The Light Bearer

by Chellez

Aila, rational and modern, is the Light Bearer, the salvation of the Elves of Middle Earth. Seen as a Prophet, she first assists the Fellowship in their quest but amid the distraction and her own insecurities can she fulfill her prophecy in time?

36. White

A Note From Your Incredibly Apologetic Author: I know, I disappeared again. I was busy, life gets in the way, blah blah blah. Excuses. I know you don't want to hear it, so let's just get on with the story. Next chapter to come soon.

Happy New Year!

. . .

Ch. 36 White

"Aila!"

His voice was loud and crisp in her ears, its tenor ringing and echoing against the walls of her mind, and his voice immediately tore Aila violently from her lackluster half-sleep. She scrambled to her feet, ungainly and inelegant – her eyes only half-opened, and blearily, against the dreary, starving light of the dungeon. Her fingers worked desperately, numbly, to throw aside the heavy blanket which had twisted itself into an impossibly complicated knot around her ankles, joined with the folds of her ridiculous skirt. Any thought was frozen in her mind as she dumbly tore at the fabric with stiff, clawing, scrambling fingers. And once she had brutally succeeded in freeing herself, the blanket falling into a heap on the pallet, she stood up and rushed to the bars of the cell. Her dress was askew and twisted from sleeping, and her hair was dirty and tangled; though of course she had no thought to this as she wrapped her fingers tightly around the iron bars. Éomer stood only a few feet behind her left shoulder, watching her with a surprised and bemused expression. He did not recognize the voice so readily, could not puzzle out its meaning, and so he did not understand the strength of her reaction.

But Aila knew. She could hear the muffled music of Legolas' step now as he swiftly descended the stair, and she could hear also the louder shuffle of a Man following, a Man who breathed loudly and stamped along behind the Elf. Aila had only just closed her hands tightly around the cold iron bars, her thumbs barely reaching around to touch the tips of her forefingers, when Legolas finally appeared at the base of the stairway leading into the dungeon. Her breath escaped her in a sigh. Torchlight flashed against his golden hair.

"Aila," said the Elf again at the sight of her, and her name also came from his lips as an expressive sigh. His blue eyes instantly warmed, cool anger to swift relief. One of the guards moved to block him from moving toward her, the Man's voice raised in challenge and alarm – but Legolas only swept him aside with an inattentive shove, not even sparing a glance to the guardsmen as he strode quickly to Aila. And she reacted instinctually, her thoughts still unmoving. She released her clutching grip on the bars and thrust her hands instead towards the Elf, shoving her forearms as far as they would fit through the tightly-spaced bars. She was eager, anxious, her blood was thrumming a victory march through her ears, through her fingers, through ever inch of her. Legolas' touch – gentle, sustaining, enlivening touch! – was only centimeters away. She was an addict halfway through detox, and her drug of choice was nearly within her grasp. If only she could reach.

And then his hands met hers, only an instant later. A shiver of warmth flew down her spine. Long, thin fingers wrapped around hers. Relief. Safety. Satisfaction. A sleepy calmness pulsed within her. She was saved. It was the most primal of responses. Was there really anything else in the world worth caring about?

But those feelings, as quickly as they came, were as quickly replaced by old, familiar, tiring apprehensions. Her heart and lungs filled with them, drowned in them. Those fingers! Those hands! Was it even a week ago that those soft, gentle hands were engaged on the string of Legolas' bow? Had even a week passed since Boromir's death? She had a sudden vision, as Legolas gripped her hands, of those hated black-feathered arrows. Of Boromir's blackened eyes. Of bubbling blood. Of her own crushing mistake. Her right forearm burned as imagined fingers inflamed an imagined wound. She inhaled, sucking her sigh of relief back into her lungs, and she held it there for a few heartbeats too long.

Legolas' hands did not settle in her own. His fingers easily surpassed her hands and wrists, moving steadily to wrap around her forearms, his knuckles pressing against the cool metal of the bars. And Legolas stared at her with wide eyes; with disbelief, with solace, with steady anger, and with hesitation. The pressure of his fingers pulsed on her arms. She thought to pull the corner of her mouth into a smile, but couldn't be sure if she had succeeded. Her breath moved steadily in and out of her lungs now, and each breath was loud and broke the peace of the entire kingdom of Rohan. Air raked over a thick, throbbing soreness that was her throat, it shuffled pebbles in her lungs, it clicked against her teeth; in and out, earsplitting and heavily laden.

