the fire and coolness of the morning draft; the rest of her was hidden beneath a mass of rough blankets, laying oh-so-comfortably atop the mattress on the floor of Hilla's house. It was a modest thing, this mattress, tucked away in the corner of the main room of her house – really, it was only a canvas bag stuffed with dried grasses; but it was miraculous, it was heaven. It was softer and cleaner and more comfortable than any bed that Aila had had for weeks. Her aching muscles felt to be melted right into the fabric of the bed itself. As such, she had no inclination to leave this pleasant haven any sooner than she absolutely must. Of course, her peace could never last.
It was while Aila was relishing in the scent of the wood-fire – an intriguing mix of smokiness and a sharpness like fresh pine and the fruity undertones of apples – with her eyes tightly closed that Hilla burst back into the house, a flurry of circular motion and thrumming noise. The woman threw the door open, brushing the frame with her wide hips, and from her lips came a low humming, a busy song of motion and life and things-not-yet-done. A strong, cool breeze followed the woman through the door, such that Aila was immediately engulfed in cold air and broad sound. Her eyes flew open in surprise at the sudden commotion that had broken her peace.
"Up!" cried the Rohirric woman, upon spying Aila still in the bed, and her voice was more exasperation and disbelief than command. She busily transferred some bundle of cloth from her arms to the scrubbed table-top. "Up, awake! The day is wasting!" And even though it looked to Aila as though the sun had only just risen, she began dutifully, if slowly, to peel away the layers of blankets from her frame and stand up; groggy, grudging, and blinking. "Come now. Eat up, have some breakfast! And get dressed," said Hilla, pushing the pile of fabric towards Aila as the latter took a seat at the table. "I have been to see my oldest sister-daughter and borrowed this dress for you. I think that it will fit." Her voice trailed then, perhaps speaking more to herself than to Aila, but Aila nodded in acknowledgement regardless. The large woman bustled out of the room right then, and without further word, to another part of the house. Once the other woman had quit the room, Aila turned her attention to the place of food that was waiting on the table in front of her. Her appetite was then quickly recalled once the food touched her lips, and she ate hastily.
Hilla's voice called to her distantly even before the woman had re-entered the main room of the house. "You'll be coming with me today, child," she said, actually re-entering the room somewhere in the middle of her sentence. Her words held the unthinking rhythm of her previously hummed song. "If you're staying with me, then I'll put you to work – Éomer's, or not."
And it was this that reminded Aila, unpleasantly and sharply, of her frustration of the night before. She swiftly swallowed the food in her mouth to clear her throat, and the poorly-chewed bread scratched her throat on the way down, leaving an uncomfortable trail of pain. She coughed roughly, struggling to speak through her coughs as she quickly sputtered: "I think you've misunderstood." The other woman paused, and watched Aila with concern as the younger woman took a hasty drink, spilling a bit out of the corners of her mouth, before continuing. "I don't know where you got the idea, but I'm not here to be 'one of Éomer's women' as you say. You see, I'm here ..."
But she never had the chance to finish her sentence as Hilla keenly interrupted, her lips pulled tight. "Hush now, be quiet," she commanded, turning an uneasy glance to the doorway and the nearby windows. "Never mind that." Aila was surprised to hear that her voice was carving-knife sharp, and her demeanor had shifted dramatically from the pleasant to the stern. And so, Aila watched, wide-eyed, as the other woman leaned forward over the table to hold Aila's eyes in her own narrowed, intent gaze. Her large breasts were pressed against the table-top. But even within an instant, Aila realized that Hilla was not threatening her, but rather had the firm expression of a mother scolding her child. One of Hilla's eyebrows was raised over the other. "You heard that I have been to see my sister-daughter this morning?" the woman asked, and Aila nodded silently in response. "She has given me word that our Lord Éomer was arrested and imprisoned late last night in the hall Meduseld." Her dark eyes glittered in warning, taking a small pause to allow the words to sink in to Aila's brain. But the words were resistant: her mind was frozen and dull as she listened to the woman continue. "I do not know for what reason or purpose you were brought to this city, but these are evil times and hard days. Better that you be a silly girl brought for the whim of an ungentlemanly lord than let it be known your true purpose; I need not know it for myself – but there are few so brainless that cannot comprehend something of the meaning of a woman who comes to our city, in these dark days, armed with two bright swords." She nodded to Glamdring and Núadin, which were both still wrapped up in Aila's cloak by the side of the modest bed where Aila had slept. "Better to leave those here, let them stay where they are. Waiting-woman and mistresses do not go so armed within the city-walls."
"Éomer has been arrested?" Aila said weakly, letting everything else which Hilla had said fall from her thoughts. How could she have forgotten that little bit of information that was so greatly pertinent to her situation? Her position in Edoras was now more dangerous by the second.
"Yes, dear," Hilla replied kindly, slipping back into her pleasant manner. She mistakenly assumed that Aila's lame response was, in fact, an effort to play along with her requisite role as unimportant maid and mistress of the Third Marshal.
