Chapter Four: A Man Forsaken (III. 3010)
Water dripped off of her hood, soaked through her clothes, slicking her already cold skin. It poured off of the horse, its eyes were pitiful and seemed to beg her to find somewhere dry and warm and full of grain. She apologized quietly, its ear swiveled around to her whisper. It had been raining nonstop for the past two days, and the novelty of this sort of precipitation had worn thin about two hundred years ago. Thunder echoes through the valley, rolled through the hills and rocks and marshy, muddy ground, through her heart and mind. She lifted her head slightly, looking to Edoras. She would be there in an hour.
~
Gríma stood at the window in his chambers, looking out across the landscape. The rain was nonstop for two nights, bringing with it a wet chill he didn't care for. Something in him desired dry heat, the sun and the way it tingled on his pale flesh. Delicious. But even if there were sun, he would not have allowed himself to make a spectacle out of himself standing beneath it. He felt ridiculous doing most things, very ill at ease in all aspects of his life. He was equally unsure of this prophesy Curunír had shared with him. It seemed too perfect to come to pass.
His thoughts spiraled out of control and his mind plummeted into more fantasy. All the promises of the Istari, if he betrayed his people. They were not his people, Curunír had reasoned, and Gríma knew that this was true. By bloodline, perhaps he was Rohirrim. But nothing more. His mind dwelled in far away lands.
He was a young man in the lives of the Éorlingas, a mere thirty six. Before he had come to the position of advisor to the king, the other men had mocked him. And surely, they still did, but behind his back and in spiteful whispers. His skin was smooth and waxen, pure as the fresh winter snows. The Riders would tell him he looked as an ugly maid, with his shaven face and spotless hands. That was the most gentle of the harassment he was forced to endure. Many of the men who had mocked him had been slain by Uruk- hai, though, and that tugged at the corners of his lips, making Gríma smile whenever the thought flittered across his tired mind. They would all die soon enough.
~
Lómëí wiped the water from her eyes, out of her eyelashes. There was someone standing at a window in Meduseld, watching her. And there were several guards at the doors, slouched under the eves of the Golden Hall. Her vision under light was only slightly better than a mortal, her true gift of the keen Elvish sight was at night. She could discern enough of the goings-on in Edoras, though, to be at ease and hope for some kind of rest. After being in the wild nearly two weeks, she was exhausted and weary of the weather. The prospect of dry, mud-free clothes and someone else preparing her meals was dreadfully alluring, even if she was bidden to not step into Rohan. It had been a long while since she had last been in those lands.
The person in the window became clearer. Clad in black, pale as death. He was ink on a scroll, a crow resting in snow, a mourner. What or whom the man mourned, she did not know.
Many of the Rohirrim dressed in dark clothing, but there was something in his trappings that surpassed mere black. With a start, her tired brain began to make connexions. And then he was gone.
~
He pulled himself out of his reverie and noticed the rider approaching the gates of the city, moving slowly and deliberately. The face was turned up and for a moment he felt the stranger looking directly into his eyes. It was quite disconcerting, he shifted on his feet and watched the individual's slow procession forth. Visitors in Meduseld would herald danger to he and his dark intentions. Gríma was yet extremely conscious of this. He would have to instruct Hámá to send them away.
The kings' young advisor turned from the window like a shadow from candle, slithering down the stone halls. His velvet robes swayed and whispered around him, footsteps echoing every so slightly. The Riders were not in the city today, they were. doing whatever it is the burly, mindless, stubbled creatures desired to do. Hunting? Gríma secretly scoffed at them. A host of several dozen men versus one frightened beast was no sport.
His attention was reclaimed when he heard other footfalls arguing with his own, his eyes snapped up immediately. The stranger stood before him, came to a halt as he did. The hood pulled back, then a veil, revealing the delicate features of a woman. Her hair was pleated in many small brown braids, water dripped from the ends of them. Her eyebrows and eyelashes clung together from the moisture, her lips were as pale as her cheeks.
~
She came to a full stop in front of the man, who appeared to have been the window-watcher. There was something keenly lovely but strange about him; yet dark, dangerous, brooding. He examined her behind ghostly blue eyes, curious. She had not seen a Rohirrim dress in velvet since. Her breath seemed to evacuate her lungs entirely, without her command. Confusion swept through her wander-weary and sleep deprived mind.
"Haldanor!" She exclaimed, stepped closer to him.
~
The woman called the name of his grandfather. Gríma was shocked by few things, but a strange woman with dark hair and an Elvish air about her calling the name of his dead forefather sent him reeling.
"That was my grandfather." He stood taller, pushing his shoulders back. For the first time in his life, he felt as though he towered over someone. The woman was quite small, delicate, meek. One look into her gray eyes told him her disposition was not to match.
