Chapter Fourteen: Home, Sweet Home
Summer 3018; Edoras
---------------------------
Éomer and Mellamir stayed in Minas Tirith for three days. Mellamir had meant to stay longer, but Faramir insisted: the three dreams proved more than ever that Gondor just was not safe, and he needed, for his own peace of mind at least, to know that at least one heir to the stewardship was as safe as possible. He was leaving again soon, returning to Ithilien, and the city didn't feel nearly as much like home without her brothers there. Éomer was also ready to return. Now that he had seen the White Tower, he realized how much he loved Edoras and missed the gleam of the Golden Hall in the setting sun. And he had to agree with Faramir, Gondor was no safe haven. He didn't, of course, fear dreams like these Gondorians seemed to, and he thought what a joke this whole situation would seem to any proper Rohan youth. The Captain of Gondor running off to ask the Elves how to interpret his dream? But he had heard other dark news, of the fall of Osgiliath, and other things too; war now seemed eminent.
So Mellamir and Éomer left Minas Tirith on the fourth day shortly after dawn. Mellamir's saddle bags were heavy, and Éomer asked her what she had bought so much of that she couldn't get in Edoras.
"Seeds," she replied, and he laughed at that.
"Seeds? We have seeds in Edoras, you know ..."
"But not like this," she replied. "It's too late to plant a garden for this year, of course, but next year, perhaps. It would be nice to have some flowers like they have here in Gondor, wouldn't it?" Éomer nodded, and neither voiced the thought they were both thinking: it _would_ be nice, if Rohan still exists. Gardens would somehow seem out of place in Mordor.
The journey back to Edoras was almost as uneventful as the one to Minas Tirith. Since Mellamir was not as rushed, she and Éomer took their time enjoying the return trip. They would stop for a leisurely lunch (and often a nap afterwards), and once Mellamir even convinced Éomer to walk with her a particularly scenic mile, giving the horses a rest. What an absurd sight -- a future lord of the horsemen leading his steed behind the daughter of the Steward of Gondor! While Boromir journeyed west to find Imladris and Faramir looked east toward Ithilien and Mordor, Mellamir enjoyed what she feared might be the last lazy summer of the West.
Finally they saw the glimmer of the sunrise off Meduseld far away on the horizon, and after four hours of nonstop riding they reached the gates just as the city bells announced the arrival of the fifth hour. Théoden was "occupied," according to Wormtongue, but Éowyn and Théodred joined them for lunch and listened gladly to Éomer's tales of the White City. Mellamir, however, was strangely quiet. As the three of them finished their desert of yogurt, fresh whipped cream, and sliced fruit, Éowyn asked, "Mellamir, why are you so quiet? Is something wrong?"
"I need to talk to your uncle," she replied. "Do you think he would see me? I had hoped we would be eating with him."
"He's busy," Théodred answered, frowning. "Most of the time, it seems; he doesn't have time for lunch with us anymore. In fact, he hardly sees anyone these days. But he always liked you. I'm sure he would see you if you asked politely."
Mellamir did indeed 'ask politely,' but not Théoden, and not right away. She sent a message to Meduseld after lunch requesting an audience with the king but had to wait four days before she heard anything. At last, Háma (by now promoted to Door-warden of Meduseld) delivered the message that she was expected in the Golden Hall at the third hour. She hastily bathed and braided her hair, then dressed in her most formal dress and followed Háma to the Golden Hall. He did not, however, show her immediately into the throne room. Instead, he escorted her into a waiting room where she sat for two hours. At the fifth hour of the day, one of the maids led her into a private office down a long hall. There sat Wormtongue, shuffling through a small stack of papers.
"Master Gríma, please," she said. "I have pressing news for the king."
He looked at her expectantly for a moment, obviously expecting her to give him the message so he could decide whether or not to deliver it. This had become the custom in Rohan of late, but Mellamir never had cause to deliver messages so she did not know that. When Mellamir made no move to say anything more, Wormtongue looked at her questioningly and asked, "Are you not going to tell me?"
"I am afraid my father instructed me to give this news to the king himself." She forced a smile.
Gríma inclined his head ever so slightly. "Surely you at least trust --"
"It is not a question of whether I trust you," Mellamir interrupted, "but of whether I value my promise to my father."
