Chapter Twenty-Seven
Meduseld
Shadowfax had stopped. I lifted my head in time to see Mithrandir point. "Look!"
The mountains rose before us, snow-tipped and black-streaked, with the plains rolling up to them and around the small hills clustered at their base as if the grass wished to hold as much of its earth as possible. Valleys wound between the mountains, the widest of which opened in front of us. Within it my bleary eyes could glimpse a squat rock mass crowned by a tall peak that sparkled gold.
Mithrandir asked for a more detailed description from Legolas, and the Elf obliged. "A steam flows down from the snow, and from its mouth in the valleys shadow rises a green hill, encircled by a mighty wall. Inside are smaller houses and on the terrace stands a great hall, gold-roofed and with golden doorposts. These doors are guarded, but the rest within sleep still."
"The courts are called Edoras, and there is Meduseld, golden hall of Théoden King. With the rising of the day shall we come to it, but now our road lies clear before us. Legolas, I would guess that not all within Edoras sleep, so we must be wary when we ride: war is afoot in Rohan." With an injunction against drawing our weapons or speaking haughty words, he booted Shadowfax into a run.
The day lightened steadily: by the time we met the stream running down to the plains, the morning was bright around us. Fording the trickle, we urged our horses up the track that wound around the hill. At its foot, near the hill, were high grass lumps dotted with tiny white flowers. Mithrandir told us they were called simbelmyne, and grew only on graves.
Aragorn began to chant softly in Rohirric, and by the time he had finished, I could find the language in my head. Legolas remarked upon the quality of the language, and so milked a translation from Aragorn, who explained that the rhyme referred to Eorl the Young, who rode out of the North of his winged steed, Felarof.
We passed the silent grave-mounds and followed the winding way up to the walls of Edoras. At the gate, men bared our way with spears and demanded, in Rohirric, to know our business, glaring from under their helmets.
Mithrandir answered for all of us, also in Rohirric. I listened while he wrangled, glad that I understood the language. The guards did not like our looks, or the fact that we rode familiar horses. At their accusation that we were spies, Aragorn got involved, unleashing the full weight of his kingly sarcasm. As he did, the guards who had not spoken drew my attention. They were pointing. At me.
I knew what I must look like, with blood-soaked bandages on my right arm and leg, muddy boots, and half-healed slashes on my face. My hair hung lank and unwashed into my hood, and my clothes were in a similar state, except for the Elvish cloak, which remained defiantly pristine. I glared back at the men, who were now staring openly.
They snapped to attention, though, when Mithrandir demanded entrance once more. He'd stared down the spokesman, who now asked belligerently for our names to take to the Lord of the Mark.
"I am Gandalf," the wizard announced. "I have returned, and so has Shadowfax the Great, whom no other man may master. With me are Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of kings, who goes to Mundberg, and Firiel, the Lady of the White Tower, as well as Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, and Gimli Lock-bearer. Go now to Théoden King and tell him we will have speech with him, if he will permit us to come in."
The guard nearly tripped over himself agreeing, and disappeared inside the gate. His comrades really stared at me now, and I tried to look suitably regal.
Aragorn brought Hasufel alongside Shadowfax. "How fair you, my lady of the White Tower?" he asked quietly, voice warm with Elvish.
I ducked my head. "That title is not mine to bear, and well you know it." My words were directed equally at Ranger and wizard.
"Long has it been since I studied the laws of Gondor," Aragorn replied, "but I believe that, as widow (for so the handfasting makes you) you retain all property and titles due the wife of the Heir, unless you should marry again."
"Oh," I said in a very small voice. Mithrandir put a hand on my shoulder, and then the guard returned, telling us to follow him and leave our weapons with the door-wardens.
When the gates opened, we dismounted and followed the man in. Mithrandir switched his staff to his right hand and offered me his arm. I took it, staff in left hand. The path was broad enough to walk two abreast. It climbed up, passing many small houses. A stream ran alongside, bubbling up from a fountain at the top of the hill.
It was more of a terrace, really, with a stair going up and guards sitting at the top with drawn swords. Their armor was beautifully enameled, and their mail gleamed as brightly as their blond braids. They rose as we approached, and our escort made his departure.
Mithrandir and I took some time to get up the stairs, so the others ascended first. We all made it up, though. My leg did not like having to bear weight again, and it made my delirium worse. In front of my, Aragorn kept turning into Boromir, and it was all I could do to remind myself that he wasn't.
"Hail, wanders from afar!" The wardens' greeting startled me from my squinting. They tipped the pommels of their swords to us in greeting, and one man stepped forward to introduce himself as Háma, Théoden's doorward. Then he asked for our weapons.
