Even in her small room's sanctuary, Liriel heard the commotion. She also heard, even smelled something she had not detected in the wind in a very long time; the scent of long riding. Freshly oiled tack-leather, iron new-pounded into shoes, food prepared specifically for long travel, and all of it done in a hurry. Armed men were gathering people in courtyards and in what passed for streets, but even they could not disguise the panic in their voices. There had been some altercation the previous day; she knew, she'd heard. Shouts and alarums had run out, and there had been the sound of fast-running horses, but she didn't know what had happened.
She wondered what was going on.
When the nice young man came to escort her to a horse, she asked him. "Why have there been so many alarums rung of late... this past day I have heard more activity in Edoras than I have heard in this past fortnight all told."
Liriel could feel his eyes on her face, astonished. "Why.. had you not heard? Theoden-king is new-wakened from his possession by the dark wizard Saruman. Gandalf is returned with the King of Gondor and they have brought with them tidings of a great army moving forth from Isengard. The king has ordered that all are to make haste to the fortress of Helmsdeep."
She couldn't manage to hide the gasp in time; fortunately the well-meaning young man put it down simply to shock at the news. So -- poor Grima's two lords had come to odds at last, as she had surmised. It didn't surprise her, that it would happen; she'd known he would be caught in the middle, in that untenable position he had placed himself unwillingly yet unable to do anything else. What surprised her was the depth of protective feeling she felt for the poor man. He had been a true companion to her in her last few days at Edoras.
"Oh, be still..." Liriel said, absently irritated. "I was riding on my mother's pony before you were born, young man. I think I can manage one placid mare." The touch of the horse's breath on her hand was gentle, and despite her bravado she was still very leery of getting on a horse again. It had been a very long time. Still, this horse seemed gentle enough, and would most likely keep to the giant procession that was wending towards Helmsdeep.
"As you say, my lady..." the man said doubtingly. Just to prove him wrong, Liriel reached out with her hands and her senses, ascertaining where the saddle was. Quick as a wink and with only a slight gasp, she leaped into the saddle. The foolish vanities of an old woman, she thought with a mental wince of considerable ache, muscles forced to do tasks abandoned thirty years ago, Still, that'll teach him.
The wind hit her as soon as she was mounted, tearing right through her chest and out the other side of her threadbare cloak. She winced with almost palpable pain, her lungs nearly frozen. Nearly a fortnight of hard riding. Would she be able to endure? She, who had not been outside the castle in nearly a decade? But what choice did she have?
They rode to Helmsdeep.
"Into the caves. Everyone into the caves!"
They had barely arrived at the great stone fortress. Liriel had sensed the panic in the air from the moment she'd heard the distant growling of the Wargs and their riders, much less when the White Lady of Rohan had gathered the women and children and ridden ahead to Helmsdeep. It had been a hard ride, and she was starting to remember why she never ventured outside the castle anymore. Her breath was rattling in her chest.
She'd known after the first day that she would arrive at the fortress completely incapacitated, if she arrived at all. By the third day she had almost given up hope of life, until the kind young king with the hands of a healer had taken her and given her some tea brewed of leaves that even she did not have a name for. Then the Warg-riders had taken him over a cliff, and there was no more king, no more healing for her. At her request he had kept her pain secret, not that they had healers in the party anyway. No one who could do anything for her.
She almost laughed. It was actually funny, a little... here they were, fleeing the army of orcs and goblins and who knew what else the old wizard had created, and she would not live to be murdered and eaten by them. No, it was the chill that would carry her off, and if she was eaten, well, what of that. Someone might as well have use of her body after she was done with it.
"Here, lady," a woman's voice came through the babble of people, and a hand touched her arm. "You are chilled…" she felt the warmth and weight of a blanket around her shoulders.
"Thank you, lady," Liriel replied graciously, and coughed. It hurt, a fiery pain that was more than she had been expecting, and she tasted bitter copper in her mouth.
"Are you ill?"
It was too late for that; had been too late when she had felt the first blast of cold wind through her chest on the road. But the woman couldn't know that. Neither had she, for a time. "Not for much longer, child," she smiled reassuringly, and patted the woman's hand. The woman left, most likely thinking that Liriel was simply recovering from the winter illnesses that usually had plagued Edoras.
Her mind wandered backwards, to another who had been weakened by the fever that was now killing her. To other nights, warmer and more comfort filled nights of tea and talk and even a little music, when she had the breath for it. It hadn't been joyous, exactly, but it had been a happy time, and she had even been content.
Poor Grima, Liriel thought, not for the first time. What has become of you now?