Her heart fell heavily into her gut: how was it that her heart still beat so calmly, even while the rest of her was in such turmoil? His dark blue eyes were wide and Aila could see herself reflected in them. The strain in her fingers relaxed. The posture of her body lost some of its tension. She was glad to see Legolas – and he was evidently glad to see her. But for all the pleasure, there was also an awkwardness between them, an enmity of uncertainty. The expanse which had grown between them had not disappeared after their parting. And Aila realized suddenly that she had hoped that the wall between them would have fallen on its own. Had she really been so silly to think so? To hope so? But the trouble between them was not so magically dissipated.

"Release her immediately," said Legolas to the guards, commanding and stern, without even turning back to glance at them. His voice was cold and dense with emotions. He was filling the expanse between himself and Aila with anger, though Aila knew that this particular feeling would not bridge that gap. But his expression, his tone, his every manner of standing … were she one of the guards, she would have complied with the fearsome Elf immediately. The guards, she could see, were more shocked than intimidated, and their eyes were turned on her.

And after the empty, stunned breadth of several seconds, the guards recollected themselves and raised their weapons to challenge the unknown intruder.

It was Éomer's voice that rose up then, with whatever power he could summon while behind the bars of their shared cell – though his voice was quickly drowned out and replaced by another. "Stop!" cried a new addition to those present in the dungeon, and this new voice was weakened and rasping. The door-man, Háma, had finally caught up with Legolas. He emerged at the base of the stair, holding his right hand out and flat to the guards. "By word of Théoden-king: these prisoners are to be released immediately!" he wheezed, and then the Man of Rohan quickly doubled over and gasped to catch his breath. The guards exchanged wary, unsure glances until they were quickly set to rights again by a quick, exasperated glance from Háma and an equally motivated glance from Legolas' sharp, keen eye.

When the door to her cell was unlocked, Aila quickly danced out of it before anyone could change their mind about releasing her and she felt, like a soft breath of wind, that Éomer followed swiftly on her heel – perhaps with the very same thought. She stepped lightly to Legolas, stopping only when she was immediately before him.

And then they stared at one another, both clumsy and unsure.

Aila opened her mouth and took an unwieldy breath, though she found she had nothing to say. She couldn't forget that she had spent their last few days together trying to ignore the Elf completely. She couldn't forget the wall built up between them, the expanse which she could not cross. She and Legolas; they were broken. And so she stared. And he stared back: his eyes seeing that she walked of her own power and did not appear to be injured. He saw her knotted hair, her dirty skin, her tired expression. And his eyes lingered on her twisted Rohirric dress, hanging askew on her shoulders and low on her chest. His mouth tightened on a thin line and he said only, coloring a little, "Your dress."

Aila swiftly raised a widely spread hand, embarrassed, to cover her chest, and for a moment she was only overwhelmed by her mortification.

And then she gave up.

She flung her arms out in one sudden movement, nearly tripping over her own feet as she threw her uncertainty to the proverbial wind and moved to wrap her arms around him. Legolas caught her easily and with some surprise, though within a heartbeat she was warmly tangled in his embrace, releasing another long-held breath as she buried her face against his tunic. Her fingers pressed against his back as she moved her arms tightly around him, spreading her fingers wide before bunching them into taut fists, capturing some of the fabric of Legolas' tunic within her grasping fingers. And he pulled her against him as tightly as he dared, spreading his own fingers wide and covering every inch of her that he could – perhaps still to ensure himself that she were whole and uninjured. And he moved his cheek against her forehead, turning to press his nose into her dirty hair, but did not pull away again. She felt his heartbeat, steady and firm, against her cheek. And even as the feeling of security flooded her, she succumbed immediately to a nostalgic type of fear that crippled her thoughts for a few moments. How had she been able to sleep when the threat of execution was so near? How had she spoken so easily with Éomer knowing that Saruman bore down on her with each living breath? How had she remained caged, so calmly, knowing that Wormtongue bent his will to her death?

And no less than that – this friend. This friend whom she held now within her arms so firmly. How had she forgotten him and their troubles these past days? How had she thought nothing of their embittered friendship?