But Aila was not merely playing dumb. Her thoughts were lost in a web of worry. She thought of Éomer, locked somewhere within the halls of Meduseld, unable to offer her any assistance or protection. Would his influence over the members of his own éored hold true? – Would its members hold faithful to her secret or would one of those Riders betray her? And if she were to be exposed to Wormtongue ... would he know of her? Would his master Saruman, who knew of her power and had seen her face, have warned the pitiable creature of her existence and of her power? And what might her punishment be for this perceived crime? Imprisonment? – Or death? Her mind was a swirl, and Aila was left only to hope that she remain hidden.
Better not to think on it, she decided. And so she quickly finished her small breakfast, spilling a bit more of her drink on her chin as she rushed, and gathered the bundled cloth on the table in front of her to get dressed. It was easy to convince herself that she would feel much better about blending into the daily life in Edoras once she was in the proper attire. After all, such effort had worked, albeit to an extent, in both Lothlórien and Rivendell. Such a measure, Aila reasoned, should work even better here in Edoras than in any of the places she had been previously, merely for the fact that Aila herself would fit in better in this city. She was, after all, of Mankind, and had only previously been surrounded by Elves. Any would stand out amongst Elves, regardless of garb. But here, here in Edoras, she told herself, she would be no more interesting than any other young maid in the city.
And a thought – beautiful and simple and clean – struck her: in Edoras, she was not Aearvenel. Not the Light Bearer. The Rohirrim had no exultant expectation of her, did not worship her, did not write her into song and legend. In Edoras, she was of no interest at all.
The thought was at once thrilling and exciting, and so Aila eagerly pulled on the dress.
But, once on, the cut of the dress smashed to pieces the semi-contented feeling of safety and satisfaction that Aila had tricked herself into feeling. There was nothing at all about the dress that was made to avoid standing out. It was a deep, rich green and made of an unremarkable fabric, that was plain enough, and it had nice long sleeves and a sweeping skirt that reached all the way to the floor. But the neckline plunged, akin to the revealing cut of Hilla's dress. And the dress' only accessory was a wide belt, perhaps intended for the style of a corset, that – as far as Aila could tell – was meant to run underneath her breasts and hug her rib-cage, stopping just at her waist. This belt she tied on as tightly as she felt comfortable and she craned her neck to look down at her own body and assess the look of the dress, as there was no mirror. The curve of her hips jutted out at an aggressive angle from the restriction of the belt and, she thought, more of her breasts were on display than she had ever previously allowed. The whole costume was hideously embarrassing to her.
And so she left the small room where she had gotten dressed to gain assurance from Hilla that there was some mistake, some oversight that Hilla had forgotten to retrieve a crucial piece of the ensemble. And when the woman's laughter greeted the sight of Aila, the younger woman breathed a momentary, ill-conceived sigh of relief. But instead of producing some shawl to cover her shoulders and chest, Hilla instead drew the belt around Aila's waist tighter still, pulling it in rough, jerking motion and setting it even higher beneath her breasts. With a cluck of satisfaction, Hilla took a step back to look at Aila once more.
The older woman smiled. "Here you are, child, and looking quite fine indeed. Perhaps Éomer's taste has not fallen so far as my first estimation of it." Aila only returned her sideways compliment with a deeper frown and a nervous gaze. Hilla ignored this expression, and waved an impatient hand for Aila to follow after her out of the house.
Once out in the bright sunlight of Edoras, Aila kept her eyes protectively closed, shielding them not only from the sun's insistent light but also herself from the notice of any who might be around – as if by the mere act of averting her gaze, she could discourage any other to notice her, in turn. But even with the feigned invisibility of her unseeing gaze, Aila felt naked and exposed, a tall and stark redwood in the midst of the Sahara. But her character and her curiosity could not be long abated by her embarrassment and fear; and so, in spite of every expected censure or punishment, Aila's gaze began to swiftly dart upward from the ground to the houses and people which surrounded her. Her courage rose with each stolen glance that showed no other to pay any great attention to her. She noticed, as she and Hilla climbed the steady rise to Meduseld, that, contrary to her fear, she was not garnering any attention at all. The people of that Rohirric city were busily going about their mornings, paying no mind at all to the middle-aged waiting-woman and her charge. And so with each step, each new furtive glance, Aila began to disappear into the very blades of the grass she was walking upon.
Not Sælrieth, she reminded herself, with a pleasurable shiver of excitement.
She stood a little straighter, turned her eyes outward more frequently, letting the sunlight bathe on her skin and her face, soaked into the color of her eyes. With each step she gained confidence in her altogether invisible stride. With such little encouragement, Aila began to engage in her favorite activity: observation.
The morning was warmer than it had any right to be for so early in the season, and so the people of Edoras were out and about, seeing to their jobs and duties with light steps and airy countenances. The cobbler sat in front of his shop, tapping away at the heel of a leather boot, perhaps meant for one of the Riders; an intermixed group of young men and women sat weaving and gossiping in the corner of a broad square; children drew water from a nearby well; old women swept the small porches fronting their houses. Some called out morning greetings to Hilla – she seemed an easy favorite among the residents of that area – and she nodded and smiled and returned their greetings with accustomed affability. These individuals nodded also to Aila, smiling broadly with cracked lips and yellowed teeth, bowing slightly, or calling out some variation of good cheer. Aila only gave a small smile in return, nodding her head in acknowledgement, but thought it best not to expose herself as a non-speaker of that Rohirric tongue.
