Disclaimer: And with the strength of ten thousand tree frogs, Blue Kat climbed the mountain, and upon reaching the summit, raised her hands on high and proclaimed for all to hear:

"I…DON'T…OWN…ANYTHIIIING!"

And there was much rejoicing.

(This disclaimer was brought to you by reading too much Shakespeare for English and too much time with the Bible in Religion class.)

A/N: Sorry about that guys. This chapter has been ready since yesterday, but something went wrong with ff.net and my web documents were tracking my changes and I couldn't delete them (or Chapter 26 without deleting the entire story), so I basically had to rewrite the chapter into a new document. Sorry!

Woo hoo! I got flamed! My first flame…(sniff)…so special…my little ficlet is growing up. No seriously, I've never laughed so hard in my life. Flames really don't bother me—I write because I love to. It's not a question of whether everyone likes my work or not. To my anonymous flamer, thank you for making me laugh until I couldn't breathe.

And in other news, I think I broke my toe again (ran into the bookcase this time) and I have an ear infection.

My great-aunt passed away on Friday, March 14, and if you could say a prayer or something for my family, I'd really appreciate it. Thank you.

Chapter Twenty-Six

What I saw next I would later describe as similar to an exorcism with the absence of projectile vomiting and spinning heads (thankfully). Théoden lunged forward with an unnatural amount of strength from one so weary with age. A menacing snarl escaped his withered lips while contempt burned in his eyes. Gandalf raised his staff and shoved it at the old man, forcing him back into his seat. There was a tremendous jolt of power that could only be described as electric as Gandalf stood above the King, his forehead creased in concentration as he cast his spell. Suddenly, everything stopped, and the room seemed to grow lighter, dissolving whatever evil had previously occupied the hall to nothing but empty air. Théoden slowly leaned forward on his throne in defeat, his thin frame seeming to strain as he drew a few shallow breaths. The woman Aragorn restrained earlier rushed to his side, her soft amber eyes reflecting worry and concern.

As the King slowly regained his balance, the age that had wreaked havoc on his appearance slowly began to melt away. The wrinkles that lined his forehead and collected at the corners of his eyes faded and smoothed into delicate lines, his grievous expression becoming a faint memory. His hair grew darker, shedding its ancient mask of white for a steely grey within moments. The hunched position his back and shoulders had taken slowly became less noticeable while his hands lost their claw-like appearance and regained their sturdy, powerful nature. And while all these transformations took place, life began to spark in his empty eyes and his gaze became less clouded as his ferocious blue eyes brightened, regaining that bite that had been lost for so long.

As he looked around the hall in awe and mild confusion, his gaze fell upon the young women kneeling at his side. His forehead crinkled in concentration as he looked at her face, seemingly attempting to recall a distant memory that had been lost for years.

"I know your face," he said at last, his voice much stronger than it had been just moments before, but still rough from neglect. The woman's eyes flickered with hope, silently begging for just a sliver of recognition as he furrowed his brow in concentration. Suddenly, his features relaxed and a soft smile began to form upon his lips. "Éowyn…Éowyn…" he murmured, stroking her ivory cheek gently. The woman's (who I assumed was called Éowyn) face lit up at the sound of her name, crystal tears of joy brimming in her eyes.

Gandalf decided to make an entrance at that moment, thus interrupting the reunion between the King and Éowyn as he stepped forward, his eyes sparkling with happiness. 

"Gandalf?" Théoden asked, staring up at the wizard blearily.

"Breathe the free air again, my friend," Gandalf replied benevolently, smiling down at him. I was seriously thinking about saying something about the smell in the hall, but Aragorn was watching me like a hawk and it seemed like he wouldn't hesitate to pounce on me the moment I said something. I decided it was safer to keep my mouth shut for the time being.

"Dark my dreams have been of late," murmured Théoden rubbing his temples gently.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better…if they grasped your sword," Gandalf advised ominously. Théoden seemed to contemplate this as a guard came forward, carrying the weapon carefully. It was quite a piece of work, beautifully crafted of fine materials, but it had obviously been left unused for many years, gathering dust and tarnishing slightly at the edges. Théoden took the sword in his hand, fitting the metal in his callused palm. As he held the blade gently in the air, the color slowly returned to his face and the slight hunch in his back disappeared entirely. He seemed to glow with health and royalty.