Legolas offered his knife and archery equipment first, warning that they came from the Golden Wood and the Lady Galadriel. Háma lad them aside as if they burned him, and promised that no one would touch them.
Aragorn hesitated. "I would not willingly deliver Anduril into the hands of another."
Háma stood firm. "It is the will of Théoden King."
"It is not clear to me," the Ranger replied acerbically, "whether Théoden's will should prevail over that of Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Elendil's heir of Gondor."
"This is Théoden's house, not Aragorn's, even were he king of Gondor." Háma barred our way. His sword was still out, and the point now dipped toward us.
"This is needless talk," Mithrandir interjected. "As needless as Théoden's demand, but we need not refuse. In his own house, a man's will, be he peasant or prince, is law."
Aragorn nodded, trying to glare at the wizard with one eye while not taking the other off Háma and his sword. "Were this a charcoal-burner's hut, I would do what the master of the house bade me, did I bear any sword besides Anduril."
Háma would not budge. "I care not what its name may be. Here it stays, if you would not fight alone against all the king's household."
"Not alone!" I'd wondered when Gimli would get into the discussion. He fingered his axe, sizing Háma up.
"Come now!" Mithrandir tried once more to play peacemaker. "We are friends here, or should be. Here is my sword, good Háma. The Elves made it long ago and called it Glamdring. Now let me pass. Come, Aragorn."
The Ranger made a large show of undoing his belt and setting sword and scabbard against the wall, telling Háma in a brisk tone all about its lineage. The warden was suitably impressed. Gimli followed suit with his axe soon thereafter.
Aragorn tried to push past Háma, but the door-warden cleared his throat and would not move. The Ranger divested himself of bow and quiver, and tried again. No dice. Sighing, Aragorn handed over hunting knife and daggers from boot- and wrist-sheaths. I nearly laughed in amazement: the man was a walking arsenal.
Háma still hadn't moved. He looked past the three hunters to the two invalids in the company, for so Mithrandir had begun to pretend to be. I didn't need to pretend. "I must ask you to leave your staves also."
While the wizard made noises of protest and outrage, I met the door-warden's eyes. "I will not leave my staff. It too was a gift from the Lady Galadriel, and I have need of it now. As a crutch." He was blind if he could not see what was wrong with my leg.
Háma acquiesced, and turned to Mithrandir. "I am old," the wizard cut him off. "I too must lean on my staff, and if that is not permitted, then I shall sit here until it pleases Théoden King to hobble out himself to speak with me."
Aragorn took up for us, and Háma gave in under the concerted, if good-natured, browbeating. The guards unbarred the doors, which swung inward, and we entered.
Meduseld's air was warm, and scented with ancient smoke. The hall stretched long and wide, held up by carved pillars and lit by windows under the eaves and in the thatch.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I noticed the twining patterns in the floor tiles, patterns that seemed to travel up the pillars to the roof. Tapestries covered the walls, some new, some dark with smoke. A shaft of light fell upon one, depicting a man with flying blond hair seated on a rearing horse. Aragorn pointed him out to us. "Behold Eorl the Young, as he rode to battle from the North."
We proceeded past the hearth in the center of the hall. My leg was bearing up, but just barely. Mithrandir helped, and at some point I had reached within myself and found a reserve of strength shown only to those who have passed their last bastion of hope and still need to go on. I did not know what I would do when that strength ran out.
Past the brazier, we halted. At Meduseld's far end stood a dais, and on that dais stood a throne. On that throne slumped a wizened dwarf of a man whose long white hair fell over his circlet and shoulders. His beard straggled unkempt to his knees, but his eyes glittered as brightly as the diamond in his crown. So this was Théoden, Lord of the Mark.
Belatedly, I noticed the two figures beside him. They could not have been more different. A tall, blond woman, as pale as her white dress, stood behind the throne, and at the king's feet crouched a rat-like man with lank black hair.
No one spoke. The only sounds in the hall were the crackling of the fire and the king's labored breathing. At length, Mithrandir broke the silence. "Hail, Théoden son of Thengel! I have returned, bringing tidings of the coming storm. All allies should now gather together, lest they be destroyed one by one." 'If we do not hang together,' I thought, 'we shall most assuredly hang separately.'
The old king creaked slowly upright with the help of a cane. He was taller that I had realized, and must have been formidable in his younger days. "If you look for welcome," he rasped, "I greet you. But in truth your welcome is doubtful here, Master Gandalf. You are ever an herald of woe, with trouble at your heels. When Éomer brought tidings of your death, well, there was no mourning in Rohan. But here you come, with worse news than ever before, I warrant. Tell me, Stormcrow, why I should welcome you." He sank back into his throne.