And though the scene was altogether one of pleasantness and joy, Aila just missed the feeling of uncertainty that underlay the whole character of the city. The cobbler sat, indeed, working at his wars, but his eyes were turned outward with mistrust, and he relished the feeling of the sun on his skin, not knowing when he might enjoy his last ray. The gossipers in the square gossiped mainly on the plain change in their king, and the hushed word of advancing Orcs on their borders. The children did not romp and play, but were uncharacteristically sedate. The old women watched it all with hooded eyes. But Aila, whose eyes were so joyfully engaged in observing the whole of the scene, did not comprehend this.
Soon Aila and her middle-aged guide outstripped the huddle of modest houses and were at once upon a more open lane, leading up to the noble long-hall. The bright green of the grass overwhelmed and excited Aila's eyes, and she thought with dull memories of the muted sage which had been the color of the grass during her tireless chase to the north. Surely, the others were reunited with Gandalf at this time? Perhaps they were already on their way to Edoras. She would not have long to wait. It was easy to feel quite at ease, especially amidst the friendliness and bright colors and vivacity that she perceived in the Rohirric morning. She should not have let her apprehension slip away so readily.
As the long-hall of Meduseld loomed closer, Aila saw to their left that there was spread a large training ground, which was already heavily occupied in the still-crisp morning air. A row of targets stood proud and at-the-ready, painted in concentric circles of black and gold, for the discretion of the archers' practice. A line of grass-stuffed scarecrows stood similarly, though some way off from the archery targets, for the practice of swordsmen. These latter were presently engaged, and the ring of metal and the agitated sounds of striving men reached Aila's ears.
But what astonished her most – what she might not have expected of the people of Rohan – was that not some small number of women also accompanied the swordsmen at their practice. Indeed, some of the women, dressed finely in leather armor and bright golden tunics, were directing the efforts of the men as they trained. She could not help herself but to remark of that astonishment to Hilla.
The Rohirric woman tsked disapprovingly, and shook her head for a moment before saying, "And so then you must come from Gondor, where I understand they treat their women like furniture. Not so for the mighty maidens of Eorl! It might surprise your antiquated judgment to know that women may be as strong – or stronger – than the men of battle, but here perhaps you see its truth. In Rohan, there is strong tradition of warrior-women."
Aila paused in her walk. She was immediately offended and opened her mouth to defend herself, considering herself something of a modern, and empowered, feminist. Though, in learning something of the culture of Rohan, she might have held her tongue, if not for remembering one pertinent bit of information. "But my swords!" she exclaimed. "You alternatively accuse me of being some dangerous warrior and some feminine armchair, and yet you said that women do not go armed within the walls of Edoras. Was it wrong of me to assume you meant that women did not go armed at all?"
Hilla paused also, turning to look at Aila sharply, and again a countenance of firm reproof appeared on her features. "You are not a shield-maiden of Rohan," the woman said sternly. "You do not go armed within the city-walls, or otherwise a woman of Rohan would be well within her rights to challenge you. Is it not your desire to remain undiscovered?"
"Yes," replied Aila, meekly. "Right." And she remained silent, a jumble of emotions, as Hilla turned to continue the hike to the peak of Edoras' foremost hill, atop which stood Meduseld. Aila was embarrassed by the easy affront by Hilla, and offended by the very same, and insatiably curious regarding the culture and customs of the Rohirrim, and had some intermixing of pride and fondness towards to the shield-maidens of Rohan. She had certainly not expected such gender-equality within the Rohirric people – but then, what could she expect of the people who had produced head-strong and battle-worthy Éowyn? And to this, her nervousness trumped all – as she was going that very minute to wait on the sister of the Third Marshal. She put a spread hand to her chest to shield her exposed breasts as she quickly resumed her step and hurried forward to follow after Hilla.
Finally, they gained the foremost steps of the hall of Edoras, and, with Hilla in lead, Aila was brought along broad and beautiful passages to a lower level where she was informed of their purpose in going there by the welcoming smells of baking bread and other cooking scents. She continued to follow Hilla, feeling comfortably safe within the woman's shadow, and she returned to her keen observation of her surroundings as they went, presumably, to fetch Éowyn's breakfast.
The exterior of the hall was a plainly noble building, a wide wooden frame set with gray stone walls and the whole structure had an impenetrable and imposing majesty. But inside, the warmth and brightness of the place was unmistakable. The walls were painted fervently with the frescoes of great deeds and warriors long passed, and the structure was supported by wide, dark-wooden columns that were similarly carved with thick and imposing patterns that invited Aila's fingertips to touch and explore their intricacies. Thick tapestries hung over stone walls where the frescoes failed, and though some of these were woven with some similarly great stories, still others were plain and bold in their color and pattern. The symbol of the house – that white prancing horse – was repeated in short intervals wherever Aila looked.
There was no drama at all in retrieving Éowyn's breakfast from the kitchens; the chefs accepted that Hilla had a new assistant as readily and as frequently as they failed to notice Aila at all. Perhaps Hilla had been right in supposing that the frequency of maidens' stay at her house, with regards to Éomer's attentions, were quite beyond Aila's interest. She very nearly laughed to think of it, and wondered how many girls similar to herself in (purported) position these chefs had occasion to ignore. She easily took the tray that she was given, holding it steady, and followed Hilla back out of the kitchens.