"Of course. Ays." She faltered, still peered at him quizzically. "Gálmód's son?"
"Verily, m'lady."
She was the Elven maiden, of course! His father had told him many stories. Gálmód himself had only met her three times. In his youth, before memory could form. Then when he was fourteen. And one last time when he came of age. She had brought something from the deep south with her, that Haldanor and she had found, something that was to be an heirloom of their lineage. It had passed on to Gríma many seasons ago. He was incredulous, had believed his father somewhat mad. (Of course, in his latter years he had been quite ill.)
"What do you search for in Rohan?" He began to walk around her, drinking her with his eyes. He had never seen an Elf, and surely had never expected to meet the strange Southron half-breed that his forefathers had spoken of. His robes swished as he stepped, close to her.
She felt the folds of his clothes pass by her and was reminded of what it was like to wear dry garb. He stood close to her, Lómëí sensed his warmth through her own chills. "I search for nothing, but I have found you."
He pulled away from her slightly and for the second time in one day was taken aback. His lips moved to form words but none came out, only a tiny laugh. His eyebrows raised and a genuine, harmless smile washed over his face.
The woman reached into a leather sack she carried under her arm, pulled forth a scroll bearing the white seal of Isengard. "So it is for two reasons I am fortuitous that our paths have crossed." She handed the message to Gríma, who took it in a shaking hand.
"Do you know for what reason Saruman sends this?" He hid it in the depths of his velvet, still walking in circles around Lómëí.
"No, my lord. I have no interests in the business of the Istari."
"You are not the least bit curious?" He whispered into her ear. His breath on her cold skin sent shivers through her, but it was not entirely unpleasant.
"Not in the least. Curunír broods in Orthanc, garbed in his white, surrounded by blackness. I care not for his designs, or whom he conspires with. Tis not my concern." She turned to face him, both of their eyes flared. She traced the outline of his velvet sleeve with two fingers, enjoying the softness and the look of surprise on his pale face. He was much more reserved than Haldanor, there was something wonderfully endearing about it.
"Then you are a better courier than I could ever make." His smile faded as she toyed with his clothing, his breath quickened. He wanted to pull away, her gray gaze pierced through him like an arrow.
"You have strength in your blood, Gríma, do not deny it. To yourself, least of all. You have a strong sense of fate and an active roll in shaping that fate." Her fingers found their way to his cheek, brushing against it so slightly he was not sure if she had really touched him or merely hovered over his flesh. He did not speak, stood perfectly still and watched her. It had been so many years since someone spoke tenderly to him and he absorbed her kind words, storing them deep within his heart.
She was amazed at how alike yet dissimilar Haldanor and Gríma were. The grandfather had been openly adventurous, almost child-like in his innocence and fascination with things, outgoing but quiet. The man that now stood before her, making an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact. He was yet young, but she sensed a smoldering passion under that apprehensive face, a soul that someday would burn with the fury of a man forsaken.
Their eyes met, pale blue battling steely gray. Neither faltered and she was even more confident in her assessment. They stood in the same position, scrutinizing one another, each immersed in their own private contemplations.
A shock of lightening flashed disconcertingly close to Meduseld, thunder immediately rolling over them. The scent of ozone filled the hall, mingled with burning candles and the faint odor of the stew that was being prepared.
"I must be leaving, my lord. I shall spend the night at a boarding house here in Edoras, perhaps rest here several days." A mischievous look danced behind her flat expression.
"Yes, indeed." He backed into the shadows once more and with a swishing of black velvet, was gone.
[Disclaimer: I'm aware that I not Tolkien and never will be.]
[Author's notes:
Thank you Ms Bibbit! Yes, the internet is quite distracting, I've found, as well. I get easily side-tracked so it's very trying to my nature to finish this story.
And thank you to Elfsheen, as well. Yes, Gálmód's pesonality is going to match the name. I've had some trouble reconciling how I feel Gríma's father would behave, with what the name means. But I hope I have a found a way. It will be coming up soon in another chapter.
In case anyone is wondering, "Lómëí" is butchered Quenya. "Lómë"= night, twilight, darkness, dusk. Í= female. The proper Quenya ending for female would be "ní" I believe but I wanted it to not be entirely Elf. Hence, I basically want the translation to read "Woman of the darkness" to elude to her clothes and hair, as well as her motherland of Harad, which is regarded with some (okay, a lot) of distrust and suspicion from the Free Peoples of Middle earth.]