I need a sword like that… I thought to myself as I marveled at what would have most likely been hailed as a miracle in the 21st century.

Théoden looked around the hall confidently, appearing more kingly and valiant as his eyes flickered over his surroundings, his lips curved into a small half-smile.

Then his gaze fell upon Wormtongue.

*

The best part was when they threw him down the stairs.

"I've only ever served you, my lord!" Wormtongue screeched pathetically, cowering on the ground.

"Your witchcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!" spat Théoden angrily. Bitterness and hatred swarmed in his icy eyes, and it was evident that the true king in him had returned.

"Send me not from your side!" the leech begged. Théoden raised his sword. His face was filled with bloodlust and rage, and it was quite eivdent that his revenge would be in the death of Grima Wormtongue. My muscles tensed and my heartbeat quickened as his sword gleamed in the sunlight, ready for its deadly enterprise. Battle was familiar to me—something I had to accept in order to survive—and I knew that some goodness would come of my actions, considering the nature of my foes. But murder was different, and even though Wormtongue deserved such a fate, I knew that I couldn't witness it without being confronted by ghastly images later.

"No, my lord!" exclaimed Aragorn suddenly, stepping forward just as I prepared to shut my eyes and cover my ears. Everyone seemed to relax slightly as Aragorn lived up to his role as hero. "Enough blood has been spilled on his account." I exhaled softly as my muscles relaxed, knowing that Aragorn had a very valid point that even a king (even one completely set on going on a Lizzie Borden trip) could not ignore.

Even if Théoden had decided to kill Grima right then and there, despite Aragorn's protest, the act would have had to been postponed, as Wormtongue took advantage of the King's distraction and bolted.

"Get out of my way!" he shouted, running blindly through the crowd.

"And take a shower! Just because you're evil doesn't excuse you from bathing!" I shouted after him as he rode off on a dark horse. Many eyes turned on me, most showing signs of mild confusion and annoyance. Aragorn gave me a look that seemed to say that whacking me over the head with Théoden's sword might not be such a bad idea. Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli didn't look too surprised, but then again, they'd had over three months of non-stop me. I suppose Aragorn felt most responsible for my actions.

"Hail, Théoden, King!" Aragorn shouted quickly after my outburst, either out of respect for the King or for a diversion. I'm guessing the latter. Either way, it seemed to work, as everyone kneeled in response (of course, I had no idea what was going on, so I was one of the last people to kneel down. Why they couldn't salute him instead was beyond me).

"Where is Théodred?" Théoden asked immediately after we had all risen. "Where is my son?"

There was a hush as Théoden looked around, an expectant half-smile on his lips. His smile turned to one of confusion after a moment complete silence. I looked at the somber faces in the crowd. Something had happened.

Éowyn finally stepped forward and took Théoden's hand in hers.

"Your son is dead, my lord," she said slowly and quietly, a lone tear running down her cheek.

The pain-filled cry that had escaped his lips once he heard the news was enough to break my heart. I wasn't used to seeing a grown man cry, let alone weep so copiously. His proud form seemed to crumple as he slowly sank down, making the next few moments completely chaotic as guards rushed to attend the grieving King. I looked down at my feet, trying to show respect.

I was roughly jolted aside a few minutes later as a throng of guards led the King back into the hall. Gandalf, being the important wizard that he is was included in this crowd, supporting Théoden's weeping form, leaving me, Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn to fend for ourselves. I stood dumbstruck with the others on the steps, feeling helpless and confused.

"You—you must be weary from travel," Éowyn said finally from where she had quietly been standing, seemingly forgotten by Théoden and his attendants for the time being. She discreetly wiped tears from her cheek before continuing. "I shall see to it that you are attended upon." She stood up straight, her petite figure suddenly seeming powerful, and pasted an unreadable expression upon her delicate features. She lightly ascended the steps, her white gown flowing gently behind her.