And Hilla led her once more through the maze of hallways, Aila's eyes as constantly averted to the decoration and grandeur of the space that she could afford without spilling from the tray, until they finally reached a nondescript wooden door. Throwing this open, with a waking-song in her native tongue ready on her lips, Hilla entered the room and Aila followed quickly on her heels. But the woman did not complete even the first rhyming couplet of her song before the room was once more ensconced in silenced. The bedclothes, Aila could see from around Hilla's broad frame, were disturbed and the bed was obviously empty.
"My lady does not rise so early," said Hilla softly, and her voice was fully of worry and mistrust. Aila walked quickly into the room to deposit her burden onto a nearby table. And for a few moments, the two of them searched the room for some indication of Éowyn's whereabouts. But, they needn't search for long.
A woman's voice, earnest and concerned, called from the hallway: "Hilla?" The indicated woman turned to the doorway, relief coloring the corners of her eyes. Perhaps, Aila thought generously, Éowyn had only just heard of her brother's arrest and was coming to Hilla for comfort. But Hilla's expression of relief soon faded, as the unnamed woman in the hall continued, her voice full of stress, "Hilla, hwær is héo?"
Hilla had only the breadth of a moment to turn to Aila, her eyes full of surprise and sorrow, and she said only, "Child!" And then the room was suddenly full with soldiers, who came with more than merely the news of Éomer's arrest.
They came, five men in all, armed and armored, and they came to Aila with shackles of her own.
. . .
"Yes," said Éothain, who stood amidst the soldiers that shortly surrounded Aila. "That is her." She recognized him as easily as he had recognized her. And his presence stank of betrayal. Aila was quickly shackled and led from the room, shoved before two of the soldiers at the front of the small group as they led her away. Aila could faintly hear Hilla's protests, but they were quickly born away by the swiftness that the group moved through the hallways. She had precious little chance to catch a glimpse of any of her captors, and knew only of Éothain's presence for sure. And it was only with an articulate hatred that she thought of the Man, and she willed that this hatred overwhelm the other feelings of abject terror that were bubbling up in her stomach.
She was expressly brought into the main hall of the place, a wide and expansive chamber that immediately bespoke its purpose as throne hall of Théoden-king.
Aila's eyes took a hurried sweep of the hall while the soldiers forced her onto her knees in its center. The room was large and its light somewhat vivid and airy for the feeling of threatening danger that Aila sensed in it. It was lined on each of its flanks with long, thin tables, complemented with arranged benches, that marked the hall for regular feasting. Fluttering banners hung majestically on the walls, shouting at her in bright colors of crimson and emerald, trimmed in gold, boasting the image of the white, proud horse of the Rohirrim. Thick columns rose up, twined in thick relief of twisting branches and fluttering leaves. The hall had a scent of the ancient, its stone floors worn and very nearly soft on her knees, and it gave her over to thinking of the models of Viking halls she might have seen in museums. She half-expected to see Grendel's arm decorating the wall, and to see Hrothgar presiding over its expanse rather than Théoden. Hrothgar might have welcomed her.
But it was, indeed, Théoden that she saw sitting on the golden throne. He struck a terrifying sight – not for the imposition of his might, or the threat of his intense gaze, but for the unsightliness and fragility of his seat thereupon. His long hair was wizened, white, and dirty, clinging around the corners of his red mouth and the long, errant hairs of his overgrown eyebrows. His eyes, which Aila guessed to be once a dark brown like those of his nephew, were now a milky, pale gray that only just hinted at their former color. He was hunched over, with barely the strength to keep himself from tumbling off of the throne, and he was clothed in a white robe, but which was stained yellow and brown and black at odd intervals, and gave much to his general appearance of inattentiveness and, more generally, maltreatment.
And on a low seat beside the king, sat Gríma Wormtongue, a pale and oily figure clothed in black that likewise hunched beside his king, though his posture was one of close confidence than insipid lack of strength.
From the small group which led Aila into the hall broke free two individuals. The first, a tall woman, walked forward to the king and took her position to his left, turning around to face Aila and placing her hand softly on her uncle's left shoulder. This was Éowyn, and Aila wasted a few moments in observing her. She was tall, like her brother, and not slightly built. Her long, blonde hair was thick and course, but better kept that her brother's, and fell down her shoulders to her waist in dense waves. A thin silver circlet sat on her brow. She was too far away for Aila to see the color of her eyes, but her expression was stern and unyielding. The king's niece held herself as Aila might have expected her to – a foremost shield-maiden of Rohan.
The other was Éothain, who retreated from the soldiers to stand to the side of the hall, somewhere halfway between Aila and the king himself. His duty, as her main accuser, appeared finished.
Her gaze then settled once more on the vacant king and his black steward. Théoden returned her gaze with disinterest and boredom, and his lips moved, barely perceptible, in some speech to Gríma that was too low for Aila to hear. After a heartbeat, the Wormtongue spoke. "What business have you here in our city?" the steward demanded, his pale gray lips forming the words with a disgusting pronouncement. Théoden nodded, slowly, his acceptance of this speech.