Poor Grima was suffering abuse and neglect at the hands of Saruman the White, as he had for many years past. Fetch this, carry that, draw this, stay out of my way you ignorant toad. Curses and reprimands rang in his ears; when Saruman wasn't berating him, he was ignoring him. As though it was his fault the accursed Gandalf had ridden into Edoras and snatched out Theoden from under their very noses. As though it was his fault that Saruman had been cast out from the body of the Horse Lord. As though he had the power to stand against a wizard. He didn't know why Saruman couldn't see that, but mostly supposed it was somehow his fault anyway. It usually was. Poor, stupid Grima. He turned his head to the side and spat in the general direction of Saruman's palantir. That for Saruman and his 'Poor, stupid Grima.'
He had been so much better off at Edoras.
Among other things, he had been virtually the ruler of the roost, there. The mouthpiece of Theoden himself, no one had gainsaid anything from his lips, presuming that he spoke the words of Theoden himself. Up to and including letting that misbegotten whelp Theodred die of his wounds. Even Grima had known the boy might have been saved, had he been brought to what few healers were left immediately, and kept in a room somewhat warmer than the icy halls of the King. A room like the blind woman's, his thoughts betrayed him. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. The blind woman was likely fled with them all, to Helmsdeep with her, and likely soon to be made into meat for the Uruk-hai. The thought gave him a moment's pause, a moment's concern, as it always did. And then he walked on.
The first time he had seen them, the army of thousands of fighting Uruk-hai, he had been astonished, afraid for the blind, kind lady of Rohan. He had known terror, then, and grief; not his usual sort of terror but fear for another, something entirely new to him. Also new were the cool tears that had tricked down his cheek; cool, yet still warm against his icy, clammy skin. Three tears, and then his sense of self-preservation had reasserted itself. Grima cared for no one, because no one cared for Grima, no matter what they said.
But he had known then, when he had seen the army of foulness, what would be come of the Rohirrim, of the Horse people. And he had known what would become of the White Lady of Rohan, beautiful and forbidding as the winter. And of the blue-eyed Liriel.
Grima shook the thoughts out of his head and shuffled on through the tower of Isengard. He moved, stooped and bunch-backed, through the Palantir room and towards the sanctuary of his own tiny den. At least with Saruman occupied with the battle he had time for a little rest, a little peace, to sooth his aching muscles and bones and try somehow to ease the ailments which always plagued him. He almost fancied, in a brief moment of uncharacteristic wistfulness, that he could hear Liriel's voice on the wind again, hear the soft sound of hot water pouring into a cup, usually some sort of exotic tea which never failed to warm and ease his body. And spirit, if it came to that, though he never liked to think about it. The simple act of being so at ease with another person made him very ill at ease itself. But he could still hear her voice…
The Palantir… it glowed.
He stared into it. It was forbidden to him, and with good reason, but his eyes were captivated by it all the same. It swirled and crackled with energy, the interior of it misting over with gray (unlike when Saruman gazed into it and summoned the flaming lidless eye). And then the mists parted to reveal a labyrinthine set of caves, and he suddenly knew where it was…. Below Helmsdeep.
"No…" he whispered, anticipating what he would see there. He could almost hear the sounds of the slaughter. "No… do not show me this… I beg you, do not show me this…" The Uruk-hai had not yet arrived at the underground caves but he knew it was only a matter of time. He had told Saruman how to breach the sanctuary. "Please… have mercy"
The heartless orb had none, but what came was not what he expected. The view wandered through the caves, as though searching for something, all the while still wreathed in mist. It finally came to rest on a familiar form, blood staining her lips and hair, lying wrapped in blankets on the ground and breathing shallowly, he saw. He saw more than he wanted to, in that regard. Grima had seen enough of death to know when it approached someone, and by the look of her she had barely a few breaths left. It must have been the flight from Edoras, though he could not imagine how the chill had taken her so quickly… and fever, by the hectic look in her bright blue eyes. "No…" he found himself whispering, hands on the table and practically nose to the Palantir (which was ice cold). "No… mercy, please…"
She coughed once. Blood spattered her lips. Her eyes opened slightly, her chest heaved once. And then she lay impossibly limp, impossibly still, her face suddenly appearing as any other sighted person's for the first time since he'd known her.
"No..." it came out in a choked whisper, although he no longer knew who he was trying to reach. "No, please... have pity..." The words tumbled over themselves, sobbing, heartbroken, and he never stopped to wonder at the oddness of it all. Grief wracked his body as the fever never had, and it had not yet occured to him how new these sensations were, except that he could have done without. He didn't think to wonder; he was beyond thought. Pounding the stone and marble table with weakened fists, whispering words over and over till they lost all sense and meaning. "No... mercy.. please... No..." But it was no use... "No... mercy... pity..." For that was exactly what the universe had given him... "No.. please..."