As I followed her with the others, I was able to observe her more closely. Long honey-colored hair hung in soft waves down her back, beautifully kept, shining softly in the light. Her face was round, glowing with a soft feminine warmth, gentleness, and compassion. Yet the way she carried herself seemed contradictory to the cherubic nature of her expression—her back was straight, her head held high, quietly demanding the respect of others. There was a subtle streak of independence glinting in her eyes that went beyond her pretty face and seemingly docile manner. She was not, I concluded, simply a pretty princess. Éowyn had her own hidden agenda and I was sure it would be quite awhile before I caught onto it.

She led us past the hall and through several corridors before coming to what I assumed was close to the servants' quarters.

"Celia," she said to a grey-haired matron descending a staircase with an empty laundry basket resting against her hip. "Please escort this young lady to the south bedroom, and have a bath drawn for her." Éowyn gently tugged on my sleeve as an invitation to come forward. "See to it that she's cleaned up in time for supper."

"Yes, my lady," Celia replied curtsying awkwardly, the wicker basket knocking against the wall. Éowyn nodded and led the others off down another hall, leaving me standing stupidly at the foot of the stairs. "This way, m'lady," Celia instructed gently, rousing me from the reflection I had unintentionally stumbled into. I shook my head lightly and sprinted up the stairs after her.

Celia led me through several corridors before finally reaching the aforementioned south bedroom. Its large mahogany door opened to reveal a rather simple room that was slightly rustic in description. Most of the furniture was made of dark wood and very simple in both design and shape. Glorious battles were depicted in worn and frayed tapestries that hung upon several of the walls, in addition to a spectacular hunt illustrated on the faded rug in the center of the room. The makers of these pieces seemed particularly inspired by the gore of these activities, judging from the amount of enemies that had very large spears protruding from their chests. I was particularly disturbed by the wild boar that one of the huntsmen had skewered on the end of his spear. I made a mental note to hide that particular image under a pillow before I went to bed.

"Have a seat," Celia said, motioning to the various chairs littered around the room. "I'll only be a minute." I gracelessly sat down on the wooden chair at the vanity and proceeded to check my appearance in the mirror as Celia disappeared into the bathroom.

My eyes widened considerably as I gazed upon my reflection for the first time in about a week.

I was a mess.

My hair was incredibly tangled and frizzed from being constantly tormented by the wind, the sloppy ponytail that I had constructed bearing an uncanny resemblance to a rat's nest. I hadn't had a decent shampoo since we left Lothlorien, and my hair was looking incredibly dirty in addition to the numerous tangles and snarls. Dirt and sweat had left their mark on my forehead and cheeks, along with bruises and scratches from God-knows-what-battle. To top it all off, I was quite pale and dark circles were beginning to develop beneath my eyes. I looked down at my hands. Dirt had crept into the lines in my palms and fingers, and burrowed underneath my fingernails. I had developed a few calluses on my palms, most likely from sword handling. I gazed back into the mirror, shaking my head slightly.

"My God…" A member of the Fellowship is supposed to look all hero-like and indestructible, even after spending weeks in the wilderness. I looked like I had been run over by a cement truck.

"You're bath is ready, m'lady," Celia said startling me. "I'll be back up in about a quarter of an hour to help you dress. Is there anything else you request?"

I thought for a moment.

"Do you have a razor?"

*

It took at least fifteen minutes of intense scrubbing and quintuple shampoo, but I eventually rid myself of all the dirt and grime that had accumulated on my body and hair for the past week or so. I was particularly happy about the clean state of my fingernails. I had even managed to find a file and nail clippers in the bathroom (my own file had mysteriously disappeared in Moria. I suspect that Legolas took it because his nails have remained impeccably (and suspiciously) clean and perfectly shaped throughout this whole ordeal).

But by far the best part was that my legs no longer resembled Bigfoot's (I had managed to keep my underarms relatively hairless with the help of the manicure scissors I had smuggled from Rivendell).

However, I think my unusual request slightly unnerved Celia.

I emerged from my bath completely clean and fresh, leaving quite a bit of dirty water in the bathtub, in addition to a ring of dirt. I silently hoped that Théoden's servants had some kind of cleaning detergent. I wouldn't want to be held responsible for destroying the royal bathtub.