Aila's gaze was trapped by Wormtongue's hideous face for a few moments, and she noted his long, black greasy hair and the purple circles beneath his eyes. His entire complexion was an unnatural gray. And then, snapped from her disgust, her mind moved rapidly to reply to his question. "No business," she replied quickly, trying to keep her voice steady and strong. She tried to thicken it with some impugned honesty. "I have only just fled to this city for shelter and aid. Orcs raided the village where I was staying on the eastern border of this land. I was the only one to survive the sword and flame. I came to bring this news, and seek safety." Whispers, fervent and shocked, followed this news, and it took several sharp glances from Wormtongue and an earnest hushing from various guards about the place to quiet the risen voices once more.
"You are not eorlinga," said Wormtongue accusatorily.
"No," Aila replied, thinking on Hilla's earlier words. "I fled first from my homeland of Gondor, evil following at my heels from the south and that blackest land in the east. I sought refuge amidst the strength of Rohan." Perhaps flattery would get her somewhere. And it did; she could feel the tight grip of the soldier to her right loosen a little on her shoulder, followed closely by his companion gripping her left shoulder. Their postures relaxed a little, and they glanced down at her with pity.
Éothain listened to her with a darkening, hateful expression (he at least knew that she had been brought out of the north), and Éowyn's features were as stern and unmoving as ever. Théoden looked purely unaffected. But there was murmur among the others gathered that spoke wonder at the attacks in the east, and that a refugee should be so roughly presented before the king. Heated arguments were springing up around the room; some took Aila's side in pity, while their opposition represented the paranoia of a city under attack from both Sauron and Saruman. Who, after all, could they trust – even in seemingly innocent young maidens?
"You surely cannot believe such nonsense and lies," said Éothain, clearly unable to hold his tongue. "She was brought herself into this city under the personal guard of the traitor Éomer. Her purpose in this city must be black, indeed." Aila looked to Éothain then, and wondered that he did not flatly speak the truth of her encounter with his éored and the reason Éomer brought her to Edoras. But even as she wondered this, she realized that Éothain could not speak such truth, for it would be to also admit that he himself had allowed three, much more dangerous, strangers to wander freely through the lands of Rohan. Éothain kept his silence in this regard. It was a small victory.
"And surely," said Éowyn to Éothain's outburst, "all those with even the slightest association with my brother must also be fully allied to his guilt?" She said this, looking keenly at Éothain with steady reproof in her eyes. Aila did not understand the underlain threat which accompanied her words, but she heard it nonetheless. Éothain was silent once more.
Wormtongue looked to Éowyn with watery eyes, his pale gray lips turned down in a falsely sympathetic frown. "You cannot help your bloodline, my Lady," said the Wormtongue, "and neither in this fashion may Éothain, though the traitor's betrayal brings shame on us all. But this stranger," he said, casting his words with thick venom towards Aila, "can have no exception to association with that evil Man of which we speak. If he has indeed brought her into our city, as I believe Éothain speaks true – being, after all, the Second of his éored – then she can have nothing but mischief for the proud sons of Eorl. What plans of destruction and death might she harbor for our poor city?"
Éowyn's frown deepened. She addressed the king, and the king alone: "Such twisted words." The king murmured softly in response to her, and she continued. "We have here only proof that she is a desperate young woman, brought in from the wilds by our strongest éored for safety and shelter. What danger is she, that has no weapon? That has no obvious strength to her? What is her means of betrayal, except to eat her share of bread and drink of our ale? – though perhaps this last is the black evil that Éothain might fear."
They continued to argue Aila's threat and crime, Éothain speaking boldly against her and Éowyn offering insult and reproof to his every advance. Wormtongue resumed his seat beside his king and spoke to the sovereign in hushed conversation. His black eyes slid often to Aila, watching her warily, and his frown and exaggerated whispers heightened the sharpness of his ugly face.
Aila could see, quite clearly, that her only hope might be to twist the king's own thoughts to pronouncing her free to go. His mind, after all, was already so weak and tame that it might prove even within her unpracticed power. So, throwing caution to the wind, Aila closed her eyes and sought for Théoden's mind while the conversation continued around her. The king's mind was difficult to find with the direction of so many other minds nearby, but she eventually focused on the one she found most dampened and dulled by some outside influence. With an energy bursting from her chest, she pushed against this mind and entered the halls of Théoden-king's bleary mind.
The place she found herself was foggy and moist, and had the smell of an old, rotting library – once grand and full of the knowledge of things, but left to the damp and decay of too many inattentive years. There was a thick haze wafting through the hallways of the king's mind, and her visibility was reduced to only a few feet in front of her. She groped forward, her thoughts working rapidly to conceive what might need to be done, when a sudden, familiar voice arrested her. Her heart sank in an instant into the pit of her stomach, slipping down her legs and out of the toes of her shoes to melt onto the floor.
Saruman said: "Aila. So obliging of you to come to me. In Edoras, I see?"
And an incredible power hit her squarely in the chest, and she was thrown back, tossed haphazardly out of Théoden's mind and back into her own body on the floor of the grand chamber. Her body shuddered and she nearly buckled to the floor were the soldiers not able to hold her upright, their surprised touches more gentle than they might have been. The shackles clanked as she threw her hands forward to brace the fall that wouldn't come.
