Dark Side of the Moon

by Hobbsy3

When the peace of the Shire is shattered by a frantic wizard and Darkness falls upon Erebor, the patchwork family of Kili Baggins is thrown into chaos. Sundered by distance and duty, they must each play a part in the war revolving around the Ring that has long dwelt in Bilbo's pocket. But a conspiracy forms in the shadows and the Ring vanishes, putting the whole world at stake. T/M

60. Chapter 60: Meduseld

Hi there! Sorry about the delay, I have very little in the way of free time this week, with a driving test and an audition coming up before Sunday, so my stress levels have been up a wee bit more than usual too. I hope that it hasn't let too many typos through.

Also, I would like to give a HUGE shout out to Child of Dreams, who has reviewed so many chapters that we're now in triple digits for the reviews on this story! Having come down from Strangers and a norm of 7+ reviews each chapter was scary, and it's awesome to have hit 100 reviews again. Of course, as always, I truly offer my deepest thanks to everyone who reviews (though I worry that I am running out of ways to say that without sounding sarcastic. Anyway, enjoy!

Also-also, as a side-note I noticed yesterday that I've been placing the accents in the wrong places for Éomer and Éowyn all my life! I always put the accent over the 'o', and now I'm not sure why, as it doesn't even make much sense to do so, but yeah! I'm sure most of you didn't notice/care, but I'll be using the correct spellings now!

Chapter Sixty: Meduseld

Dawn was breaking as they approached Edoras, and the glow of warm, red light set the golden roof of Meduseld ablaze. It shone like burnished gold, but the city looked lonelier than ever. Boromir had never noticed before how isolated it looked – a small city built onto a rugged hill, the only settlement for miles, with the only buildings on the horizon, encased by a great, wooden wall.

The rugged hills and crags of the plains around it were silent, and not a soul moved upon them. Even inside its walls, Edoras looked still. It looked quiet.

It looked like it was waiting.

"Do not expect a welcome," said Gandalf quietly as they approached the gates. "I suspect that Théoden is deeply under some spell of Saruman, for he is not a man that would willingly let orcs travel across his lands, nor let his people lie so vulnerable. There is some dark influence here, and it shall seek to keep us out."

"Let it," growled Gimli. "To hew some evil heads from their necks would make me feel a lot better."

"No!" said Gandalf, sharply. "No, Gimli, there must be no hewing here! Save your axe for the orcs, and for those you meet in battle. Did you not hear me when I spoke of spells and influence? I pray, have patience, my friend. You shall have plenty of chances for vengeance soon enough. No, here we must be subtle, and respect that those who may oppose us are afraid, and under orders from their king."

Gimli's scowl deepened, but he nodded and released the handle of his axe. A small sigh of relief left Boromir, and he turned his eyes to the gates. There were two men before them, fully armoured and fully armed, and as the riders approached they lowered their spears.

"Halt! Who goes there, riding the horses of the Mark?" they cried in their own tongue. Though he understood it, Boromir was surprised to hear it, and Legolas and Gimli simply stared dumbly at the guards.

"Why do you not speak in the Common Tongue, if you are expecting an answer?" asked Gandalf in the same language, before reverting to Westron. "And I deem you know who I am, Master Háma."

The man who had spoken nodded, but did not lower his staff. "Indeed, Gandalf the Grey, but no longer are you a friend here. The king is grieved by your meddling, and your warmongering." Háma spoke in the Common Tongue, and he did not – at least to Boromir's ears – sound wholly convinced by what it was he was saying.

The other guard looked sharply at him, and spoke again in Rohirric. "In such dark times we are under orders to admit only known friends of Rohan passage into Edoras, and knowledge of our tongue foretells friendship indeed. Yet only you seem to speak it, Gandalf Stormcrow, and your companions ride horses that belong to us."

"These horses were leant to us by Éomer, son of Éomund," said Aragorn firmly, speaking with an accent so smooth that he might have been born of Rohan. "We return them to their homestead as we promised."