She tightened her arms around the Elf, and she buried her face further into his chest, pressing and flattening her nose against the fabric of his tunic, ignoring the discomfort. His skin smelled sweet and clean, though his clothes smelled of dust and his tunic had the faint musty smell of horses. Ir reminded her of Éomer.

As she thought of the Marshal, she heard that Háma addressed the very same: "My lord Éomer," and he nodded his head in a shallow bow. The other guardsmen did the same.

Aila twisted enough that she could see the Marshal without relinquishing her grip, still resting her cheek against Legolas' shoulder. She saw that the Man had drawn himself to his full height; and he stood rigidly, overwhelming the remaining free space in the dungeon, with a stern air. Even with dirty clothes and disheveled hair, Éomer's look contained all the pride and strength and discernment of an heir to the throne of Rohan. He nodded briefly to Aila, looking away quickly again, and he turned to Háma. "Take me to my sword," he said, "so that I may lay it at the feet of the king." The door-man nodded, and then Éomer was swiftly led out of the dungeon. He gave no backward glance to Aila and the Elf.

"Take me to the others," Aila said to Legolas as soon as the Marshal and Háma had departed the dungeon.

Legolas very nearly smiled as they broke their tight hug. "I have brought one of them to you," he said, and he called out to the stairwell in his native tongue, twirling the words from his lips with easy expertise and the trill of a surprise. Aila looked just in time to see Duke's nose breach the obstruction of the wall, following swiftly by the rest of the dog as he loped into the dungeon. And again, every thought flooded out of her, and every emotion but joy as she fell to knees to embrace the Doberman. For a moment, as she kissed him and he licked her face, she might have been on the carpeted floor of her apartment in Boston, embracing her dog after a long day in the lab.

She breathed him in, too; the dog smell. It was the most comforting of them all.

And so with one hand in Legolas's grip, and the other resting on Duke's shoulders, and a smile on her lips, Aila left the dungeon behind. Her eyes were blind now to the intricacy and delicacy of Meduseld Hall, and she did not note the winding pathways which brought her back to the throne room of the great Hall. But her eyes did recognize again the light airiness of the place, which was now more appropriate since she was no longer in mortal danger. She could now appreciate its beauty. A long brazier in the center of the room, which had been cold and empty before, now blazed with a merry fire and smoke trailed upward to a well-placed hole in the roof. The smoke seeped out into the vast forgetful blueness of the sky beyond. And Théoden-king was standing now, looking decades younger, and speaking with his niece Éowyn. The niece's hand seemed to support her uncle still, though her face was decorated with a too-wide smile that suited her well. A ring of servants and guards and Rohirrim flanked the king and his niece. Wormtongue was nowhere to be seen.

And then, there they were: Gandalf and Aragorn and Gimli. They stood not too far from the king, speaking in hushed tones with one another as they awaited the return of their Elf.

Gandalf. Aila sighed. She froze where she was, mid-step, pulling against Legolas' hand as he continued to stride forward. Duke halted obediently and sat at her heel. He was there, the Wizard, exactly as she remembered him: tall and straight, with a full thick beard and plentiful robes. But this Gandalf was no longer weary and grey. He was now resplendent in white, a shining beacon, a glowing symbol, bright even within the well-lit hall. He was such a luminous being that even daylight could not contend with him. And the Wizard – wise, and thoughtful, and powerful – turned just in time to catch Aila as she ran to hug him. He made a sound of surprise, and returned her embrace tentatively after a few moments. A low laugh began to rumble in his chest. "Aila," he said, as if testing her name on his tongue. He tried it out several times. "Yes," he said softly, "I remember you." His ambient laugh deepened. "I could have used your skill some moments ago here, had you not first gotten yourself captured and imprisoned." He pulled her away, a chiding, joyful look in his cool blue eyes. He smiled at her in a grandfatherly way. "But no matter," he sighed. "I was enough, in the end." His hands rested on her shoulders as he looked at her, a frown alighting on his lips. "A bath, I think," he said, perhaps more to himself than any other. "No doubt, but not before you have similarly assaulted the lords Aragorn and Gimli. Please," he said, smiling again, and he turned her toward the Ranger.