The room went dark for the span of a heartbeat as Aila lost consciousness for a moment, due to the violence with which she had been thrust back into her body, and she could only barely bring her attention to the king's steward in the midst of Wormtongue's outburst. His response to her efforts was quite telling, and his mottled finger was pointing at her in accusation. "Witch!" came his repeated cry, the corners of his mouth frothing in his zealotry. "Deceiver! Tool of the Enemy! You came into this city, brought by the very traitor Éomer, with the aim to twist our poor, noble king's mind – when he is already so weighted by trouble and hardship," he said, gesturing with feigned displeasure and sadness at the hunched, puppet king.
Théoden's eyes were once more locked on Aila's, but there was something more of interest and surprise behind the cloudiness of his pale eyes. And some manner of desperation. Had the true king felt Aila's touch in his mind? The interest in his gaze quickly faded again to vacancy.
And as Gríma railed on against her, she realized that his words were clearly indicative that Saruman had warned the steward of her. He could recognize easily her efforts to gain access to the king's mind, and could see that Saruman had thrown her violently back out. To this, Aila could barely react. Her body was exhausted and her muscles felt muddled. She lifted her eyes drowsily to Éowyn, seeing that the woman watched her with widened, unsure eyes, though the king's niece did spare the occasional hateful glance toward Wormtongue as the steward continued his rant. Éothain spat at the ground in Aila's direction.
"There can only be one punishment for one who brings such betrayal and destruction into the heart of the mighty Rohirrim. An attack against the king, and in his own hall!, has only one outcome: and that is death." He nodded, his greasy black hair bobbing against the curl of his shoulders in his earnestness, to one of the guards standing beside Aila. The Man, looking uncomfortably at Gríma, reluctantly drew his sword. Aila closed her eyes.
"Do you truly mean," came Éowyn's voice from beside her uncle, bringing Aila's eyes open once more, "to murder an unarmed woman with no defense of herself, and her only crime your accusation of some treason that none can perceive but you? I saw not a witch of any power, but the weakness of a girl who passed out with the shock of such a trial."
The guard beside Aila gratefully lowered his sword.
Éowyn fell to one knee beside the king, placing her hands on his forearm and squeezing her fingers gently, and Théoden turned his head slowly to stare at her blankly. She entreated him: "These are dark days, indeed, my lord, but has the honor of Rohan fallen so far that we murder even the innocent, so mistakenly assured that all are against us? Have we no longer any strength to resist even our darkest impulses?" And to this last, the king made a strange grunting sound, and he shook his head as though to shake some fog from his ears, his white hair flying about him in an odd, repellant cloud.
The king murmured.
Wormtongue turned back from where he had been standing some several feet in front of the king, the better position to demand Aila's death, and his expression was earnest. "My lord ..."
The king murmured again.
"Imprison her," commanded Éowyn swiftly, returning to her feet, speaking to the guards to remove Aila from the trial before the king's mind could be perverted once more. "Take her into the dungeons and keep her there, pending trial of any treason. Her death may be assured, in the end, but not without proper circumstance." Éothain argued eagerly, but he was swiftly rebuked by the king's niece as neatly and as efficiently as had been done before, and he turned on his heel to storm from the hall. Aila was pulled to her feet by the soldiers. She looked back to Éowyn, trying to express a wordless thanks to the woman as she was led away, and Aila saw that the Rohirric woman gave a small, almost imperceptible, nod in her direction.
. . .
Aila was led now into the lowest floor of the long-hall Meduseld, some basement level at the very foundation of the structure that, naturally, housed the prison for the city. It was remarkably empty, Aila thought, considering the paranoia of the city. But when Aila thought of the probable reason for the fact that there may not be many prisoners – but perhaps many graves – she pressed her lips tightly together in anxiety.
And in the foremost cell, at the front of the prison's matrix, was Éomer. Upon seeing her, he rushed to the front of his enclosure and wrapped his long, thick fingers around the iron bars. "Aila!" he cried, his voice full of misery. He, obviously, was unhappy that he had so failed in his trust to her. He had not thought, at least not yet, that her presence in the jail spoke to some betrayal of his Men. And whether it was due to his recognition of her, or the laziness of the guards, she was unceremoniously thrust into the same prison cell as the Third Marshal. The metal clanged as the door of the cell slammed shut, and the guards retreated to their nearby post.
Aila was too overwhelmed, too full of her own thoughts, to speak to Éomer and so she ignored him. He watched her with a pained expression as she sat down against a wall of the small cell. She pulled her knees up against her chest, wrapping her arms around them in a comforting manner, and strove to fight off tears as she let her mind wander through the heady thoughts that drowned her. The circumstances and consequences of her capture were now impossible to shield from her mind, as she might have done only a few hours ago. What would now be her fate? Wormtongue evidently knew of her, and his true master, Saruman, wanted her dead – a desire he now had the means of satisfying. Aila could hardly even comprehend the danger that she was in, trapped in the middle of a mistrustful city, under the thumb of a corrupt steward and an empty king controlled by a dark wizard, and trapped in a jail cell to await the whim of any or all of her present enemies. And her only means of protection was jailed immediately beside her.