"Very well," he snapped. "If you decline to tell me, the news must be important indeed. But Théoden is very busy. You will have to be patient, my lady."
"Of course." She forced another smile, curtsied, and hurried out of the room, through the palace doors, and across the way to hers and Éowyn's house, where she found Éowyn about to set lunch. (Since Théoden was so unavailable these days, Éowyn, Éomer, Théodred, and Mellamir often ate together at the house.) Mellamir noticed almost immediately that Éowyn had set only three places instead of the usual four.
"Word came from Gríma this morning, not long after you left for Meduseld," Éowyn explained. "Too many reports of orc attacks. He is sending Éomer to lead a company of riders to search out these 'imaginary goblins,' as he put it."
"From Worm?" Mellamir asked, the colour slightly draining from her face. "Not Théoden?"
"From Wormtongue," Éowyn affirmed. "Mellamir, what's wrong?"
Mellamir shook her head. "I'm just realizing how much things have changed around here."
~*~
Three more days passed before Háma finally came to take Mellamir back to Meduseld. He led her up the steps but would not cross the threshold himself. Mellamir walked alone into the great throne room of Meduseld, yet it was not as she remembered it. The great wooden pillars were the same, as were the many weavings of the ancient kings and heroes of Rohan's past. The great windows, high on the walls, still let in the mid-day sunlight, but the beams of light failed to penetrate the haze that now filled the hall. One fire burned low on a stand in the middle of the room, but it let off too much smoke and not enough flame, and the stands on either side of it stood cold.
Mellamir walked through the haze and the smoke until at last she stood before the throne. Théoden sat there, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, his head bent down, and Wormtongue stood at his right hand. Mellamir bowed her head, then let her eyes briefly wander the hall. Perhaps a dozen shifty-looking men leaned against the walls; they were all armed with sword and bow, but Mellamir did not recognize them as members of Háma's guard.
"King Théoden," Mellamir began as she curtsied low before the throne. "I have returned from Minas Tirith, and I bear news from the Steward. My brother Boromir is, as we speak, riding to Rivendell to seek the counsel of the lord of that valley, famous for his wisdom. The Dark Lord has joined with evil Men, the Easterlings and the Haradrim. Osgiliath has fallen. The Black Riders --"
"Black Riders?" Wormtongue interrupted. "What are they?"
"In Gondor we call them the Nazgûl, the Nine. No one knows where they came from; I believe them to be the nine kings that, according to ancient lore, accepted powerful gifts from Sauron before his fall. We do not know what happened to them, and legend has it that Sauron could postpone death indefinitely, replace it with a sort of half-life. You would not die, but you would not truly live either, and you would lose your will and obey only him. Whenever a Man sees one he cannot stand and fight; he either freezes in fright or runs."
"A Gondorian, perhaps," Wormtongue replied, "but a Man of Rohan --"
"My brothers," Mellamir answered, "in whom the blood of Númenor runs true -- even you, Théoden, recognise that -- Boromir froze in fright, but Faramir woke him with a kiss. They were there when these Black Riders attacked, commanding the company that held the last bridge across the Anduin, and they managed to destroy that bridge, though they lost most of their men in the effort."
She glanced at Wormtongue, taking the time to choose her next words carefully. "Théoden, my lord, war is upon Gondor, and Rohan should turn its attention to its own borders. Sauron is not the only enemy. Your own neighbour Saru --"
"You speak boldly, Mellamir, Lady of _Gondor_," Wormtongue interrupted. "Just now you called Théoden 'my lord,' but is he really? Do you not put more trust in your books of Gondorian 'wisdom' and in your brothers than in our king? I ask you, Mellamir, if Gondor went to war with Rohan, with whom would your fealty lie?"
Mellamir stood there for a moment, breathing in and out, mastering her temper. At last she asked, "Can the king not speak for himself?"
"The king is silent with astonishment that a foreign girl would dare tell him how to run his country. I speak for the king, and the king says: you favour Gondor more than Rohan, and would sacrifice Rohan to save your beloved city. You think that the great protect the great, so that if Rohan attacks Saruman, Sauron will come to his aid and spare Gondor for an hour, perhaps, until your brother returns with that Elf's so-called wisdom. But I say Saruman is our friend and ally, and ever has been --"
But Théoden hushed Wormtongue and spoke for himself. "Mellamir, Gríma speaks the truth, though he could do so less offensively. As we speak, Éomer is searching for proof of what you warn, of Orc attacks from Isengard. If he returns with evidence, then I will consider war. Not before. And not for Gondor."