Aragorn made a mocking face of horror and raised his hands to defend himself before he warmly accepted Aila into his arms, speaking words of gladness and welcome. She assured him that Éomer had kept her well, such as it was, and which she thought was only partially a lie. Gimli's beard scratched her face and neck as she hugged him, but it only made her clutch the Dwarf more firmly, and he looked pleased at having not been left out, grumbling that she release him even as his own embrace worked harder to keep her there.

When she rose, she saw that the king was walking toward her, slowly, and with Éowyn.

"You," he whispered, his eyebrows arched high over dark eyes that looked so similar to his nephew's now that the cloudiness had been vanquished from them. "I saw you," he whispered, with not a little wonder. "I saw your face, through the mists, when there had been no other but Saruman's for a long time." He reached with an unsteady hand, feeling her cheek with a cold, wrinkled touch. "You gave me hope, when there had been so little reason to hope for so long. I dreamed for so long."

Aila had nothing to say. She was mesmerized by the king's face which she had not seen so well before. He seemed to grow stronger, younger every second. His liveliness returned with each breath. Gandalf spoke for her. "But see!" he said, his robes and beard rustling. "You dream no longer. You live."

"Alas!" replied the king with a sigh, "that these evil days should be mine, and should come in my old age instead of that peace which I have earned." The king looked down, glancing at his hands as he flexed the fingers, testing muscles and stretching tendons. Gandalf's eyes flickered to watch the king's movements.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better, if they grasped a sword-hilt," said the Wizard.

"Take this, dear lord!" shouted a voice from the far end of the hall, and they all turned to see Éomer striding quickly towards them, sword lifted high in his hand. "It was ever at your service," said the Marshal of Rohan as he moved to kneel at his uncle's feet, holding the sword aloft for the old Man to grip.

Théoden took it, wordlessly, and flexed his fingers around the worn leather of the hilt. The blade was a good one, strong and weathered. Its steel was a fierce, deep grey; well-used but whole and without notches. And the hilt's leather was stained with blood and sweat. The sword of a noble and the sword of a warrior, all at once.

"Westu Théoden hál!" cried Éomer, after Théoden had taken his blade. "it is a joy to see you return to your own. Never again shall it be said, Gandalf," said the Man, returning to his feet and addressing Aila's small party, "that you come only with grief!"

Éowyn moved forward then, to catch her brother between her arms tightly. Aila noted that even tall Éowyn seemed dwarfed by her brother's size, and that their dark blonde hair was indistinguishable from the other's, even when immediately beside one another. A pair of siblings could not have been more easily identified. After a long stretch, the king spoke to interrupt them, though it was obvious to Aila that Éowyn had not yet had her fill of her finally freed brother. "Take back your sword, Éomer, sister-son," the king said. "And send Háma to fetch my own dear sword." The door-man left without any further command.

"I seem myself to be lacking a sword," said Gandalf, with a sideways glance to Aila. She nodded quickly, taking a few steps backward to remove herself from the small group and to exit the hall. And then she saw, with much relief, Hilla standing near the perimeter of the room. Aila nearly ran to her, and nearly threw her arms around the old woman's neck.

"Child," said Hilla lovingly. "Come. Swiftly, move fast! We'll have you back in just a moment!" As that familiar smile graced her face, the Rohirric woman took Aila's arm and led Aila finally out of Meduseld hall, more than a full day after entering it.

"I should change back into my traveling clothes," Aila said to Hilla as they reentered the woman's small house. The sight of Hilla's house was instantly comforting to Aila, and had the indescribable feeling of home. As immediately as Aila had said those words, she saw her clothes, clean and folded, upon the mattress where she had slept. Two gleaming swords were placed beside the neat pile of clothing. Aila gazed longingly at the mattress as she walked to her things.

"I've washed them," confirmed the woman. "But you cannot put clean clothes on that dirty body! I must insist that you wash – quickly, but well. And what would they say, after all?" Hilla said with a keen smile. "If I let the lord's mistress go around such?" She laughed boisterously, her chest and belly heaving. Aila couldn't help but join in a small way. "But come along, follow me! We'll clean you up before we send you off to wherever you go next!"

Aila, seeing that Hilla would not take no for an answer, followed her swiftly, begrudging the thought and bracing herself for another poor Rohirric bath.

But if before Aila had expected pleasure and received discomfort and some little pain, this time Aila was allowed the small comforts she had originally expected. She was given fresh, clean water to wash with, pleasantly cool to touch, and a palm-sized oval of unscented soap. It was, finally, refreshing and satisfying.