I re-entered my room wrapped in a bathrobe to find Celia and a young dark-haired maid waiting at my vanity.

Jeez…I'm such a mess she had to call for backup… I thought to myself as I greeted the two. That's really depressing…

I was instructed to sit down at the vanity and they immediately began the task of brushing my hair. The use of the word 'task' is not meant to be taken lightly here. My hair, even after being washed quite thoroughly, looked like someone had tied knots in it. It took them quite awhile to get my hair completely snarl-free, with quite a lot of disapproving clucks from Celia and lots of screeches of pain from me.

"Tsk, tsk," Celia scolded, picking up a strand of my hair once they had finished. The other girl was collecting the loose hairs the combs had picked up and consequently creating a hairball that would roughly be the size of a small cat.

"What?" I questioned, anticipating a lecture on grooming. Save it for Gimli, I thought silently.

"Look at these ends!" she exclaimed, fussing over my hair. I carefully examined a lock of hair. It was quite true. I hadn't had a haircut in well over six months and I had quite a lot of split ends. "We'll have to take off at least an inch."

"Oh no, no, no…" I replied once that had sunk in, pressing my hands protectively over my scalp. "My hair is fine." I really didn't have a problem with getting my hair cut—by licensed beauticians who happen to have a subscription to Seventeen. No one comes near my hair with scissors otherwise. Tommy Preston learned that the hard way when he "accidentally-on-purpose" cut off a chunk of my hair in first grade art class. I made sure his recesses were a living hell for two weeks.

*

I learned something very important this particular day: never ever tell a woman who's old enough to be your grandmother that she can't do something.

Celia delivered a lecture that can be accurately described as a sermon, occasionally throwing in a "m'lady" for courtesy's sake. There were plenty of people, she told me, whose hair was left uncared for, and that I should be grateful to have such beautiful, long, thick hair and that I should appreciate…no, value this opportunity to clean it up.

I hate it when people succeed at manipulating me.

So for twenty minutes, I sat with my eyes shut and gritting my teeth as Celia snipped away at my tresses.

Please, please, please let it be okay and not really ugly and bad and…I thought to myself, gripping the seat of the chair in attempt to contain the urge to run screaming out of the room.

"Mistress…" Celia's voice suddenly broke through my train of thought, her tone suggesting that she had repeated this more than once. I tentatively opened my left eye.

"Yes?" I squeaked.

"I'm finished," she replied, giving me a look that seemed to subtly imply that I was overreacting. I wasn't overreacting, I reasoned with myself. I just didn't want to end up bald.

I opened the other eye and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. My hair looked a whole lot better—healthier…and evenly cut, thank God. It didn't even look like she had taken off that much. The clippings on the floor confirmed my suspicion and I immediately felt like an idiot for putting up such a fuss.

But then again, I was pretty used to making a fool of myself, so it shouldn't have come as a big surprise.

"It looks great," I said finally, gently tugging at a strand.

"Thank you, my lady," Celia replied, looking just a little smug.

After I had admired my hair for a sufficient amount of time, they both began fussing over my hair and—if you can believe it—makeup, instructing me to close my eyes or move slightly when necessary.

After what seemed like a millennia of primping and brushing, they wheeled me around in the chair, not permitting me to look in the mirror.

"You'll get the full effect with a proper dress," Celia said, digging through a large oak wardrobe.

"A dress—what the hell is this, Middle-earth's Big Prom or something?" I asked. At this point, I just wanted a nice clean pair of pants and a fresh shirt. Celia simply chuckled good-naturedly in reply. I blew a stray piece of hair out of my face irritably.

"Ah, yes!" Celia exclaimed a moment later from the depths of the wardrobe. She reappeared with lengths of red fabric cradled in her arms like an overflowing bouquet. She ceremoniously laid the dress out on the bed and motioned for me to come closer. "What do you think?" she asked as I fiddled with the soft red fabric of the skirt. As much as I hated to admit, I liked it. It was made of two overlapping fabrics—a dark red velvet edged with gold embroidery and a material of a slightly lighter red with gold filament stitched in a pattern of twining vines. Most of the dress was made of the velvet, which made up the whole back of the dress along with the sleeves. The velvet ended near the middle, overlapping the lighter material slightly to give the illusion that one was wearing a velvet robe over a dress of the lighter material. The sleeves looked like they would fall at my wrists, the neck was squarely cut, and the skirt looked like it would barely reach the floor.