"For what, then?" Mellamir asked. "For death and glory?"
"For Rohan."
Wormtongue nodded to two of the men leaning against the wall, and they stepped forward to escort Mellamir out. She, however, had had enough. She begged the king's leave, curtsied, pushed the man's hand off her shoulder, and left Meduseld as quickly as she could.
~*~
Life was as quiet as it ever was those days for about the next month. Éowyn was worried about her brother on the frontier and, while Mellamir knew he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, she found that she missed his company -- which came as a surprise, since she spent much more time with Éowyn than with he or Théodred. Then one August morning, she had to give up their lazy routine for more pressing concerns.
Outside it was a miserable Tuesday morning. Farmers sat by the fires of the local inns discussing how much they needed the rain and how glad they were not to have to be out in the muck. Prairie dogs climbed out of their holes as their underground homes flooded and now sat under overhanging grasses staring at each other, listening to the pounding rain. Suddenly they heard another sound, a giant, powerful swoosh, and saw the fast-approaching shadow. They scurried off to find safer shelter just as the mammoth bird let its burden fall to the ground.
"Gwaihir, my friend, thank you." The burden rolled over and closed his eyes as the mud seeped into his cloak and the dirty rainwater into his tangled grey beard. When at last his eyes refocused, they settled on the woman walking toward him. She had dark auburn hair set in a loose braid pinned out of her way on the top of her head and wore a purple wool jumper over a cream linen top and fur-trimmed boots. In this weather she also wore a dark grey woolen cloak and, her fur-trimmed hood framing her well-tanned face. She knelt beside the old man and studied his haggard face.
"Gandalf. You look terrible."
"Mellamir."
"Come on," she said, helping him up. "Let's get you cleaned up."
~*~
An hour later, the wizard was sitting in an armchair in Mellamir and Éowyn's parlour, dressed in silk pyjamas borrowed from Théodred. Éowyn had brewed them some tea and produced apple ginger bread and honey left over from breakfast. Mellamir and Gandalf sat and drank, while Éowyn washed his clothes and Théodred started a stew. "Now," Mellamir said, "tell me what happened."
"No time," he said between sips. "I must see the king immediately."
"Good luck with that one," Théodred snorted from the other room. "Wormtongue may let you see him, but immediately? That's an entirely separate issue."
"I do not remember any Wormtongue -- surely not that slimy-haired creature who tied the king's right shoe?"
"The very same," Théodred replied. "Mellamir, you were not here, but years ago Father would reward loyal nobles by allowing them to help him dress in the morning."
"A warrior," Gandalf replied, "does not need two lords to hold out his waistcoat while he slips it on."
"No, but a king does, or so Uncle thought," said Éowyn as she came in. Having left the clothes to soak, she pulled in a chair from the kitchen table and sat down to hear Gandalf's tale, chuckling. "Though now Théoden doesn't have twenty nobles in his whole court; Wormtongue dresses the king on his own. The rest have returned to their own villages to protect them from what Worm keeps saying --"
"Worm?" Gandalf asked.
"That is what we call him," Mellamir replied, "though not to his face, of course."
"Snake would be more fitting," Gandalf answered with a grim smile. "Go on."
"He says the towns being attacked are on the wrong border," Éowyn continued, "that Orcs would have to cross the whole country to attack those western towns."
"He's wrong. Or lying." Gandalf looked out the window at the falling rain. "Fitting weather for news from Stormcrow. Shut your doors and pull your curtains. Théoden should hear what I have to say first from me, not from his baker who heard it on the street. It would be better if he heard it before even you but if the situation in Meduseld is as bad as you say, I may not have the chance to return later. And you at least need to know.
"I am a wizard. You know that, Mellamir, but you, Éowyn and Théodred, may not. I, like the rest of my kind, was sent to help keep this Middle-earth safe from destroying itself. Yet I am not the only one." He sighed and looked at the fire longingly. "Mellamir, I do not suppose -- do you still have your pipe?"