When she changed back into her freshly laundered clothes it was with a pleasure that she had never felt in dressing before. Her leggings fit snugly again, as they had not since they left Lórien, her cloak was soft and warm to her touch, and even her boots had been scrubbed thoroughly and expertly mended. Aila felt fresh, renewed. That was it, she thought: new. Where she had felt beaten and hopeless only hours ago, she now felt renewed invigoration and determination. Aila strapped Núadin around her waist, adjusting the sword so that it hung just so, and she hoisted Glamdring in her right hand to carry to Gandalf. And she felt complete, proud and tall, standing with her sword at her hip. New, she reminded herself. Renewed. She set her jaw and gave Hilla a grim smile, though it was with tears of thankfulness brimming in her eyes with which Aila thanked the woman profusely.

But Hilla only returned her smiles and thanks with a frown, as the older woman looked hard into Aila's face and at her clothing, her stance. "You look as if you mean to ride to war," said the woman.

Aila shifted Glamdring into her left hand and placed her right upon the grip of her sword. "I do," she replied softly. Aila's path forward was more clear to her now as it had ever been.

"I do not understand," said Hilla, her usual joviality entirely dissipated. "I did not hear that such a decision has yet been made."

"It will be made," replied Aila, and Hilla's face only grew in concern. "You should gather up your things – only what you need most, and nothing more! I think you will be going to Dunharrow soon."

The woman only stared at Aila for several seconds; and then, shaking her head as though to clear out unwanted thoughts, Hilla gently took Aila's hand and began to lead her out of the house. "We must get you back to Meduseld," said the woman softly, "but first, I think, we must go to see my oldest sister-daughter."

"Hilla, please," replied Aila. "I don't think we really have any time …."

"Nonsense," said Hilla, in a voice which told Aila not to argue any further. "Hold your tongue, save your breath. If you truly go to war, the men will have nothing for you. No, no – let the Women of the Mark guard you." And Hilla retreated into quiet thoughtfulness, so that Aila could not press any questions.

And without so much as a knock or word of warning, Hilla walked into her niece's home and sought out the younger woman with breathless Rohirric. The niece quickly emerged from a back room, and Aila was stunned by the presence of the woman. She was tall and thickly built, with strong features and an aquiline nose, features more expected in an ancient Roman bust than in the face of the Rohirric woman. Hilla's niece nodded, saying precious few words, as her aunt explained whatever her present concern happened to be. Once the intent was clear both women erupted in a busy flurry of activity. And within minutes, Aila's wet hair was tightly braided, away from her face and bound beneath the nape of her neck in a trailing twist, and Hilla was tying the final cord in the side of Aila's newest garment, courtesy of the niece: a thick and supple leather hauberk that wrapped closely around her torso and shoulders. The leather was painstakingly made and maintained, and the leather cords that tied up each of the sides were guided by small interlacing metal rings that protected the potentially weak seams. And on the chest of the garment pranced the proud, white, long-legged horse of Rohan. The white main flew back, flung in war-dance, cold flame.

Lastly, Hilla's niece gave her a thin shirt of mail links, and a bag within which to carry this gift. "Wear chains in battle," said the niece haltingly in the Common Speech, rattling the metal shirt. "Wear leather always." She smiled and laid a soft hand on Aila's shoulder, her fingers caressing the soft leather. "Go now proud to war. You are Shield-Maiden of Rohan."

Aila proffered her hand, to shake that of the nameless niece who had given her such gifts, but the niece's hand grasped instead Aila's forearm, in a firm grip. Aila returned the gesture. She offered her hand to Hilla also in this fashion, but the rotund woman pushed away her hand and pulled Aila into a gentle hug.

Thus outfitted, Aila walked with Hilla back to Meduseld.

When they arrived, they found some commotion at the main steps of the hall, and people were gathered anxiously around to watch. Hilla and Aila pushed their way through the crowd until they stood at its front, just at the base of the stairway which led the last few meters up the rocky hill to the hall Meduseld. Théoden stood, proud and tall, even younger than he had been not half an hour ago, with his own sword Herugrim gleaming in his hand. Gandalf stood beside him, his white robes billowing in the shallow wind. Aila looked to Aragorn, just beside Gandalf, but garnered no information from the steely look that Aragorn held. And between Aila and Aragorn crouched Wormtongue, cowering halfway down the stair. And so Aila watched, amidst the townsfolk who had gathered at the stair, separated from Gandalf and the king and certain safety by the single man that Aila currently feared the most.

