A/N: I own nothing. Once again, apologies that this is so slow, but I feel I finally have a better grip on certain characters that were giving me trouble, so updates may proceed a bit faster now, (or at least after finals.)
"What else would you have me do?" Theoden had recovered quickly from his stupor with the banishment of his treacherous advisor, but negotiations were not going as well as Gandalf might have hoped. The King of Rohan was determined to make up for lost time and protect his people, but the wizard was unsure of the king's methods.
Theoden planned to vacate the city of Edoras, moving all he could to Helm's Deep, an ancient fortress. A fortress, Gandalf recalled chillingly, with one entrance. If things went wrong, there would be but one exit, and no escape.
And yet, Theoden was correct. What else could they do? The majority of Rohan's army had been scattered or exiled during Grima's seizure of power. Gondor could not afford to send aid. It would be best to secure what safety they could find for the people now. And yet, all would be useless if they could not summon the army. Only a few trustworthy guards had been left in the prisons. They were not nearly enough to protect the city from orc raids. With so few guards at the tightly packed fortress, they might only be making Sauron's job easier.
"Send for aid," the Dunedain recommended stubbornly. "Gondor will remember her old ally. If nothing else, send a runner to Eomer and his troops. I know they ride to protect what they can out there in the grasslands. They would welcome the chance to return home and defend their families."
"Whom shall I send?" Theoden gestured about the great hall, all but abandoned as Grima's ruffians were locked away and those still loyal to the king had begun hastily packing up their families and possessions for the migration to Helm's Deep.
"I would ride for them," the golden-haired woman at his side spoke up. The younger fellowship members exchanged glances. It was not unheard of for the women of Rohan to ride under dangerous circumstances, even unto battle, but this slim girl clothed in white hardly looked like a shield-maiden. For all her steely gazes and strength of frame, there was a certain brittleness to her emotions that made Aragorn fear for her chances in pitched battle. He had seen fighters, good ones, of both sexes, that could not control their tempers when the enemy charged. In their rush to prove themselves worthy, they proved the first casualties of the confrontation.
"No, Eowyn," Theoden said with finality. "I do not doubt your courage, but I have already lost my son. I know not what might happen to you or your brother out in the wolf-plains. Eomer shall return in his own time, and draw our enemies away from our people. You and I will protect them as long as we can. If I – " he paused, his speech hushed. "If I am unable to lead, you will take care of our people until your brother returns."
"You shall lead us for a long time yet, Uncle," she returned softly. There was a streak of defiance in her eyes, but she seemed to understand Theoden's reasoning, both said and unsaid. For him, she would endure her self-made cage of meaninglessness.
Theoden nodded, as if to escape an awkward situation with a return to the grim topic at hand. "There are none that I would risk, for their sakes and that of my people, to ride out there alone. And to send to Gondor? Gondor has been sending for our warriors when we can spare them, since the time of my father. They hold their border, but they have none that they can send to us. 'Twould be as mad as wandering the wolf-plains in search of exiled riders." He continued with bitter irony.
"Your men will not have abandoned you," Gandalf reassured him.
"Aye, perhaps not. But under Wormtongue's influence, I abandoned them. They're scattered, ripe pickings for Saruman's foul creations." The anger in the king's voice was directed inwards, but caught up in the emotional undercurrents, his niece turned her frustration loose. Her knuckles white against the dark wood of the council table, the pale-haired woman seemed to be kept in her seat merely by virtue of the furniture's solid build.
"They shall not be forgotten again." Her expression dared anyone to contradict her.
"They shall not," Theoden repeated, silent worry evident upon his features.
"Your nephew has amassed a fair number of men, my lord," Aragorn said. "It may not be so fruitless an endeavor as you perceive. And our gallant Lady Eowyn is not the only one who would willingly ride to find your defenders." Slightly ameliorated by his diplomatic words, the lady gave him a small smile.
"None of us has a particularly fast horse right now, I hope you notice." Gimli did not sound entirely displeased with this state of affairs. The pipe between his teeth sputtered out, and the dwarf paused to relight it before continuing. "While it would be wise to get more men, better indeed to have some good stone walls to defend ourselves with. Not everyone here is trained to fight, I take it."