Mellamir opened a drawer in the chest next to her. "I wondered when you would ask," she said with a smile as she readied two pipes and handed one to Gandalf. Éowyn went around locking doors and closing curtains while Mellamir and Gandalf sat and smoked. A moment later Théodred came in, coughing. He opened a window and pulled back the curtains. "Either the smoke goes out or I do, I'm afraid," he explained; "I can't stand the smell of the stuff. No one is out today, they won't hear you."
"Very well," Gandalf acquiesced. "It is ancient history, but some of it bears repeating. You all know of Sauron, of course. Mellamir, your brothers will soon be fighting his orcs, and Théoden fears him as well. He made many rings. Nine he gave to kings of men, and seven to the dwarves. The Elves also made rings. Elrond has one, the lord of Rivendell. Galadriel, queen of Lothlórien, has another of these rings. The third was given by the Elf Círdan to me long ago. But Sauron kept the greatest ring for himself. That ring has been found. Sauron knows this. And Saruman, because he has studied all about the rings, he also knows this, and what is at stake."
"But what _is_ at stake?" Éowyn asked. "If it is just a ring ..."
"Your life is at stake," Gandalf answered. "Your peoples' freedom, and the freedom of all the nations of the West, is at stake. As long as the ring survives, Sauron survives. If he wins it back, he will be more powerful than ever. Rohan would not last an hour. The ring has been found, and we cannot hide it forever."
"Then what," Théodred asked, "are we waiting for? Destroy it, now."
"That is exactly what I hope to do," Gandalf replied. "But it can only be destroyed in the fires of Orodruin, the very fires that forged it, deep in Mordor. And that is why I came here, to warn your father and to beg of him a horse. I must reach the Shire, where the hobbit --"
"Hobbit?" Éowyn interrupted.
"Oh, I know that," Mellamir answered. "You remember the old kings, Éowyn, that we talked about? According to old legends, many of that line went away to the north, to Eriador. Gandalf told me once of a race of short people who live in a valley and are protected by those men. Most of them look like half-grown boys."
"Oh, you mean holbytla," Éowyn answered.
"Indeed," Gandalf said, then added quickly, "Well spoken, Mellamir," after seeing the put-out look on her face that someone else knew the tale. He continued, "A halfling found this ring centuries before. Now it has passed to Frodo Baggins, another halfling. Sauron knows that the ring has been found, and he has sent those nine kings to find it. Now Saruman, he has not been idle. He is breeding an army, but not of orcs. Orcs are weak -- they hate the sun and can't march in it for any length of time. But these Uruk-hai, as Saruman calls them, they are a cross between Orcs and goblin men, and are stronger and faster than Orcs and can move in daylight. They are the ones attacking the western villages, they and the orcs from the Misty Mountains Saruman used to breed them; orcs do not need to cross Rohan from Mordor any more."
"Cheers, to the strength of Men," Mellamir said bitterly, raising her mug of tea in a mock toast.
"Just now Saruman is still loyal to Sauron," Gandalf continued, "and he will command his Uruk-hai to do whatever Sauron orders. Just now. But Saruman is proud, and he will someday try to capture the ring himself and challenge Sauron."
~*~
Wormtongue kept Gandalf waiting a full week before he called the wizard in to see Théoden. Gandalf never told Mellamir what happened at that meeting, but Mellamir could guess well enough. Gandalf told of all he had seen, and Wormtongue called him a warmongering old fool and sent him on his way for lack of proof. Whatever had happened, Théoden was not convinced by Gandalf's story. He refused to risk open war with what he still believed to be Rohan's greatest ally. He did, however, agree to lend Gandalf a horse, any horse he wanted, so the fool could go look for help elsewhere.
Gandalf went to the fields outside Edoras and chose a wonderful horse: Shadowfax. In the morning sun his coat shone a rich grey, deeper than the coal and more precious to the Rohirrim than mithril; by night he seemed black, more awe-inspiring than the very heights of Orthanc. He was one of the Mearas, a noble breed of horses the Rohirrim valued above all else, and Shadowfax was greater than any they had seen since the days of Éorl, the first king of Rohan. Shadowfax was royalty, from a prouder, less fallen age than the current one. And Gandalf, in his insolence, chose that horse out of all the horses in Rohan.
He spent several days breaking him, stopping only to eat dinner with Éowyn, Théodred, and Mellamir. One day, when he didn't come to dinner, Mellamir knew he had gone to find this Shire he worked so hard to protect. Gandalf the Grey was never seen again in Edoras.