"Do you hear this, Wormtongue," the king was shouting. "This is your choice: to ride with me to war, and let us see in battle whether you are true; or to go now, whither you will. But then, if we ever meet again, I shall not be merciful."

Aila caught a glint of yellow, and saw Legolas as he stepped from behind Aragorn. He looked from Gríma to Aila anxiously; she was not more than ten or fifteen feet from the serpent, where he crouched, almost coiled, on the step. Wormtongue, following the Elf's gaze, smiled when he saw Aila. It was not a welcoming or comforting smile. The worm turned this discomfiting smile on the king, and heaved his chest to spit at the ground near Théoden's feet. Before the projected spittle had even hit the steps, Wormtongue had flung his cloak back and was rushing down the steps. Towards Aila; and she only just caught the gleam of the silver dagger in his hand when he was not five feet form her. She took a hasty step backward, but was rebuffed by the bodies in the crowd immediately behind her. It would take too long to draw Núadin, it would take too long to draw even Glamdring, which was still held in her left hand. Aila's breath was trapped in her throat.

A woman behind Aila screamed at the sight of the knife, and a man shouted out. Hilla moved as if to stand in front of Aila, and Legolas began to rush down the stairs. But before the Elf could advance even a few steps in Aila's direction, Gríma was flung back soundly by some unseen force. It was Gandalf, who now bore a frightening mien and wielded his staff fiercely, pointing both staff and a black gaze at the writhing man on the ground.

Gandalf walked a few steps down the stairway, holding his staff out as a present threat to Wormtongue. "Begone, snake! Down on your belly!" cried the Wizard.

The king, moving not an inch but raising his hand in command, his voice stern and full of power cried, "Leave this place, worm." His voice was even and cold. "Return never again to this city or the lands of nobler Men than yourself! I curse you to walk from henceforward, with no gift of forgiveness nor horse from me. You deserve neither."

Éomer said, with a snort of derision, "None would bear him." He stood only just behind Legolas, some half-way down the stairs, and far ahead of any other beside the Elf.

The worm cast a dark look to Aila, but that was all the threat which he could muster. He scrabbled unsteadily to his feet, moving away from Meduseld, from the Wizard, and from the king with a quickness that arose from desperation and fear. Jeers from the townspeople followed him as he retreated, and, when the traitor was out of their sight, cheers.

"No my guests, come!" said Théoden, waving his nephew and Legolas and Aila back towards the hall. "Come and take refreshment. That is done," glancing in the direction in which Wormtongue had fled.

With the helping hands of Hilla and the people of Edoras who surrounded her, Aila regained her balance and collected herself to walk up the stairs back into Meduseld. Éomer and Legolas followed after her once she had passed them, and she paused in front of Gandalf. The Wizard waited for her.

Aila handed Glamdring to its proper owner without a word. Gandalf smiled, and said his thanks.

"Why did you give this to me?" Aila blurted, watching as the Wizard removed the sword from its sheath to test its true weight. He heard her question; would it not have been easier to keep the sword himself? And Aila might still be in Lórien, taking luxuriously long baths and safely learning Sindarin with Isgwen under a golden canopy.

"I had to be sure," replied the Wizard, with the hint of a smile behind his plentiful facial hair, "that you would be here to give it back to me." And so, Aila thought, Galadriel was right. It had been Gandalf's intention. The Wizard, having tested out his old sword, promptly leaned it against the outer wall of the hall, immediately beside Aragorn's blade. "I shall leave this here, to keep company with Andúril. I suggest you follow suit, Aila," he said with a glance to the sword at her hip. "We shall have little need for weapons now within Meduseld." And Gandalf walked into Meduseld, following after Aragorn, as Aila began to unbuckle the sheath from around her waist.

"You look well," said Éomer quietly as he moved to walk past her and into the hall.

Aila nearly laughed. "You mean now that I've washed a little, or now that I'm no longer in that hideous dress?"

But Éomer returned her small speech with a frown. "I mean that you look well," he said, "dressed as shield-maiden of Rohan." And he walked into the hall as Aila looked after him.