No .. mercy... please... no... No mercy
She wondered what was going on.
When the nice young man came to escort her to a horse, she asked him. "Why have there been so many alarums rung of late... this past day I have heard more activity in Edoras than I have heard in this past fortnight all told."
Liriel could feel his eyes on her face, astonished. "Why.. had you not heard? Theoden-king is new-wakened from his possession by the dark wizard Saruman. Gandalf is returned with the King of Gondor and they have brought with them tidings of a great army moving forth from Isengard. The king has ordered that all are to make haste to the fortress of Helmsdeep."
She couldn't manage to hide the gasp in time; fortunately the well-meaning young man put it down simply to shock at the news. So -- poor Grima's two lords had come to odds at last, as she had surmised. It didn't surprise her, that it would happen; she'd known he would be caught in the middle, in that untenable position he had placed himself unwillingly yet unable to do anything else. What surprised her was the depth of protective feeling she felt for the poor man. He had been a true companion to her in her last few days at Edoras.
"Oh, be still..." Liriel said, absently irritated. "I was riding on my mother's pony before you were born, young man. I think I can manage one placid mare." The touch of the horse's breath on her hand was gentle, and despite her bravado she was still very leery of getting on a horse again. It had been a very long time. Still, this horse seemed gentle enough, and would most likely keep to the giant procession that was wending towards Helmsdeep.
"As you say, my lady..." the man said doubtingly. Just to prove him wrong, Liriel reached out with her hands and her senses, ascertaining where the saddle was. Quick as a wink and with only a slight gasp, she leaped into the saddle. The foolish vanities of an old woman, she thought with a mental wince of considerable ache, muscles forced to do tasks abandoned thirty years ago, Still, that'll teach him.
The wind hit her as soon as she was mounted, tearing right through her chest and out the other side of her threadbare cloak. She winced with almost palpable pain, her lungs nearly frozen. Nearly a fortnight of hard riding. Would she be able to endure? She, who had not been outside the castle in nearly a decade? But what choice did she have?
They rode to Helmsdeep.
"Into the caves. Everyone into the caves!"
They had barely arrived at the great stone fortress. Liriel had sensed the panic in the air from the moment she'd heard the distant growling of the Wargs and their riders, much less when the White Lady of Rohan had gathered the women and children and ridden ahead to Helmsdeep. It had been a hard ride, and she was starting to remember why she never ventured outside the castle anymore. Her breath was rattling in her chest.
She'd known after the first day that she would arrive at the fortress completely incapacitated, if she arrived at all. By the third day she had almost given up hope of life, until the kind young king with the hands of a healer had taken her and given her some tea brewed of leaves that even she did not have a name for. Then the Warg-riders had taken him over a cliff, and there was no more king, no more healing for her. At her request he had kept her pain secret, not that they had healers in the party anyway. No one who could do anything for her.
She almost laughed. It was actually funny, a little... here they were, fleeing the army of orcs and goblins and who knew what else the old wizard had created, and she would not live to be murdered and eaten by them. No, it was the chill that would carry her off, and if she was eaten, well, what of that. Someone might as well have use of her body after she was done with it.
"Here, lady," a woman's voice came through the babble of people, and a hand touched her arm. "You are chilled…" she felt the warmth and weight of a blanket around her shoulders.
"Thank you, lady," Liriel replied graciously, and coughed. It hurt, a fiery pain that was more than she had been expecting, and she tasted bitter copper in her mouth.
"Are you ill?"
It was too late for that; had been too late when she had felt the first blast of cold wind through her chest on the road. But the woman couldn't know that. Neither had she, for a time. "Not for much longer, child," she smiled reassuringly, and patted the woman's hand. The woman left, most likely thinking that Liriel was simply recovering from the winter illnesses that usually had plagued Edoras.
Her mind wandered backwards, to another who had been weakened by the fever that was now killing her. To other nights, warmer and more comfort filled nights of tea and talk and even a little music, when she had the breath for it. It hadn't been joyous, exactly, but it had been a happy time, and she had even been content.
Poor Grima, Liriel thought, not for the first time. What has become of you now?