Resources: Of course, "The Lord of the Rings", "Asea Aranion" http://www.geocities.com/reto_steffen/eqq.html , and the Encyclopedia of Arda
Some notes on names/spelling: Curunír is the Elvish name for Saruman. Ays: Elvish, "yes". I'm not spelling "Aye" wrong. :)
Water dripped off of her hood, soaked through her clothes, slicking her already cold skin. It poured off of the horse, its eyes were pitiful and seemed to beg her to find somewhere dry and warm and full of grain. She apologized quietly, its ear swiveled around to her whisper. It had been raining nonstop for the past two days, and the novelty of this sort of precipitation had worn thin about two hundred years ago. Thunder echoes through the valley, rolled through the hills and rocks and marshy, muddy ground, through her heart and mind. She lifted her head slightly, looking to Edoras. She would be there in an hour.
~
Gríma stood at the window in his chambers, looking out across the landscape. The rain was nonstop for two nights, bringing with it a wet chill he didn't care for. Something in him desired dry heat, the sun and the way it tingled on his pale flesh. Delicious. But even if there were sun, he would not have allowed himself to make a spectacle out of himself standing beneath it. He felt ridiculous doing most things, very ill at ease in all aspects of his life. He was equally unsure of this prophesy Curunír had shared with him. It seemed too perfect to come to pass.
His thoughts spiraled out of control and his mind plummeted into more fantasy. All the promises of the Istari, if he betrayed his people. They were not his people, Curunír had reasoned, and Gríma knew that this was true. By bloodline, perhaps he was Rohirrim. But nothing more. His mind dwelled in far away lands.
He was a young man in the lives of the Éorlingas, a mere thirty six. Before he had come to the position of advisor to the king, the other men had mocked him. And surely, they still did, but behind his back and in spiteful whispers. His skin was smooth and waxen, pure as the fresh winter snows. The Riders would tell him he looked as an ugly maid, with his shaven face and spotless hands. That was the most gentle of the harassment he was forced to endure. Many of the men who had mocked him had been slain by Uruk- hai, though, and that tugged at the corners of his lips, making Gríma smile whenever the thought flittered across his tired mind. They would all die soon enough.
~
Lómëí wiped the water from her eyes, out of her eyelashes. There was someone standing at a window in Meduseld, watching her. And there were several guards at the doors, slouched under the eves of the Golden Hall. Her vision under light was only slightly better than a mortal, her true gift of the keen Elvish sight was at night. She could discern enough of the goings-on in Edoras, though, to be at ease and hope for some kind of rest. After being in the wild nearly two weeks, she was exhausted and weary of the weather. The prospect of dry, mud-free clothes and someone else preparing her meals was dreadfully alluring, even if she was bidden to not step into Rohan. It had been a long while since she had last been in those lands.
The person in the window became clearer. Clad in black, pale as death. He was ink on a scroll, a crow resting in snow, a mourner. What or whom the man mourned, she did not know.
Many of the Rohirrim dressed in dark clothing, but there was something in his trappings that surpassed mere black. With a start, her tired brain began to make connexions. And then he was gone.
~
He pulled himself out of his reverie and noticed the rider approaching the gates of the city, moving slowly and deliberately. The face was turned up and for a moment he felt the stranger looking directly into his eyes. It was quite disconcerting, he shifted on his feet and watched the individual's slow procession forth. Visitors in Meduseld would herald danger to he and his dark intentions. Gríma was yet extremely conscious of this. He would have to instruct Hámá to send them away.
The kings' young advisor turned from the window like a shadow from candle, slithering down the stone halls. His velvet robes swayed and whispered around him, footsteps echoing every so slightly. The Riders were not in the city today, they were. doing whatever it is the burly, mindless, stubbled creatures desired to do. Hunting? Gríma secretly scoffed at them. A host of several dozen men versus one frightened beast was no sport.
His attention was reclaimed when he heard other footfalls arguing with his own, his eyes snapped up immediately. The stranger stood before him, came to a halt as he did. The hood pulled back, then a veil, revealing the delicate features of a woman. Her hair was pleated in many small brown braids, water dripped from the ends of them. Her eyebrows and eyelashes clung together from the moisture, her lips were as pale as her cheeks.
~
She came to a full stop in front of the man, who appeared to have been the window-watcher. There was something keenly lovely but strange about him; yet dark, dangerous, brooding. He examined her behind ghostly blue eyes, curious. She had not seen a Rohirrim dress in velvet since. Her breath seemed to evacuate her lungs entirely, without her command. Confusion swept through her wander-weary and sleep deprived mind.
"Haldanor!" She exclaimed, stepped closer to him.
~
The woman called the name of his grandfather. Gríma was shocked by few things, but a strange woman with dark hair and an Elvish air about her calling the name of his dead forefather sent him reeling.
"That was my grandfather." He stood taller, pushing his shoulders back. For the first time in his life, he felt as though he towered over someone. The woman was quite small, delicate, meek. One look into her gray eyes told him her disposition was not to match.