"Nay," Theoden looked mollified to hear some common sense out of the dwarf. "The women and children gather in the capital, and those refugees from the razed villages seek haven, not a battle. I would keep them safe, though from your words we may have a battle regardless. I do not wish any further hardship upon our ladies and younglings, if it can be prevented."
"If you shall excuse me, my lords," Eowyn's voice was cold, indignant, straining against her uncle's unspoken overprotection. "I must pack for the journey." Rising sharply, she nodded briefly to the assembled council and turned to go, grey-blue eyes flashing with rebellion as if towards the Dark Lord and death itself.
"I fear for my people," Theoden said softly, following his niece's stiff back as she retreated from the hall.
"They shall find hope yet, your majesty," Gandalf assured him. Now was the time to make compromises. "Ride for Helm's Deep, if you feel safer there, and I shall meet you in four days."
Gimli choked upon his pipe. "You're leaving, Gandalf? But you just got back to us."
"I will return shortly enough," Gandalf replied, placing a hand upon the blocky shoulder. "I trust you three to prove more help than harm to Theoden King."
"I'll keep the dwarf in line," Legolas promised teasingly, although a flicker of unease had passed across the archer's face as well.
His shorter friend snorted. "Perhaps, but then who shall watch you, Master Elf?"
"I trust Aragorn can manage." The ranger nodded at the wizard's words, but both men retained a nervous air. Memories of Moria hung unspoken between them, and thoughts of how easily they might be trapped once more in the dark, with no way out but death. Saruman's orcs would not be held back to a few small raiding parties if all their targets were gathered in one spot.
Yet, Theoden was right. There was nowhere else for them to take shelter. Gandalf hoped that Shadowfax could speed him and the army to Helm's Deep in time.
Once again, the ents surprised Merry with their rate of speed. With proof of the destruction before their eyes, it had not taken Quickbeam long to convince his elders to join up against Isengard. The tower loomed before them, rushing closer and closer. And yet, whenever he glanced back, Merry couldn't convince himself that they had yet made much progress out of the woods. They had passed the same trees three times, a part of him insisted. And yet, here they were, nearly upon the walls surrounding the wizard's stronghold. A strange mystery it seemed, and yet, as Treebeard bellowed a challenge that shook the branches of the surrounding forest, the answer suddenly seemed as plain to Merry as the nose upon his face.
Tree-shepherds. Yet, surely that didn't mean that they could make the trees move like that, could they? Merry could see them influencing the trees' growth, but he had never imagined that they could convince the trees to move down the hills. And not just normal trees, either. Looking more closely, Merry could make out the roots of a nearby elm undulating in the forest gloom. Huorons, Treebeard had called them. Thinking trees, malevolent ents that no longer moved so much. After his earlier encounter with the willow, whose roots had lulled him to sleep and then constricted around him, Merriadoc had no wish to see these huorons' work close up.
It was too late to back out now, however. They had reached the gates of Isengard, and a tall, knotty ent lifted them from their moorings and hurled them at the tower as if they weighed nothing. From the fiery pits, orcs and Wargs swarmed towards the trees, but ents stomped them or flung them aside before they could cause much harm. Merry felt removed from the battle, in his perch atop Quickbeam. The last time he had fought orcs, the hobbit had been terrified and disoriented, losing Boromir and then captured. This would not happen again. They would not be captured here, nor would they see another friend lost in battle. From this height, his tiny sword would do him little good, but within his pockets, the hobbit found some stones and a rope from a snare from rabbit hunting. He and his cousin had always been good shots with slings or throwing stones, and Merry began to put those skills to work from Quickbeam's shoulders. Whenever an orc approached with a brand, one of the hobbits would bean it to save the trees. Once the torches had guttered out, the marching forest advanced further towards the tower. Unfortunately, the hobbits' supply of ammunition for their slings was severely limited. In his haste, Pippin snapped a twig from Quickbeam and threw it at the orcs. The ent shook his head irritatedly. "Mind yourselves, little hobbit friends. I would not want you to get hurt."
"Sorry, Quickbeam," Pippin apologized. "We're all out of throwing stones. I don't suppose there's some place that we could refill?"