Summer 3018; Edoras
---------------------------
Éomer and Mellamir stayed in Minas Tirith for three days. Mellamir had meant to stay longer, but Faramir insisted: the three dreams proved more than ever that Gondor just was not safe, and he needed, for his own peace of mind at least, to know that at least one heir to the stewardship was as safe as possible. He was leaving again soon, returning to Ithilien, and the city didn't feel nearly as much like home without her brothers there. Éomer was also ready to return. Now that he had seen the White Tower, he realized how much he loved Edoras and missed the gleam of the Golden Hall in the setting sun. And he had to agree with Faramir, Gondor was no safe haven. He didn't, of course, fear dreams like these Gondorians seemed to, and he thought what a joke this whole situation would seem to any proper Rohan youth. The Captain of Gondor running off to ask the Elves how to interpret his dream? But he had heard other dark news, of the fall of Osgiliath, and other things too; war now seemed eminent.
So Mellamir and Éomer left Minas Tirith on the fourth day shortly after dawn. Mellamir's saddle bags were heavy, and Éomer asked her what she had bought so much of that she couldn't get in Edoras.
"Seeds," she replied, and he laughed at that.
"Seeds? We have seeds in Edoras, you know ..."
"But not like this," she replied. "It's too late to plant a garden for this year, of course, but next year, perhaps. It would be nice to have some flowers like they have here in Gondor, wouldn't it?" Éomer nodded, and neither voiced the thought they were both thinking: it _would_ be nice, if Rohan still exists. Gardens would somehow seem out of place in Mordor.
The journey back to Edoras was almost as uneventful as the one to Minas Tirith. Since Mellamir was not as rushed, she and Éomer took their time enjoying the return trip. They would stop for a leisurely lunch (and often a nap afterwards), and once Mellamir even convinced Éomer to walk with her a particularly scenic mile, giving the horses a rest. What an absurd sight -- a future lord of the horsemen leading his steed behind the daughter of the Steward of Gondor! While Boromir journeyed west to find Imladris and Faramir looked east toward Ithilien and Mordor, Mellamir enjoyed what she feared might be the last lazy summer of the West.
Finally they saw the glimmer of the sunrise off Meduseld far away on the horizon, and after four hours of nonstop riding they reached the gates just as the city bells announced the arrival of the fifth hour. Théoden was "occupied," according to Wormtongue, but Éowyn and Théodred joined them for lunch and listened gladly to Éomer's tales of the White City. Mellamir, however, was strangely quiet. As the three of them finished their desert of yogurt, fresh whipped cream, and sliced fruit, Éowyn asked, "Mellamir, why are you so quiet? Is something wrong?"
"I need to talk to your uncle," she replied. "Do you think he would see me? I had hoped we would be eating with him."
"He's busy," Théodred answered, frowning. "Most of the time, it seems; he doesn't have time for lunch with us anymore. In fact, he hardly sees anyone these days. But he always liked you. I'm sure he would see you if you asked politely."
Mellamir did indeed 'ask politely,' but not Théoden, and not right away. She sent a message to Meduseld after lunch requesting an audience with the king but had to wait four days before she heard anything. At last, Háma (by now promoted to Door-warden of Meduseld) delivered the message that she was expected in the Golden Hall at the third hour. She hastily bathed and braided her hair, then dressed in her most formal dress and followed Háma to the Golden Hall. He did not, however, show her immediately into the throne room. Instead, he escorted her into a waiting room where she sat for two hours. At the fifth hour of the day, one of the maids led her into a private office down a long hall. There sat Wormtongue, shuffling through a small stack of papers.
"Master Gríma, please," she said. "I have pressing news for the king."
He looked at her expectantly for a moment, obviously expecting her to give him the message so he could decide whether or not to deliver it. This had become the custom in Rohan of late, but Mellamir never had cause to deliver messages so she did not know that. When Mellamir made no move to say anything more, Wormtongue looked at her questioningly and asked, "Are you not going to tell me?"
"I am afraid my father instructed me to give this news to the king himself." She forced a smile.
Gríma inclined his head ever so slightly. "Surely you at least trust --"
"It is not a question of whether I trust you," Mellamir interrupted, "but of whether I value my promise to my father."
"Very well," he snapped. "If you decline to tell me, the news must be important indeed. But Théoden is very busy. You will have to be patient, my lady."