Once within the hall, Aila sat beside Gimli at the table, where the Dwarf was already happily slurping his ale and filling his cheeks with meat and bread. He grinned broadly at her, mouth full, but did not spare a moment for greeting. Aila laughed at him.

"Now, Gandalf," said Théoden-king now that they had all sit. "You said that you had counsel to give, if I would hear it. What is your counsel?"

"You have already taken it," replied Gandalf. "To put your trust in Éomer, rather than in a man of crooked mind. To cast aside regret and fear. To do the deed at hand. Every man that can ride should be sent west at once, as Éomer counseled you: we must first destroy the threat of Saruman, while we have time. If we fail, we fall. If we succeed – then we will face the next task." To the East. "Meanwhile your people that are left, the women and the children and the old, should fly to the refuges that you have in the mountains. Let them take provision, but delay not, nor burden themselves with treasure, great or small. It is their lives that are at stake."

"This counsel seems good to me now," replied Théoden. "Let all my folk get ready! But you my guests – truly you have said, Gandalf, that the courtesy of my hall is lessened. You have ridden through the night, and the morning wears away. Eat now, and a guest-house shall be made ready: there you shall sleep, when you have finished eating."

"Nay, lord," said Aragorn, though Aila wished he would not. "There is no rest yet for the weary. The men of Rohan must ride forth today, and we will ride with them." Gimli and Legolas nodded, though Gimli's ferocious gesture was lessened by the food trailing in his thick beard. "We did not bring our weapons to rest against your wall, Lord of the Mark. And I promised Éomer that my sword and his should be drawn together."

"Now indeed there is hope of victory!" said Éomer, his dark eyes shining.

"Hope, yes. But Isengard is strong," warned Gandalf. "Do not delay, Théoden, when we are gone. Lead your people swiftly to the Hold of Dunharrow in the hills."

"Nay, Gandalf," said Théoden, shaking his head intently. "You do not know your own skill in healing. It shall not be so. I myself will go to war, to fall in the front of the battle, if it must be so. Thus shall I sleep better."

And around the hall, Rohirrim and Riders took up the cry, "The Lord of the Mark will ride! Forth Eorlingas!" A clatter of heels and spear-butts interrupted the call as men hurried off to prepare themselves and spread the word.

"But your people must not be unarmed and shepherdless," said Gandalf. "Who shall guide and govern them in your place?"

"There must be one to remain behind," agreed the king, but his face was troubled, and it was evident that his mind was churning quickly with no reward. "In whom do my people trust?" he asked beseechingly.

It was Háma who took up the challenge of response. "In the house of Eorl," replied the door-man quickly. He stood not far off from the table. The king shook his head in despair.

"I have no child," said the king sadly. "Théoden my son is slain. I go to battle myself, in this I am immovable, and though I name my sister-son Éomer as my heir, I know him we cannot spare, nor would he stay. And he is the last of my House."

"I said not Éomer," replied Háma, with a nod of apology to the heir. "And he is not the last. There is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted. All love her. Let her be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone."

"It shall be so," said Théoden after a moment's thought, turning to Éowyn and resting a gentle hand on her cheek. Her stony face was now stricken. "Let the heralds announce to the folk that the lady Éowyn will lead them." And to Éowyn alone, he said, "I go forth, my dear, and it seems like to be my last riding. If neither myself nor Éomer return, then it shall be to you to rule and defend our people."

"Speak not so!" cried Éowyn. "A year shall I endure for every day that passes until your return." She looked then to Aragorn.

The Ranger gave her a small, kindly smile. "The king shall come again," he said. "Fear not! And in your journey to Dunharrow, you shall have Aila as companion and counselor."

Aila, who had just been passing a large scrap of meat to Duke, where the Doberman had been sitting patiently beside the table, jerked her attention back to the conversation quickly. "Not true!" she cried out automatically, as the Doberman snapped the meat from the air as she dropped it.

"Aila," said Legolas softly. "We're going to battle. It's no place for you."

"Away from all of you is no place for me," she responded, loudly. "I think I've learned my lesson, about a thousand time over, here in Edoras." Her voice grew louder still, as though her volume alone would persuade those with which she was arguing.