'Rude old man,' I had time to think, before the creature at Théoden's feet spoke. "Just words, my lord," he began, his tone as oily as his hair. "Your son is not five days dead, and your nephew's traitorous intentions are now known." At this, the woman behind the king gasped, and gripped the back of the throne until her knuckles paled against the dark wood.
The greasy man ignored her, and continued. "From Gondor we hear that a Dark Lord now stirs in the East. There is ill news enough in Rohan without you, Stormcrow."
"Wise you are accounted, Wormtongue, and no doubt a great aid to your king." Mithrandir mocked his soft tone. "Yet a man may come with evil tidings in two ways: he may work evil, or he may come to help in evil times."
Wormtongue acquiesced. "A third kind there is also: a meddler, a carrion crow who grows fat in time of war. You bring no aid. Your last visit robbed us of Shadowfax. What will you take from us now, you and your four ragged friends in gray?"
"The courtesy of Meduseld is not what it once was," Mithrandir said, looking past Wormtongue. "Were you not told the names of your guests? Those who stand before you and the weapons they left at your door are worth many valorous men. Gray are their cloaks, for so the Elves clothed them in Lothlorien."
Again, Wormtongue answered for the king. "So you 'are' in league with the Sorceress of the Wood, as Éomer reported. Webs of lies and magic were ever made in Dwimordene."
Gimli stepped forward to defend his Lady; Mithrandir stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. The wizard had had enough. He removed his arm from mine, muttering under his breath, and...changed. Throwing aside his gray cloak, he held up his staff and spoke:
"The wise speak of what they know, Grima, Galmod's son. You are only a witless worm, so be silent and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to speak with you. The lightening strikes!"The wizard raised his staff, and the entire hall shook with crack of thunder. The windows darkened, and even the fire faded to embers.
But we could still see Mithrandir, tall in pristine white robes. Wormtongue yelped something about taking the wizard's staff away, and well he might, for said staff flashed and sent him sprawling to the floor, silent.
"Now will you hearken to me, Théoden King?" Mithrandir inquired, lifting his staff again. Light returned to one window. "Not all is dark. Take courage, lord, step out and look at your land. You have sat in the shadows too long."
Théoden rose stiffly, and as he did, the light returned. The woman behind the throne came forward and took the king's arm, helping him through the hall. Wormtongue remained where he was. When the king and his escort neared the doors, Mithrandir knocked, proclaiming, "The Lord of the Mark comes forth!"
When everyone watched him, I hobbled to catch up with my companions. On my laborious way to the door, Théoden's blond companion passed me on her way back inside. Apparently, her support was no longer required. She stopped a little past me and looked back, and her resemblance to my sister struck me like a runaway semi. Amy's hair was dark, of course, like mine, but after Mom's death, when she was the only one there to care for Dad, her mouth had pinched like that, into a dutiful frown that told the world her to-do list was far too long. This woman-she could not have been much older than me-had eyes only for Aragorn, and, unlike Amy's, her eyes dared to hope.
I did not know what to make of it, so I continued limping out onto the terrace, arriving in time to see the king throw down his walking stick and straighten to his full height. The years seemed to fall away from him; he no longer appeared ninety or more, and I would have put his age at a dignified sixty-five.
The view from the terrace took my eyes from Théoden's transformation by virtue of sheer beauty. Sheets of rain fell over the verdant plains in curtains of silver-gray, but the storm had already begun to recede southward. The sun had split the clouds behind us, and not even the high wind could rob us of the light.
"My dreams have been dark," the king was saying, "but now I have awakened. I would you had come sooner, Gandalf, for Meduseld shall not stand long now, and fire shall devour the high seat. What shall we do?"
'Well,' I thought, 'so much for hope,' but Mithrandir, as always, had a plan. "First, send for Éomer," he said, "for did Wormtongue not bid you hold him captive?"
Théoden admitted that he had, since Éomer had disobeyed his commands and threatened Wormtongue's life. Mithrandir dismissed this, saying that loving the king and loving Wormtongue were two different things. Théoden capitulated and sent Háma to fetch Éomer. And then he smiled. Lines smoothed from his face, and I saw that he must have been handsome in his youth.
The wizard led Théoden to one of the guards' seats, and we stood nearby, or leaned, in my case. Mithrandir sat in front of the king and spoke quietly to him for a long time. I guessed that he was apprising Théoden of the situation in Mordor and elsewhere, but some of it must have been good news, because a gleam grew in the king's eye. When the wizard finished, both rose and looked to the east, speaking together of Frodo's journey. And hope.