Her only real hope, she thought, was in rescue. And so she thought desperately of her companions – how quickly would they come now to Edoras? She was sure that they only spent a few days abroad until they came to the city of the Rohirrim, but she could no longer trust to her memory as it had so recently proved glaringly faulty – she had, after all, forgotten of Éomer's own imprisonment. And that Man sat, as equally caged as herself, only feet from her, looking altogether downtrodden and sour. And so she wondered: would they come in time to save her, before Saruman succeeded in being able to put her to death? Was her story so well-written or clever as to elicit a knick-of-time rescue by the heroes of the story? And Gandalf and Duke – would she survive to see them again? Duke had only just returned into her life, and her reunion with Gandalf was tantalizingly close, like a dim flavor on the tip of her tongue.
And she thought lastly of Legolas. If she were to be put to death, how angry would he be that she had given her promise so lightly, and broken it?
It was hard to tell how quickly time was passing, if at all, in the lightlessness of the dungeon. There were no windows that allowed any sunlight, and Aila imagined that they were far underground. She remained huddled on the cold, dirty stone floor, her chin resting on her knee and her arms wrapped around her shins for a long time. Aila had no way of knowing how much time had passed before Éomer addressed her.
"I am sorry," he said quietly, with an uncertainty in his tone that bespoke of his having wanted to say something earlier. "I have failed in my promise to protect you – I could not have guessed that Wormtongue's hold on my uncle the king would have grown this strong in my absence. Still," he said softly, "it should have been enough that you were sent with my sister's waiting-woman. I cannot fathom how you were found out."
Aila, in a sour mood, could not stand his tone of self-pitying anguish. She frowned at the Third Marshal. "It was Éothain," she said plainly. "It was Éothain that identified me, that betrayed my location. That betrayed you."
"Éothain?" was Éomer's incredulous reply. "No, it cannot be. You are mistaken, it cannot be. He is my father-sister-son. He is loyal to me."
"And you would believe your foolish and unfounded trust in him over me, who is telling you plainly that he is the one who found me out?" Aila shouted, her patience fully waned. She should not have reacted so strongly, she knew, but the pressures weighing against her were crushing her heart. Though the shouting should have helped, it did not. "Do you not believe me when I say that he is the one who led five guards to Éowyn's chambers to arrest me, when I tell you that it was he who rallied strongly for Wormtongue to have me promptly beheaded?" She paused, her voice growing softer. "When I tell you that he only spoke your name if it was preceded by the epithet of traitor?"
One of the guards had approached their cell, and he thrust his staff against the iron bars so that they protested loudly against his strike. The man shouted something in Rohirric at Aila, and turned around, satisfied, to return to his place when she made no reply.
"Does he want me to be quiet?" she asked Éomer, once the guard had retreated.
Éomer looked at her darkly. "He says that you should not shout at me so. I am newly the Second Marshal of Rohan. Even imprisoned, apparently I may account for some measure of respect."
"Second? ..." said Aila, confusion in her voice until her memory caught up with her. And she asked, haltingly, "The king's son?"
"Yes," said Éomer. "I received news immediately before my imprisonment as a traitor that my mother-brother-son is dead: Théodred, Second Marshal of Rohan. And I ... I take his place."
"Éomer," she said, "I'm sorry." Neither said anything for a long time afterward.
Aila watched Éomer for a time, noting the dour expression on his face and the resigned way he slouched against the wall, his long legs stretched in front of him. His wild hair was wrought free from its braid and no effort had been made to wrangle it once more. His thick stubble was growing at a rapid pace, forming an early beard on his chin and cheek, and she could see from the repetitive movement of his lips that he chewed the inside of his lower lip as he sat. It was a nervous habit he shared, then, with Aila herself, and she found herself mirroring this habit as she watched him. He was lost in some dark thought, she could see, and she wondered at the position he was currently in. He was heir to the throne of a people that might not survive Saruman's influence. Successor of his dead cousin; heir of a king who did not recognize kin, who imprisoned him for treason according to the whim of Wormtongue.
It might have been hours. The guards changed. And Aila softened toward Éomer with each passing breath. He was a lone force struggling against the ocean waves which continuously worked to drown him. And he struck a depressed and broken figure, a handsome and tall and proud Man reduced to slouching on the dirty floor of a prison – and within his own city, locked away by his own uncle.
She shivered, goose-bumps raising on her arms as she tried to pull her knees tighter against her. The position, having been held for so long, was painful and awkward, but the dungeon was cold and only by huddling tightly together was Aila able to maintain any fraction of her own body heat.
"Are you cold?" asked Éomer, noticing her involuntary shiver and the evidence in her posture. She only nodded. "I shall get you a blanket," he said softly, his face turning to an expression of determination. Did he still feel some obligation of protecting her, even in this slightest manner?
Éomer stood then, bringing himself to his full height and walked to the front of the cell, fronting the iron bars and addressing the guards in their native tongue. The laughing response that was returned to him was obvious to Aila, though she did not understand fully the content of the speech: they were in prison. The guards gave no thought to their comfort. Éomer frowned, his face darkening, and he turned away from the bars and took one step back into the cell. And then, with another flash of determination and anger on his face, he turned again to the guards and stepped forward to wrap his long fingers around the iron bars. The words that rang from his lips were loud, angry, and true.