The two guards looked at each other, and shuffled uncomfortably, and Boromir's eyes narrowed. Even the nameless guard, the man who bore more suspicion in his brow, seemed troubled.

"Éomer, son of Éomund, is in prison," said Háma slowly, as though the words pained him. "For treason against the king, and for selling our horses to strangers, and lying to cover his tracks."

"And what lies might those be?" asked Gandalf hotly, shifting in his saddle. "For here are the horses that I suspect were deemed sold, or stolen, and they are neither of those. They were leant, as you have been told."

Again, the guards looked at each other and this time it was the nameless guard who spoke. "My Lord Éomer claimed that the horses were leant to Boromir of Gondor, which Lord Gríma deemed to be a lie, for Boromir of Gondor is dead."

Boromir was so startled that he all but stammered his next words. "Boromir of Gondor is not dead! I am here. Tell me, guard, do I seem to be a ghost to you?"

"Lord Gríma?" Gandalf's voice was sharp and suspicious, though he glossed over the news of Boromir's apparent death. "Would this be Gríma Wormtongue, perhaps?"

Háma nodded vaguely, but he and the other guard were both staring at Boromir as though they had never seen another man before.

"He said that he had word that you had been slaughtered by a party of goblins from the Misty Mountains, my Lord" said the other guard to Boromir. "I am glad to see it proved false."

Gandalf's lip curled in disgust. "Then let us pass, and prove more of Wormtongue's words as falsehoods. I have travelled far to treat with Théoden, who was of old my friend, and I will see him."

The guards exchanged looks again, and slowly lowered their spears, though they made no move to open the gates. "Very well – but first, who are your companions? Lord Boromir we are pleased to meet, and know of him well, but these are strangers to us."

"Yet I am no stranger of Rohan," said Aragorn. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I am heir of Isildur. This is Legolas, son of the Elvenking in Mirkwood, and Gimli, son of Glóin. His father is one of the High Lords of Erebor – a realm that I believe you treat with."

A shadow passed over Háma's face as he looked at Gimli, and he shook his head slightly. "It is true that we have treated with them, but we have had no word from the mountain in a long time. Of all our old allies, Gríma has spoken ill, and the Lonely Mountain is not the least hated by him."

"Ever will a man try to isolate those he would wish to destroy from their true friends and allies," said Gandalf. "I have heard enough. Open these gates, Master Háma."

Háma bowed low, and with a final nod from the other guard, he unlocked the gate and pulled it open. With a nod, Gandalf rode inside, and the others followed.

"Follow me, my Lords," said Háma, and he strode before Gandalf to lead the way through the city.

The hooves of their horses clattered loudly on the paved streets, and drew the wary eyes of the locals. There was none of the usual noises of the merry city – there was no music and no laughter, and not even the thrum of voices. There were only whispers, sparse and rare, and silence. A raven cawed, and Boromir watched as it took off from the roof of Meduseld, sending a few strands of straw tumbling to the ground below.

It had been less than a year since he was last at Edoras, and in that time the life of the city had withered to that of the White Tree of Gondor.

"You'd find more cheer in a graveyard," muttered Gimli, and Legolas nodded.

"They have much to grieve," Boromir murmured back, but he nodded, too. Gimli was right.

They dismounted before the stairs of the great hall, and Gandalf strode purposefully towards the door. But Háma held out his hand, with an apologetic look on his face. Resolution burnt strong in his eyes.

"Forgive me, but I cannot let you stand before the king so armed. You must leave your weapons at the door."

At once, Boromir laid his shield against the wall, and his sword beneath it. Then, with great care he pulled out the swords of Merry and Pippin from their place in the single bag that he carried, and laid them beside his own sword. He would return them soon, and his heart was lifted with the knowledge that they would be borne back to owners still living and breathing. Gandalf's sword was rested beside them, and after a moment's hesitation, Legolas laid down his knives and bow.

But Aragorn lingered for longer, his eyes on Háma and his hand on his sword, and Gimli watched him, his fingers gripped tightly around his axe.