I joined the others in looking eastward, but I could not see to Mordor of even to Minas Tirth. Disappointed in spite of the beautiful vista I 'could' see, I wondered if it might be all right to sit in the king's presence, if one were in great pain. Somehow, I didn't think so, so I gritted my teeth against the biting wind and told my leg it'd have to bear up a bit longer.
King Théoden sank into his seat at last, his weariness threatening to return. "Alas," he said, looking back at the hall, "that these evil days should be mine, instead of the peace I have earned in my old age." His eyes fell on me, and he half-whispered, "Alas also for Boromir the brave! The young perish and the old are left to wither." His wrinkled hands convulsed on his knees, and I wanted to go to him very badly, but fear of losing my balance and falling to my death kept me from moving.
"Your hands would remember their strength better if they held a sword," Mithrandir observed, almost offhand.
Théoden stood and reached for a sword that no longer hung by his side. "Where has Grima put it," I heard him mutter.
"Take mine, dear lord," a familiar voice said from the stairs. "It has ever served you." Éomer stood there, looking considerably worse than the last time I'd seen him, and wearing only a shirt and breeches. But he was grinning, and now knelt to offer his sword, hilt first, to the king.
When Théoden stood and demanded to know how this had happened, Éomer and Háma could only stare at him for a long moment. I suppose he looked quite different from the decrepit creature they had last seen.
At last Háma found his voice and admitted that he had understood Éomer was to be set free, and so he had given him back Gúthwinë, his sword.
"Only to lay it at your feet, lord," Éomer reassured his uncle, still proffering the hilt.
Théoden looked as if he did not know what to do, and only stared at Éomer until Mithrandir prodded, "Will you not take the sword?"
Tentatively the king reached out and took it. Suddenly his arm seemed able to hold it, and he proved this by swinging it through the air in the blur of a pattern dance. Éomer nearly tripped on the stairs backing up from the whirr that was his own blade. Théoden raised his voice in a war-chant, a call to arms.
The guards from the gate joined Éomer on the stairs, following his lead by laying their swords at the king's feet, crying as one for Théoden to command them. He sent Háma for his sword, gave Éomer's back, and embraced his nephew. Motioning Éomer to a seat beside him, the king asked Mithrandir for his counsel.
"You have already taken it by trusting in Éomer instead of Wormtongue," the wizard replied. "Now you must remove the threat of Saruman. Send every warrior that can ride west at once, and those who cannot should make for Dunharrow, taking only what provisions they need to that refuge."
Théoden nodded and dispatched guards to tell everyone to get ready. He then offered us hospitality, or at least a bed for the night. I wondered if it was a good time to ask for a horse to take to Gondor, and sidled closer to the king's seat so as to be in a good position to do so.
Aragorn spoiled my plans by saying we must ride today, refusing even a night's rest, so I decided I'd wait for a more opportune moment. Éomer clapped the Ranger on the shoulder, still grinning. It was my turn to grin when Mithrandir burst his bubble.
"Isengard is strong," the wizard cautioned, "and there are other perils." He addressed the king. "Do not delay in leading your people to the hills."
Théoden declared that he would ride to war himself, which was met with much rejoicing all 'round, but everyone shut up when the hall doors swung open and out came Wormtongue, in Háma's custody. The guard also carried the king's sword, which he returned to him.
There followed a long discussion concerning what was to be done about Wormtongue. Feeling myself begin to slip in and out of consciousness, I tried to concentrate on the words as a means of keeping myself in this world. It nearly worked, but they were a long time in deciding. The obsequious Grima alternated between declaring his innocence and calling Mithrandir and the king liars as they listed his crimes. Even Éomer got in on the action: apparently Grima had been stalking his sister, Éowyn.
I could no longer feel my arm or my leg by the time Mithrandir accused the oily counselor of working for Saruman. I was glad for the relief from pain, but at the same time horribly frightened that I would never regain that feeling. Vaguely aware that the king had offered Wormtongue a choice: to ride to war in his service, or to leave Rohan forever, I watched the stooped man gather himself in front of Théoden, barely five feet away from me.
Hands flexing as though he would strangle his former master, Wormtongue glared, eyes darting everywhere. He apparently thought better of violence, though, and only spit at the king's feet. The crowd gasped in collective outrage, but he darted for the stairs.
Éomer would have grabbed the spiteful worm, but he dodged out of the Warden's grasp, directly in front of me. Swearing when I could not move out of his way fast enough, Grima barreled into me.
My staff flew from my hands as I stumbled, tripping on the stone flags, falling backwards. My head cracked on the tiles, fireworks of pain sparkled behind my eyes, and I knew no more.