"It's nice," I said after a moment, attempting to appear nonchalant. Celia was not fooled by my little performance and smirked triumphantly. I sighed as they began to prepare to dress me.

*

You know, you'd think that seamstresses would try to make their dresses a little less complicated.

I mean, it's bad enough that there's no such thing as zippers and buttons are considered incredibly modern, but does there really have to be at least twelve different pieces of undergarments? And do they all have to be laced and/or secured with frilly ribbons?

I contemplated asking just how the hell you were supposed to go to the bathroom with all this stuff on, but I decided that I didn't want to see how much I could stretch Celia's patience, especially after her previous lecture.

After they forced my feet into ridiculous shoes that had just barely enough leather on the bottom to keep them from being slippers, I was instructed to close my eyes while they led me to the mirror so I would be adequately surprised. I consented in interest of avoiding another lecture.

"Alright, open your eyes," Celia instructed once she let go of my hands.

I opened my eyes expecting to be slightly disappointed. But the reflection that stared back at me looked…nice. They had left my hair down, combing and brushing it until it hung smoothly, glowing softly in the light. They had put on little make-up, hiding the circles underneath my eyes and bringing color back into my cheeks with rouge (sparingly used, thankfully. I didn't really want to look like Bozo). They had done something to my eyes—I never was particularly good at eye makeup and I never really bothered with it—with shadow and kohl, which wasn't overly done (again, thankfully) and it looked pretty natural. A soft rose-colored lipstick had been used on my lips, toned down with the help of a handkerchief. The dress fit nicely, and the color looked good—Celia had commented that it brought out my hair (I'm not sure what she was talking about, so I just smiled and nodded).

"Wow…I…I really don't know what to say…" I said smiling as the necklace Galadriel had given me winked at me in the light. "I…"

And then I did something I vowed I would never do.

I randomly burst out into song.

And the thing is I really can't sing and I really don't like to. Some people will say they can't sing, but actually sound half decent when they make an attempt at "Row, Row Your Boat" or something. I can't carry a tune in a bucket. Aunt Kate used to say I had a "feline falsetto", meaning that I sounded like something between a disgruntled cat with the ability to venture into octaves only familiar to Chip and Dale. So naturally, out of general respect for the public, I really tried to avoid any kind of musical activities involving my voice.

But that night I must have been pretty giddy because I abandoned all of my rules about my voice and burst out into song complete with minor dance steps.

"I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and BRIIIIIIIIGHT! And I pit-ty any girl who isn't me tooo-night!" I (literally) wailed. Celia raised an eyebrow and the other girl looked slightly frightened. Despite this, I continued. "I feel charming, oh so charming! It's alarming how charming I FEEEEEEEEEEEL! And so pretty that I hardly can believe I'm reeeeeeeeeal."

I would have continued, but I knocked over a chair when I attempted to kick like one of the Rockettes (Aunt Kate probably made a mistake in taking me to see this when I was six…I nearly destroyed several pieces of furniture as result of my inspiration to one day be in the show).

A/N: I hope this last part didn't seem cliché. It wasn't supposed to be a whole makeover thing. More of like general maintenance…

Okay, this was supposed to be up way sooner, but I've been sick for all of last week with ANOTHER ear infection (when I wrote the previous a/n, I had a different ear infection) and cold stuff. Anyhow, I also had to clean my room, which was getting really bad. I half-expected to find a family of rabbits under my bed. So now that I'm slightly mobile and my room is clean, I can post.

The plot bunnies will NOT leave me alone!!! This is what happens when I watch Lord of the Rings (extended version) and Newsies (two and a half times, back to back. I would have watched more, but it was midnight and my mom figured out that I wasn't in bed) in one day.

Tip for the day: Ask telemarketers to be your friend. Results are hilarious.