"No," the ent said shortly. He was not at the forefront of the battle, but he had stomped his share of orcs form his position at the rear of the marching ents and huorons. "You have done your duty, and then some, but now you must simply hang on and let us do ours." Merry wrapped his arms about the branching shoulder, watching as another ent caught fire. The tree-sheppards might not speak unless something was extremely important, but sometimes there were no words for what you wanted to say. He was small, he was fallible and lacked the stamina of larger warriors, but the hobbit had felt that he had made a difference with Quickbeam there to help him. Even at Amon Hen, he and Pippin had held off their captors until Boromir finally succumbed to his wounds.
Merriadoc had learned a few things from Boromir. The basics of swordfighting, the Song of the Seagull, and just how Faramir liked his tea were all very nice to know, and might come in handy someday, but the most important lesson was not one that Boromir had told them. He had shown by his example that one should never stop fighting while your friends were counting on you. Merry wasn't sure how he could do that while sitting in the treetops, completely out of ammunition, but if he got the chance, he would find some way to help the ents.
"Quickbeam, look out!" Pippin shouted. The ent ducked as a fiery projectile from a catapult blasted overhead, making Merry very thankful for his tight grip. A few embers crackled in his upper branches, but the hobbits moved to beat them out as soon as the ent righted himself.
"Everyone all right?" the young ent asked shakily. The hobbits' replies were just as unsteady, but neither had been seriously hurt. "You were quick to put out my fires, young hobbits, but now we must put out the rest. Hold steady."
"We're trying to," Merry said. The ent boomed out a cry of his own, striding towards the dammed Isen River. His fist did not break through the stone wall as old Treebeard's had, but the fault was enough to give the water pressure an outlet. The river shot hard out of the dam, flowing nearly horizontal at first. More cracks appeared in the stone wall. "We ought to move," Merry said, awed at the force of the water.
"This way!" Pippin tugged upon his branchy limb, pulling the ent perpendicular to the water's flow. Quickbeam moved as fast as possible, but the powerful current knocked his feet out from under him.
"Merry? Pippin? Where are you?" the ent called. They, too had lost their footing, and now the river took them where it pleased. Although they had suffered a few knocks and bruises, Merry had caught ahold of his cousin's hand. Wherever they went, he would have a friend with him.
"What's this?" Pippin coughed up the water that had gotten into his lungs and threw his other arm about a washed-up crate. "Old Toby," it was labeled. Apparently the river had decided to be kind, for once. At last finding purchase for their soaked feet in a slow-moving eddy that was as deep as their waists, the two hobbits took stock of their surroundings. The fiery pits of Isengard had been flooded, and ents and huorons moved more calmly throughout the wreckage. And around them floated a nicotine-addict's dream: pipeweed crates and apples bobbed across the surface of the flooded tower's grounds.
"Should we tell Treebeard about all this?" Merry asked, a devilish light in his eyes.
"No, they're probably relations. He wouldn't understand." Pippin's smile was every bit as mischievous as his cousin's.
"Well, it's only right that we get rid of it then, before he suffers any more worries."
"Quite right. Where's my pipe?" Pippin's hunt was cut off though, as large feet splashed up behind them. Woody hands lifted them into the air.
"There you are!" Quickbeam gave the pair a yellow-eyed smile. "I was worried for your safety when you two were washed away by the river. Who knows what could have happened to you in that flood with all these orcs about?"
"The tree-burning, branch-breaking, forest-spoiling orcs shall not be much of a problem any more, nor will their wood-gnawing, deep-digging, mad-looking Wargs. Huroom, but these two little hole-dwelling hobbits could have hit something hard in the riptides." Treebeard said seriously, but he too, seemed very relieved to have them safe. With both ents returning to their typical long-winded, rambling patterns of speech, Merry could only believe that their victory was complete. "Young Saruman is locked in his tower. We shall, hroom, speak with him shortly. Root and twig, but he shall have much to answer for!"
"I'm simply glad we did not have to add the hobbits to that list of things to speak to him about," Quickbeam returned, setting the hobbits back down.
"I had Pip with me, and I knew you wouldn't let me float too far on my own." Merry stretched his arms as far as he could about the ent's leg. "That's what friends are for."