"Of course. Ays." She faltered, still peered at him quizzically. "Gálmód's son?"
"Verily, m'lady."
She was the Elven maiden, of course! His father had told him many stories. Gálmód himself had only met her three times. In his youth, before memory could form. Then when he was fourteen. And one last time when he came of age. She had brought something from the deep south with her, that Haldanor and she had found, something that was to be an heirloom of their lineage. It had passed on to Gríma many seasons ago. He was incredulous, had believed his father somewhat mad. (Of course, in his latter years he had been quite ill.)
"What do you search for in Rohan?" He began to walk around her, drinking her with his eyes. He had never seen an Elf, and surely had never expected to meet the strange Southron half-breed that his forefathers had spoken of. His robes swished as he stepped, close to her.
She felt the folds of his clothes pass by her and was reminded of what it was like to wear dry garb. He stood close to her, Lómëí sensed his warmth through her own chills. "I search for nothing, but I have found you."
He pulled away from her slightly and for the second time in one day was taken aback. His lips moved to form words but none came out, only a tiny laugh. His eyebrows raised and a genuine, harmless smile washed over his face.
The woman reached into a leather sack she carried under her arm, pulled forth a scroll bearing the white seal of Isengard. "So it is for two reasons I am fortuitous that our paths have crossed." She handed the message to Gríma, who took it in a shaking hand.
"Do you know for what reason Saruman sends this?" He hid it in the depths of his velvet, still walking in circles around Lómëí.
"No, my lord. I have no interests in the business of the Istari."
"You are not the least bit curious?" He whispered into her ear. His breath on her cold skin sent shivers through her, but it was not entirely unpleasant.
"Not in the least. Curunír broods in Orthanc, garbed in his white, surrounded by blackness. I care not for his designs, or whom he conspires with. Tis not my concern." She turned to face him, both of their eyes flared. She traced the outline of his velvet sleeve with two fingers, enjoying the softness and the look of surprise on his pale face. He was much more reserved than Haldanor, there was something wonderfully endearing about it.
"Then you are a better courier than I could ever make." His smile faded as she toyed with his clothing, his breath quickened. He wanted to pull away, her gray gaze pierced through him like an arrow.
"You have strength in your blood, Gríma, do not deny it. To yourself, least of all. You have a strong sense of fate and an active roll in shaping that fate." Her fingers found their way to his cheek, brushing against it so slightly he was not sure if she had really touched him or merely hovered over his flesh. He did not speak, stood perfectly still and watched her. It had been so many years since someone spoke tenderly to him and he absorbed her kind words, storing them deep within his heart.
She was amazed at how alike yet dissimilar Haldanor and Gríma were. The grandfather had been openly adventurous, almost child-like in his innocence and fascination with things, outgoing but quiet. The man that now stood before her, making an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact. He was yet young, but she sensed a smoldering passion under that apprehensive face, a soul that someday would burn with the fury of a man forsaken.
Their eyes met, pale blue battling steely gray. Neither faltered and she was even more confident in her assessment. They stood in the same position, scrutinizing one another, each immersed in their own private contemplations.
A shock of lightening flashed disconcertingly close to Meduseld, thunder immediately rolling over them. The scent of ozone filled the hall, mingled with burning candles and the faint odor of the stew that was being prepared.
"I must be leaving, my lord. I shall spend the night at a boarding house here in Edoras, perhaps rest here several days." A mischievous look danced behind her flat expression.
"Yes, indeed." He backed into the shadows once more and with a swishing of black velvet, was gone.
[Disclaimer: I'm aware that I not Tolkien and never will be.]
[Author's notes:
Thank you Ms Bibbit! Yes, the internet is quite distracting, I've found, as well. I get easily side-tracked so it's very trying to my nature to finish this story.
And thank you to Elfsheen, as well. Yes, Gálmód's pesonality is going to match the name. I've had some trouble reconciling how I feel Gríma's father would behave, with what the name means. But I hope I have a found a way. It will be coming up soon in another chapter.
In case anyone is wondering, "Lómëí" is butchered Quenya. "Lómë"= night, twilight, darkness, dusk. Í= female. The proper Quenya ending for female would be "ní" I believe but I wanted it to not be entirely Elf. Hence, I basically want the translation to read "Woman of the darkness" to elude to her clothes and hair, as well as her motherland of Harad, which is regarded with some (okay, a lot) of distrust and suspicion from the Free Peoples of Middle earth.]
Resources: Of course, "The Lord of the Rings", "Asea Aranion" http://www.geocities.com/reto_steffen/eqq.html , and the Encyclopedia of Arda
Some notes on names/spelling: Curunír is the Elvish name for Saruman. Ays: Elvish, "yes". I'm not spelling "Aye" wrong. :)