"And when was it," he asked, "this blackest of days, that the noble Men of Rohan began to turn their backs on young maidens who sought them out for aid? And then, not giving that help where it was warranted, but rather accusing them of treason? Defaming and imprisoning them?" He lifted a hand from its tight grip on the bars, reeling back and slamming his flat palm against the iron, resulting in a loud, furious bang. Aila involuntarily jumped back a little in surprise. She could see in profile that his face was red, shining against the paleness of his hair and beard. "I am only ashamed that I live to see such disgrace, a black mark that my people can only be accused of giving themselves."
The guards were shocked by this outburst, and one, nodding to the other, hurried up the stairway.
Éomer shrank away from the bars of the cell, and turned to Aila once more. "Forgive me my anger," he apologized. "It is hard to be thus caged and impotent. I cannot even offer you here the littlest assistance, and at the heart of my own city."
"It's quite alright," replied Aila quietly, her voice weak and unsure. "Your anger is ... well, you should be angry. And injured. It's quite ... apropos," she said finally, and immediately grimaced internally. Apropos? she wondered at herself. What could possibly have inspired her to use such a word, and in such a circumstance, in present company? And when she looked to Éomer, who thankfully only glanced at her with a brief expression of not understanding, she wondered if he had always looked so striking and imposing. There was only one reason she ever used such elevated language in such an unnatural context, and that was to impress whoever she was with. She was glad that Éomer had missed her unconscious intent.
He sank back down against the wall, to resume his previous slouching position of utter abjection.
The guard returned with a thick woolen blanket for Aila, which she accepted gratefully, and when she looked back to Éomer, she saw that his small success had lightened his dark expression somewhat.
More time passed, uncounted. The guards changed twice more, though Aila could not calculate what that might mean in terms of hours passed. She and Éomer talked a little, and she found him a surprisingly pleasant companion. There was not much for them to speak of – she told him a little of her journey there so far, but was exceedingly hesitant of talk of the Elves or her place among them. And as for himself, Éomer had little to say that wasn't altogether infuriating and depressing to speak of. The true pleasure of Éomer's company was that it was equally as enjoyable to sit with him in silence, each mulling separate thoughts. There was no pressure to speak or to pity or to sympathize.
After a time of this easy silence, Éomer, who must have had a better handle on the passing of time, spoke to her again. "You can sleep there," he said, indicating a small pallet and mattress in the far corner of the cell. "Prisoners are not generally allowed such luxuries, but there are some perks to my position, fallen though it is. It was brought here last night for my use, but I cannot now sleep in it. It is yours, if you want it. I am not so able to sleep as I might wish." He gave her a sideways glance as she nodded, and he said, "Though this is twice now that you instead have slept where I was meant." The corner of his mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, though it swiftly vanished.
Aila said thoughtfully, "It would satisfy Hilla immensely, I think, to know that I slept in your bed." And she couldn't help herself: she glanced slyly at the Man. What is wrong with me?
But Éomer suddenly laughed, bright and fresh and genuine, his deep voice raised in merriment. "Forgive me for that also!" he said, his voice heavy with mirth. "I knew that it would be a safe place for you, and I sent word immediately to my sister to watch for you and to shield you from the court. And," said Éomer, the laughter falling away from his lips, "you are beautiful enough that I knew it would be fathomable."
Aila smiled at him, but shook her head, laughing still a little.
"Please," he said, serious again. "Sleep here," gesturing again to the mattress. "Satisfy my honor enough that I know, at least, you are warm and comfortable by my doing."
And she did lie down, pulling the blanket tight around her, though it was long before she fell to sleep. She was surprised by how exhausted she felt, though she had spent much of her day in idleness in the jail cell. But her mind was full of worry and doubt and ceaseless thought, and the inside of her lower lip was properly ravaged before she finally fell to sleep.
She did not sleep well. Her body was uncomfortable, tucked awkwardly in a loose fetal position atop the small mattress, and the chill of the dungeon air seeped through the thick blanket and froze her skin. And her dreams were haunted by the nearing specter of Saruman. She didn't know how long she slept, but she did eventually wake once more. Éomer was near to her, standing now and pacing back and forth within the small chamber. He seemed of boundless energy and she wondered if he had slept at all. She noticed, also, that his hair had been roughly managed back into its braid, though not as finely done as she had seen previously.
And so like to the morning before, Aila had little desire to rise from the bed. She had little desire to face a new day imprisoned in the cell; there was little for her to do, anyway, so she might as well lie prone and drift in and out of light sleep. She couldn't even tell if it was morning or not. The guards seemed fresh and attentive, but did that indicate a new dawn?
However, something did shortly lead Aila to leap from that bed, something that woke her mind to earnest activity.
A familiar voice called out from the stairway leading down into the prison. It was a voice which flooded Aila's veins with hope and strength and warmth. A voice which rang in her ears with a comfortable melody. A voice that resounded with anxiety and excitement and fear and intensity. A voice, she knew, that belonged to Legolas.
"Aila?"
. . .
[Old English Translations:]
Hwær is héo? = Where is she?