"Of course." She forced another smile, curtsied, and hurried out of the room, through the palace doors, and across the way to hers and Éowyn's house, where she found Éowyn about to set lunch. (Since Théoden was so unavailable these days, Éowyn, Éomer, Théodred, and Mellamir often ate together at the house.) Mellamir noticed almost immediately that Éowyn had set only three places instead of the usual four.
"Word came from Gríma this morning, not long after you left for Meduseld," Éowyn explained. "Too many reports of orc attacks. He is sending Éomer to lead a company of riders to search out these 'imaginary goblins,' as he put it."
"From Worm?" Mellamir asked, the colour slightly draining from her face. "Not Théoden?"
"From Wormtongue," Éowyn affirmed. "Mellamir, what's wrong?"
Mellamir shook her head. "I'm just realizing how much things have changed around here."
~*~
Three more days passed before Háma finally came to take Mellamir back to Meduseld. He led her up the steps but would not cross the threshold himself. Mellamir walked alone into the great throne room of Meduseld, yet it was not as she remembered it. The great wooden pillars were the same, as were the many weavings of the ancient kings and heroes of Rohan's past. The great windows, high on the walls, still let in the mid-day sunlight, but the beams of light failed to penetrate the haze that now filled the hall. One fire burned low on a stand in the middle of the room, but it let off too much smoke and not enough flame, and the stands on either side of it stood cold.
Mellamir walked through the haze and the smoke until at last she stood before the throne. Théoden sat there, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, his head bent down, and Wormtongue stood at his right hand. Mellamir bowed her head, then let her eyes briefly wander the hall. Perhaps a dozen shifty-looking men leaned against the walls; they were all armed with sword and bow, but Mellamir did not recognize them as members of Háma's guard.
"King Théoden," Mellamir began as she curtsied low before the throne. "I have returned from Minas Tirith, and I bear news from the Steward. My brother Boromir is, as we speak, riding to Rivendell to seek the counsel of the lord of that valley, famous for his wisdom. The Dark Lord has joined with evil Men, the Easterlings and the Haradrim. Osgiliath has fallen. The Black Riders --"
"Black Riders?" Wormtongue interrupted. "What are they?"
"In Gondor we call them the Nazgûl, the Nine. No one knows where they came from; I believe them to be the nine kings that, according to ancient lore, accepted powerful gifts from Sauron before his fall. We do not know what happened to them, and legend has it that Sauron could postpone death indefinitely, replace it with a sort of half-life. You would not die, but you would not truly live either, and you would lose your will and obey only him. Whenever a Man sees one he cannot stand and fight; he either freezes in fright or runs."
"A Gondorian, perhaps," Wormtongue replied, "but a Man of Rohan --"
"My brothers," Mellamir answered, "in whom the blood of Númenor runs true -- even you, Théoden, recognise that -- Boromir froze in fright, but Faramir woke him with a kiss. They were there when these Black Riders attacked, commanding the company that held the last bridge across the Anduin, and they managed to destroy that bridge, though they lost most of their men in the effort."
She glanced at Wormtongue, taking the time to choose her next words carefully. "Théoden, my lord, war is upon Gondor, and Rohan should turn its attention to its own borders. Sauron is not the only enemy. Your own neighbour Saru --"
"You speak boldly, Mellamir, Lady of _Gondor_," Wormtongue interrupted. "Just now you called Théoden 'my lord,' but is he really? Do you not put more trust in your books of Gondorian 'wisdom' and in your brothers than in our king? I ask you, Mellamir, if Gondor went to war with Rohan, with whom would your fealty lie?"
Mellamir stood there for a moment, breathing in and out, mastering her temper. At last she asked, "Can the king not speak for himself?"
"The king is silent with astonishment that a foreign girl would dare tell him how to run his country. I speak for the king, and the king says: you favour Gondor more than Rohan, and would sacrifice Rohan to save your beloved city. You think that the great protect the great, so that if Rohan attacks Saruman, Sauron will come to his aid and spare Gondor for an hour, perhaps, until your brother returns with that Elf's so-called wisdom. But I say Saruman is our friend and ally, and ever has been --"
But Théoden hushed Wormtongue and spoke for himself. "Mellamir, Gríma speaks the truth, though he could do so less offensively. As we speak, Éomer is searching for proof of what you warn, of Orc attacks from Isengard. If he returns with evidence, then I will consider war. Not before. And not for Gondor."