"Come now, Aragorn," said Gandalf. "A king has every right to ban weapons from his hall, especially in such times as these."

After another endless moment, Aragorn gave a single nod. He laid his sword and sheath down by Gandalf's but then he spoke to the guards in a voice more kingly than Boromir had ever heard from him.

"This is Andúril, Flame of the West, made from the shards of Narsil – the sword of Elendil that smote the ring of power from Sauron's hand in days of old. Make sure that no one touches this blade, unless they wish to make an enemy of Isildur's heir."

With wide eyes, Háma and the other guards nodded and bowed.

"None shall touch it, Lord," swore Háma.

Gimli gave a satisfied nod. "Well, in that case my axe will sit happily beside Andúril, knowing that it is indeed in noble company."

Háma looked to Gandalf, hesitation again in his eyes. "Forgive me, Master Gandalf, but your staff-"

"Oh, you wouldn't part an old man from his walking stick, would you?" said the wizard gently, with an innocent smile that Boromir did not buy for a moment. But Háma nodded in defeat, and opened the doors.

The Golden Hall of Edoras did not look golden this day. The windows were shrouded, and the sun's light smothered by thick, heavy curtains. The lamps burnt low, and guards prowled the shadows on either side of the hall. Their eyes turned to the newcomers, suspicious and cold, and the hall was otherwise empty. Quiet.

The air inside did not move, and time seemed to hang still, as though the very room was holding its breath.

But what chilled Boromir the most was the sight of the wizened old man that sat in the throne at the end of the hall. Théoden seemed to have aged three decades in the time since Boromir had last seen him, and he was bowed low in his chair. His eyes were hooded and dull, and his skin as wrinkled and frail as crumpled paper. His hair was wiry and white, so thin that it looked like you could simply dust it from his head, and his clothes hung loosely upon him. For a moment, Boromir thought that some deathly illness must have struck the king, but then Gandalf's words returned to him, and a chill dripped down his spine.

"…some spell of Saruman's…"

Hatred rose hot in Boromir's chest, a loathing against the wizard who would do such a thing to a fair and noble king, against the devil who had kidnapped the young hobbits, and who now may have Nelly and Bróin clutched in his grasp. He yearned to meet Saruman, with a dark and deep desire, to shove his sword through the wizard's neck and make him pay for the grief he had caused.

"The courtesy of your Hall has lessened of late, Théoden King," said Gandalf imperiously, pulling Boromir from his thoughts. He shook his head slightly, cooling his temper, and looked to the throne one more. A man was standing, unfurling his crooked back to stare at Gandalf, but it was not Théoden. It was a pale, sallow man beside him, a man who had been whispering into the king's ear since they entered the hall. Boromir remembered him from the previous summer, though he could not put a name to him.

"My Lord," said the man, in a voice that was sly as a snake, "Gandalf the Grey is here."

Théoden slowly raised his head, and Boromir saw that his eyes were pale and misted. When he spoke, his voice was weak and shaking. "Why should we welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?"

"A just question, my liege," drawled Gríma, glaring at Gandalf as he strode slowly down the hall. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lathspell I name him – ill news is an ill guest."

"That is enough!" Gandalf's voice broke across the room like an icicle shattering on a stone floor, and he strode towards. "I did not travel through fire and ash to bandy words with a witless worm like you. Keep your forked tongue beneath your teeth."

Gríma recoiled, and Boromir snorted, but he had no more than a second to enjoy the aghast expression on the snake-man's face. Gandalf held up his staff, and what little colour he had left drained from Gríma's face.

"His staff!" he growled, looking to the guards. "I told you to take the wizard's staff!"

At once, the guards lurched forward, and Boromir joined his friends in the wizard's defence. It was a little difficult to fight when he knew that he would do exactly as the guards were doing had this occurred in his own halls, but he kept them away from Gandalf all the same. Gimli, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much.

"Théoden, son of Thengel," cried Gandalf imperiously, throwing his arms open wide. "Hearken to me!"

