A/N: Regarding Theoden's thoughts while under Saruman's spell.

Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously. And I'm not making any money out of it.

Brush of a White Hand

Dark have been my dreams of late.

When did the Golden Hall lose its glory?

It seems only yesterday, when the essence of a White Hand brushed against my lids and the light faded. I thought little of it at first, considering this a result of a failing eyesight, of my age and burden. But my mind soon became clouded like my eyes, incapable of holding on to a single thought. My sleep became troubled, as in every dream I found myself falling deeper and deeper into the darkness of the world, deep inside the pits of Madness.

And then came the Voice.

A faithful servant came to me through the haze of the world, his shoulders an anchor for my uncertain grasp. More than a servant and an advisor, he became a treasured friend at this hour of need. At first he whispered to me words of comfort, soothing my worries, easing my sleep at night. His voice was the only star in my night, as the fear of losing my sanity still teased my heart; but he would always be there to assure me that everything was in order.

Everything was at it should be. He would look to it.

But my illness advanced, despite his best efforts. Soon I could no longer tell night from day, for my world had taken on an ashen shade. I watched through my veiled eyes shadows moving, shadows of people I once knew and loved, of my family and kin. My son, my sister-son, my sister-daughter; all were nothing more than memories of a past life. Their words reached my head through the wailing storm that raged in my ears, the distant echoes of thunder and lightning. They spoke, but I could not hear anything but broken words and muffled phrases.

Perhaps because their words were false.

His words echoed like crystal chimes in the wind, reaching my heart with loving light. If the others cared for me, they would find a way to reach me in the mists, as he did. But I suspected that they all plotted against me, weaving their schemes to steal the glory of Rohan. I shut their words out, sheltering myself to the comfort of my gray existence. And he kept them at bay, guarding me from all harm.

But still I dreamt of falling.

And then came the time when I could no longer tell dream from wake, when with every breath I fell deeper into the depths of world and time, deep in my dark dreams, where there was no pain, no burden, no life.

Until another White Hand reached in and grasped me, and pulled me out of my colorless prison. And the grey vanished and I gazed upon the glory of the Golden Hall once more, upon my sister-daughter's tears and the empty seat of my son. There was pain here and burden and sorrow, but this would be of my choosing.

Not of the poison of a forked-tongued sycophant.

The Lord of the Mark comes forth!