"For what, then?" Mellamir asked. "For death and glory?"
"For Rohan."
Wormtongue nodded to two of the men leaning against the wall, and they stepped forward to escort Mellamir out. She, however, had had enough. She begged the king's leave, curtsied, pushed the man's hand off her shoulder, and left Meduseld as quickly as she could.
~*~
Life was as quiet as it ever was those days for about the next month. Éowyn was worried about her brother on the frontier and, while Mellamir knew he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, she found that she missed his company -- which came as a surprise, since she spent much more time with Éowyn than with he or Théodred. Then one August morning, she had to give up their lazy routine for more pressing concerns.
Outside it was a miserable Tuesday morning. Farmers sat by the fires of the local inns discussing how much they needed the rain and how glad they were not to have to be out in the muck. Prairie dogs climbed out of their holes as their underground homes flooded and now sat under overhanging grasses staring at each other, listening to the pounding rain. Suddenly they heard another sound, a giant, powerful swoosh, and saw the fast-approaching shadow. They scurried off to find safer shelter just as the mammoth bird let its burden fall to the ground.
"Gwaihir, my friend, thank you." The burden rolled over and closed his eyes as the mud seeped into his cloak and the dirty rainwater into his tangled grey beard. When at last his eyes refocused, they settled on the woman walking toward him. She had dark auburn hair set in a loose braid pinned out of her way on the top of her head and wore a purple wool jumper over a cream linen top and fur-trimmed boots. In this weather she also wore a dark grey woolen cloak and, her fur-trimmed hood framing her well-tanned face. She knelt beside the old man and studied his haggard face.
"Gandalf. You look terrible."
"Mellamir."
"Come on," she said, helping him up. "Let's get you cleaned up."
~*~
An hour later, the wizard was sitting in an armchair in Mellamir and Éowyn's parlour, dressed in silk pyjamas borrowed from Théodred. Éowyn had brewed them some tea and produced apple ginger bread and honey left over from breakfast. Mellamir and Gandalf sat and drank, while Éowyn washed his clothes and Théodred started a stew. "Now," Mellamir said, "tell me what happened."
"No time," he said between sips. "I must see the king immediately."
"Good luck with that one," Théodred snorted from the other room. "Wormtongue may let you see him, but immediately? That's an entirely separate issue."
"I do not remember any Wormtongue -- surely not that slimy-haired creature who tied the king's right shoe?"
"The very same," Théodred replied. "Mellamir, you were not here, but years ago Father would reward loyal nobles by allowing them to help him dress in the morning."
"A warrior," Gandalf replied, "does not need two lords to hold out his waistcoat while he slips it on."
"No, but a king does, or so Uncle thought," said Éowyn as she came in. Having left the clothes to soak, she pulled in a chair from the kitchen table and sat down to hear Gandalf's tale, chuckling. "Though now Théoden doesn't have twenty nobles in his whole court; Wormtongue dresses the king on his own. The rest have returned to their own villages to protect them from what Worm keeps saying --"
"Worm?" Gandalf asked.
"That is what we call him," Mellamir replied, "though not to his face, of course."
"Snake would be more fitting," Gandalf answered with a grim smile. "Go on."
"He says the towns being attacked are on the wrong border," Éowyn continued, "that Orcs would have to cross the whole country to attack those western towns."
"He's wrong. Or lying." Gandalf looked out the window at the falling rain. "Fitting weather for news from Stormcrow. Shut your doors and pull your curtains. Théoden should hear what I have to say first from me, not from his baker who heard it on the street. It would be better if he heard it before even you but if the situation in Meduseld is as bad as you say, I may not have the chance to return later. And you at least need to know.
"I am a wizard. You know that, Mellamir, but you, Éowyn and Théodred, may not. I, like the rest of my kind, was sent to help keep this Middle-earth safe from destroying itself. Yet I am not the only one." He sighed and looked at the fire longingly. "Mellamir, I do not suppose -- do you still have your pipe?"