One of the Rohirrim made a pass for Gandalf, and Boromir struck him in the gut.

"I'm sorry!" he said earnestly, as he knocked the man's feet from beneath him. "It's for your own good!"

"Too long have you lingered in the shadows," said Gandalf, drawing closer and closer to Théoden. The king cowered in his throne, and the wizard slowly raised his hand, and closed his eyes. "I release you, from the spell."

At those words, many of the guards stopped fighting, or at least became more half-hearted in their attempts at reaching the wizard. In the corner, Boromir noticed Háma holding back another guard with a slight shake of his head.

The guard that Boromir had struck was gazing at the wizard in awe, and slowly climbing to his feet. Boromir stepped forward in case he needed to restrain the soldier again, but the man made no move to fight.

Then Théoden, sprawled across his throne like a dying dog, began to laugh. It was a hideous, wrenching sound, and when he spoke, it was in a voice unlike that of the king – a voice that Boromir did not recognise at all. It was a voice that was cold and deep, and unnervingly close to Gandalf's.

Those few guards that had continued to fight dropped their arms at once, staring, transfixed, at their king. Their faces were wrought with confusion and concern, though some bore expressions that could only be described as horror.

"You have no power here," crooned the man in the throne, and he spat the wizard's name like an insult. "Gandalf the Grey."

With one swift movement, Gandalf threw off his grey cloaks, and his white robes shone unhindered as they had in Fangorn Forest. The men of Rohan drew back and shielded their eyes, and Boromir watched in awe as Gandalf thrust his staff towards Théoden.

"I will draw you, Saruman, like poison is drawn from a wound," he snarled, with an intensity that almost burnt to look at.

"If I go, Théoden dies!" spat the man in the throne, and Boromir's eyes snapped to Gandalf. If they stood here and killed the king of Rohan, that would go ill for everyone.

The fluttering of a white gown caught Boromir's eye and he glanced to his right. A tall, golden haired woman ran into the room, a woman that he recognised at once. The moment that she saw the king quailing in his chair Éowyn ran forward, undeterred by the sight of Gandalf, but Aragorn intercepted her, and held her back.

Narrowing his eyes, Gandalf took another step towards Théoden. "You did not kill me, and you will not kill him!" he declared. "Begone!"

Théoden growled like a wild beast, cringing and curling in his throne, and then he sprang forward, hands outstretched like claws, but Gandalf thrust his staff forward. Though Boromir could see no contact, Théoden was flung back, and crashed into the back of his own throne.

At once, the glow around Gandalf's robes dulled, and a smile of grim satisfaction spread across the wizard's face. Slowly, he lowered his staff, and Aragorn released Éowyn's arm. She sprang forwards, grabbing the king before he fell from his throne, but even as she reached him, Théoden began to sit up.

Struck dumb by awe, Boromir watched as the age fell away from Théoden's face – he saw the king's pallor strengthen, and his hair grow thicker, and more golden. The wrinkled, papery skin became smoother, with the only lines being those carved by the years that Théoden had lived, and his chest rose, rolling his shoulder's back.

Yet the keenest difference was in his eyes – they were no longer clouded and dull, but sharp and clear, and they stared at the room around them with the confusion of one waking from a long, accidental sleep. When they fell on Éowyn, they narrowed, and a slight smile twitched at his lip.

"I know your face," he murmured, putting a hand on her arm. His smile grew, as though he had not seen her for many months. "Éowyn…"

Éowyn gave a gasping laugh and beamed, even as tears filled her eyes. The king put a hand on her face, and then looked around the room. He started at the sight of Gandalf, more confused than ever.

"Gandalf?" he whispered, and the wizard smiled.

"Breathe the free air again, my friend," he said, gently waving his hand. The thick curtains over the windows parted, and light poured down into the hall once more.

Slowly, Théoden stood up, and at once his men bowed down. Their faces shone with relief, and with wonder, and Boromir grinned as Théoden rose to his full height.