Poor Grima was suffering abuse and neglect at the hands of Saruman the White, as he had for many years past. Fetch this, carry that, draw this, stay out of my way you ignorant toad. Curses and reprimands rang in his ears; when Saruman wasn't berating him, he was ignoring him. As though it was his fault the accursed Gandalf had ridden into Edoras and snatched out Theoden from under their very noses. As though it was his fault that Saruman had been cast out from the body of the Horse Lord. As though he had the power to stand against a wizard. He didn't know why Saruman couldn't see that, but mostly supposed it was somehow his fault anyway. It usually was. Poor, stupid Grima. He turned his head to the side and spat in the general direction of Saruman's palantir. That for Saruman and his 'Poor, stupid Grima.'
He had been so much better off at Edoras.
Among other things, he had been virtually the ruler of the roost, there. The mouthpiece of Theoden himself, no one had gainsaid anything from his lips, presuming that he spoke the words of Theoden himself. Up to and including letting that misbegotten whelp Theodred die of his wounds. Even Grima had known the boy might have been saved, had he been brought to what few healers were left immediately, and kept in a room somewhat warmer than the icy halls of the King. A room like the blind woman's, his thoughts betrayed him. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. The blind woman was likely fled with them all, to Helmsdeep with her, and likely soon to be made into meat for the Uruk-hai. The thought gave him a moment's pause, a moment's concern, as it always did. And then he walked on.
The first time he had seen them, the army of thousands of fighting Uruk-hai, he had been astonished, afraid for the blind, kind lady of Rohan. He had known terror, then, and grief; not his usual sort of terror but fear for another, something entirely new to him. Also new were the cool tears that had tricked down his cheek; cool, yet still warm against his icy, clammy skin. Three tears, and then his sense of self-preservation had reasserted itself. Grima cared for no one, because no one cared for Grima, no matter what they said.
But he had known then, when he had seen the army of foulness, what would be come of the Rohirrim, of the Horse people. And he had known what would become of the White Lady of Rohan, beautiful and forbidding as the winter. And of the blue-eyed Liriel.
Grima shook the thoughts out of his head and shuffled on through the tower of Isengard. He moved, stooped and bunch-backed, through the Palantir room and towards the sanctuary of his own tiny den. At least with Saruman occupied with the battle he had time for a little rest, a little peace, to sooth his aching muscles and bones and try somehow to ease the ailments which always plagued him. He almost fancied, in a brief moment of uncharacteristic wistfulness, that he could hear Liriel's voice on the wind again, hear the soft sound of hot water pouring into a cup, usually some sort of exotic tea which never failed to warm and ease his body. And spirit, if it came to that, though he never liked to think about it. The simple act of being so at ease with another person made him very ill at ease itself. But he could still hear her voice…
The Palantir… it glowed.
He stared into it. It was forbidden to him, and with good reason, but his eyes were captivated by it all the same. It swirled and crackled with energy, the interior of it misting over with gray (unlike when Saruman gazed into it and summoned the flaming lidless eye). And then the mists parted to reveal a labyrinthine set of caves, and he suddenly knew where it was…. Below Helmsdeep.
"No…" he whispered, anticipating what he would see there. He could almost hear the sounds of the slaughter. "No… do not show me this… I beg you, do not show me this…" The Uruk-hai had not yet arrived at the underground caves but he knew it was only a matter of time. He had told Saruman how to breach the sanctuary. "Please… have mercy"
The heartless orb had none, but what came was not what he expected. The view wandered through the caves, as though searching for something, all the while still wreathed in mist. It finally came to rest on a familiar form, blood staining her lips and hair, lying wrapped in blankets on the ground and breathing shallowly, he saw. He saw more than he wanted to, in that regard. Grima had seen enough of death to know when it approached someone, and by the look of her she had barely a few breaths left. It must have been the flight from Edoras, though he could not imagine how the chill had taken her so quickly… and fever, by the hectic look in her bright blue eyes. "No…" he found himself whispering, hands on the table and practically nose to the Palantir (which was ice cold). "No… mercy, please…"
She coughed once. Blood spattered her lips. Her eyes opened slightly, her chest heaved once. And then she lay impossibly limp, impossibly still, her face suddenly appearing as any other sighted person's for the first time since he'd known her.
"No..." it came out in a choked whisper, although he no longer knew who he was trying to reach. "No, please... have pity..." The words tumbled over themselves, sobbing, heartbroken, and he never stopped to wonder at the oddness of it all. Grief wracked his body as the fever never had, and it had not yet occured to him how new these sensations were, except that he could have done without. He didn't think to wonder; he was beyond thought. Pounding the stone and marble table with weakened fists, whispering words over and over till they lost all sense and meaning. "No... mercy.. please... No..." But it was no use... "No... mercy... pity..." For that was exactly what the universe had given him... "No.. please..."
No .. mercy... please... no... No mercy