Mellamir opened a drawer in the chest next to her. "I wondered when you would ask," she said with a smile as she readied two pipes and handed one to Gandalf. Éowyn went around locking doors and closing curtains while Mellamir and Gandalf sat and smoked. A moment later Théodred came in, coughing. He opened a window and pulled back the curtains. "Either the smoke goes out or I do, I'm afraid," he explained; "I can't stand the smell of the stuff. No one is out today, they won't hear you."
"Very well," Gandalf acquiesced. "It is ancient history, but some of it bears repeating. You all know of Sauron, of course. Mellamir, your brothers will soon be fighting his orcs, and Théoden fears him as well. He made many rings. Nine he gave to kings of men, and seven to the dwarves. The Elves also made rings. Elrond has one, the lord of Rivendell. Galadriel, queen of Lothlórien, has another of these rings. The third was given by the Elf Círdan to me long ago. But Sauron kept the greatest ring for himself. That ring has been found. Sauron knows this. And Saruman, because he has studied all about the rings, he also knows this, and what is at stake."
"But what _is_ at stake?" Éowyn asked. "If it is just a ring ..."
"Your life is at stake," Gandalf answered. "Your peoples' freedom, and the freedom of all the nations of the West, is at stake. As long as the ring survives, Sauron survives. If he wins it back, he will be more powerful than ever. Rohan would not last an hour. The ring has been found, and we cannot hide it forever."
"Then what," Théodred asked, "are we waiting for? Destroy it, now."
"That is exactly what I hope to do," Gandalf replied. "But it can only be destroyed in the fires of Orodruin, the very fires that forged it, deep in Mordor. And that is why I came here, to warn your father and to beg of him a horse. I must reach the Shire, where the hobbit --"
"Hobbit?" Éowyn interrupted.
"Oh, I know that," Mellamir answered. "You remember the old kings, Éowyn, that we talked about? According to old legends, many of that line went away to the north, to Eriador. Gandalf told me once of a race of short people who live in a valley and are protected by those men. Most of them look like half-grown boys."
"Oh, you mean holbytla," Éowyn answered.
"Indeed," Gandalf said, then added quickly, "Well spoken, Mellamir," after seeing the put-out look on her face that someone else knew the tale. He continued, "A halfling found this ring centuries before. Now it has passed to Frodo Baggins, another halfling. Sauron knows that the ring has been found, and he has sent those nine kings to find it. Now Saruman, he has not been idle. He is breeding an army, but not of orcs. Orcs are weak -- they hate the sun and can't march in it for any length of time. But these Uruk-hai, as Saruman calls them, they are a cross between Orcs and goblin men, and are stronger and faster than Orcs and can move in daylight. They are the ones attacking the western villages, they and the orcs from the Misty Mountains Saruman used to breed them; orcs do not need to cross Rohan from Mordor any more."
"Cheers, to the strength of Men," Mellamir said bitterly, raising her mug of tea in a mock toast.
"Just now Saruman is still loyal to Sauron," Gandalf continued, "and he will command his Uruk-hai to do whatever Sauron orders. Just now. But Saruman is proud, and he will someday try to capture the ring himself and challenge Sauron."
~*~
Wormtongue kept Gandalf waiting a full week before he called the wizard in to see Théoden. Gandalf never told Mellamir what happened at that meeting, but Mellamir could guess well enough. Gandalf told of all he had seen, and Wormtongue called him a warmongering old fool and sent him on his way for lack of proof. Whatever had happened, Théoden was not convinced by Gandalf's story. He refused to risk open war with what he still believed to be Rohan's greatest ally. He did, however, agree to lend Gandalf a horse, any horse he wanted, so the fool could go look for help elsewhere.
Gandalf went to the fields outside Edoras and chose a wonderful horse: Shadowfax. In the morning sun his coat shone a rich grey, deeper than the coal and more precious to the Rohirrim than mithril; by night he seemed black, more awe-inspiring than the very heights of Orthanc. He was one of the Mearas, a noble breed of horses the Rohirrim valued above all else, and Shadowfax was greater than any they had seen since the days of Éorl, the first king of Rohan. Shadowfax was royalty, from a prouder, less fallen age than the current one. And Gandalf, in his insolence, chose that horse out of all the horses in Rohan.
He spent several days breaking him, stopping only to eat dinner with Éowyn, Théodred, and Mellamir. One day, when he didn't come to dinner, Mellamir knew he had gone to find this Shire he worked so hard to protect. Gandalf the Grey was never seen again in Edoras.