Without the cloud of witchcraft in his eyes, Théoden looked as alert as Boromir had ever seen him, though when his eyes fell on the people in his hall, confusion was quick to overcome them, and his mouth dropped open slightly. Gimli was standing tall and proud, and as the king's gaze moved from the dwarf to the elf to the wizard it grew more and more bemused. Boromir wondered when Théoden had last seen a dwarf, or an elf. When he finally looked to Boromir, relief flickered in Théoden's eyes. It was clear that he was grateful to see one who he might expect to visit his halls on any other day – a man, a man that he knew.

"Boromir? Boromir of Gondor?"

"At your service, my Lord," said Boromir with a short bow.

"How came you here?" asked Théoden, his gaze wandering back to Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. "I feel as though I have awakened, though I look around and wonder if I have not fallen into a dream instead?"

Boromir laughed. "No, my lord, you are not dreaming. I travel with strange companions, but these days are strange and dark."

"Yes," Théoden murmured, peering down at his own hands. "Dark have been my dreams of late… What is going on here? Gandalf?"

"You have awoken, my lord, from a spell put upon you by Saruman," said Gandalf gravely. "For many days he has poisoned your thought, and restrained your conscience, through both spell-craft, and by the words of Gríma Wormtongue. Awake, your body has been, and aged beyond its time, yet your mind was kept in a clouded slumber. Now your lands lie vulnerable on the brink of war, and Saruman is preparing to strike."

"Lies!" gasped Gríma squirming like a maggot beneath Gimli's boot. "My lord, he lies – I have only ever lived to serve you, my lord! Have I not served you well?"

Despite the disgust on his face, hesitance danced in Théoden's eyes as he stared at his servant. Boromir did not blame him – treason was never an easy thing to discover.

"If you wish for more in the way of proof of the treachery of Gríma, see here," said Gandalf, clapping a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "Six days ago, Boromir of Gondor was overrun by a hundred orcs, and they pinned him to the ground, that he might watch them carry away his friends before he died. They were uruk-hai, under the command of Saruman, and they believed that they had done enough to finish the job. This news they brought to Saruman, and in turn to Gríma. This he spread about your lands – in a move rather foolish, I must say, having no proof of his own to the claims. And indeed, they are false."

"I was lucky," said Boromir, maintaining eye contact with Théoden even as he held out his arm to gesture at the others. "I owe my life to my companions. They reached me in time, before any true damage could be done."

Théoden nodded slowly, understanding dawning on his face, and Boromir nodded back. He could not even begin to imagine how confused the king must be, to awake to such uncertainty, and to see such strange folk in his halls. It was the least Boromir could do to assure Théoden that his companions were true, and posed no threat.

"Now, Théoden King, it is time to reclaim your kingdom," said Gandalf, holding out his hand. "Your fingers might remember their own strength better if they grasped the hilt of your sword."

Théoden nodded, his hand shifting to his empty belt. He looked to Éowyn with a light frown. "Where is my sword?"

"It was put away, my lord," she said. "On your orders."

"As was Éomer, son of Éomund, I believe," said Gandalf pointedly, and Théoden's look of bewilderment grew. "Your door warden tells me he was imprisoned the day before yesterday."

Fury lighting in his eyes, Théoden shook his head a little. "Imprisoned? On what charge?"

"Treason, apparently," said Gandalf, glaring at Gríma, and the king ground his teeth.

Slowly, as though he was afraid of losing control, he turned to Éowyn. "I do not wish to waste time asking questions whose answers I know in my heart, but for the sake of sense I must. Was there any truth to the charges?" he asked, his voice trembling with rage. "You know your brother better than any."

"Yet his heart is open to you, my Lord," she said, and she sent Gríma a glare that would have struck a weak-heart dead. "Éomer has never been a traitor, nor would he ever do harm to Rohan. You know this, my Lord."

"I do," growled Théoden. "I do indeed. Háma – bring me Éomer at once, and bring me my sword. Unless there is any man here that would stand to validate Gríma's claims?"