And as Aragorn and Legolas wound themselves up to convince Aila to go to Dunharrow, Gimli belched through his beer and beard. "I say she comes," he said gruffly, reaching up to slap a hand against her shoulder. "It's been too long since she had the pleasure to swing her sword, as all of us! She is hardly any less fit for battle than many of us, and I should be very angry to leave her again in the care of any other when we have only just come together again!"

"I have only just met your friend," said Éomer now, "and it surprises me that you might rally that she be left behind. She seems no less eager and able than any of us, and I, for one, would be glad for her."

"Then how might you prevent any other of your women from coming with us," said Legolas hotly, "if they seemed equally eager? Should we bring everyone with us that had the smallest desire to?"

Éomer now turned to the Elf sharply, with a wide frown. Even sitting, he seemed intimidating. "Aila is dressed as a shield-maiden of Rohan, and theirs is an ancient and proud lineage. But Aila is not Eorlinga. She carries the blessing of our fierce women, their protection, but not their oath, and not their duty. The spear-women of Rohan are bound to protect the Eorlingas, wherever that might lead them when the Riders are gone to battle. None of the shield-maidens will ask to go, for that is not their place. Éowyn, my sister, will lead her brethren into the mountains, and her sisters the shield-women will defend and protect our people. It is their place, their duty. Aila has no part in this. She comes if she wishes, because that is the respect I offer her. No other will ask."

"Aila will come," said Gandalf, in a voice of finality. "There is no time left to argue the point. Find armor as you can. Arm yourselves well. And make haste." And with that, the Wizard left his seat and followed the king out of the hall.

. . .

Within only a few hours, the four companions and Gandalf were ready, beside the king and his host of Rohirrim, to ride into the west. The king had officially given Shadowfax to Gandalf, a gift which the Wizard had gratefully accepted. The horse-lord danced and whinnied beneath the Wizard's touch. Legolas and Aragorn were given the same mounts they had had before, and Éomer stood among them as well. The Marshal's tall horse pawed at the ground restlessly. Duke thoroughly sniffed any horse within his range.

"Well," said Gimli, breathing deep, with a satisfied smile. "At last we set off. Men need many words before deeds. My axe is restless in my hands. Though I do not doubt that these Rohirrim are fell-handed when they come to it," said the Dwarf, looking up at tall Éomer. "Nonetheless this is not the warfare that suits me. How shall I come to battle? I wish I could walk and not bump like a sack at Gandalf's saddlebow."

"A safer seat than many, I guess," replied Legolas, with less happiness in his tone than the Dwarf's. "Yet doubtless Gandalf will gladly put you down on your feet when blows begin. An axe is no weapon for a rider."

Éomer laughed. Aila wondered why he and Gimli were both in such jovial spirits, when faced with war and death. "Hail, Gimli Glóin's son! I have not had time to learn gentle speech under your rod, as you promised. But shall we not put aside our quarrel? At least I will speak no evil of the Lady of the Wood."

"I will forget my wrath for a while, Éomer son of Éomund," said Gimli darkly, "but if you ever chance to see the Lady Galadriel with your eyes, then you shall acknowledge her the fairest of ladies, or our friendship will end."

"So be it!" replied Éomer, laughing. "Though I wish not, in doing so, to offend the lady present." He nodded to Aila. "In token of pardon, then, I beg that you will ride with me. Gandalf will be at the head with the Lord of the Mark; but Firefoot, my horse, will bear both of us, if you will."

"I thank you indeed," replied Gimli, taken aback but well pleased. "I will gladly go with you, if Legolas and Aila, my dear comrades, may ride beside us."

"It shall be so!" responded Éomer. "Legolas upon my left and Aragorn upon my right, and none will dare stand before us!"

They did take these positions, as Éomer had set them. When Legolas leapt onto the pale horse in front of Aila, she leaned forward to ask, "Are you angry that I'm coming?"

He took a moment to respond. "It is hard to say," he said, and after a pause: "I am frightened, but my heart is glad. It is hard to reconcile."

And with the blow of concerted horns, and the shouts of man and horse, they began their westward charge. Gandalf led the group, riding beside the king, though the Wizard's white cloak and flowing hair and silver steed were easiest to see. He was a beacon, dazzling, even amidst the gleam and sparkle of the spearheads in the sunlight. The White Rider, into the West.

. . .

[Translations: Rohirric/Old English]
Westu Théoden hál = Long live [the king] Théoden! (as far as I can tell!)