A deafening silence replied to him, and Háma bowed low, ducking out of the door. Again, the king turned to Éowyn. "How long was I under this spell?"

Éowyn bowed her head slightly. "It is hard to say, my lord. At first the change was so little – what do you last remember?"

Théoden pursed his lips, and nodded at her. "We will discuss it later." She bowed, and Théoden smiled at her. Then he looked at Boromir again.

"Are you hurt, lord Boromir? Those orcs have left for dead rarely escape unscathed."

"I am alright," said Boromir evenly. "A little achier and wearier than my friends, perhaps, but I will be fine. I do not think the orcs realised that I was wearing mail – their arrows did little damage."

"Beside some rather pretty bruises," said Gimli.

The doors swung open, and Háma led Éomer in. His eyes were even darker than they had been two days before, but when they fell upon Gandalf and Boromir they lightened, and when they took in Théoden, upright and alert, they shone. Without a word, Éomer knelt before the king, offering up Théoden's sword with a bowed head.

When Théoden's fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword, he stood a little taller, and he weighed it for a moment. But then he lowered the sword and put a hand on Éomer's shoulder.

"Arise, my sister-son," he said. "I pardon you for any crime that was laced upon your head, and ask your pardon in return."

"My sword is yours to command, as ever it has been," replied Éomer, but he could not keep his smile from his face.

Théoden bowed his head, and turned to Gríma. His grip shifted around his sword and Gríma gave a whine like a wounded dog.

"You have betrayed us all, Gríma," he said gravely, and there was regret and pain mingling with the anger in his voice. "What great price could be worth the pain you have brought upon us? With what promise did Saruman buy you?"

"That when all the men were dead he could have his pick of the treasure," snarled Éomer, and at once Gríma's eyes flickered across towards the king –

But no – they fell on Éowyn.

With a snarl, Éomer lurched forward. Éowyn caught his arm, holding him back, and though he shook off her arm, he did not advance further.

"Too long have you watched my sister," he hissed, and Éowyn looked away. "Too long have you haunted her steps."

Théoden glanced sharply between his sister's children and Gríma, and understanding dawned on his face. An inferno of fury raged in his eyes, and he took a step towards Gríma.

"No more," he said, shifting his grip on his sword. "You will bring no more harm to my people!"

"If I may," said Gandalf slowly, "I would advise this. Give him a horse, and a choice. Let him ride to war, or let him flee. By his choice you may judge him, and prevent more blood from being spilled on his behalf. Now he is nothing more than a snake, but once he was a man, and that should not be forgotten."

"Men have killed men for less," muttered Éomer, and Boromir could not help but agree.

For a long moment, Théoden considered, and then he gave a single nod. "Very well. What shall it be Gríma? Shall you choose valour, or treachery?"

Gandalf nodded slightly at Gimli, and Boromir rolled his eyes as the dwarf 'failed' to notice the gesture. Aragorn smacked Gimli on the shoulder, and with a dramatic sigh, Gimli removed his foot from Gríma's chest.

Scrambling to his feet, Gríma spat at the feet of the king and turned, fleeing from the hall with a string of curses that almost made Boromir blush.

"Give him a horse," called Théoden, "if any will bear him. Make sure he brings no harm to anyone, but do not hinder him. Let him go. It is one less worry on my mind."

"I think it would be safer to slay him," said Gimli bluntly. "The elf could still get him."

Éomer and Boromir nodded, but Gandalf shook his head.

"If he does go to Saruman, as I suspect he will, given his choices, he may be of use to us later. A wretch and a traitor he is, but Gríma is not without pity," he said.

Though it made little sense to Boromir, this seemed to appease Théoden, and after a moment Gimli gave a small nod.

"Now," said Théoden, "I would like to hear exactly what it is that has brought you here, and just what you mean by the brink of war. But first, where is Theodred? Where is my son?"

And there we end, finally, for this week. I hope to update sooner than Wednesday next week, but given my schedule it may not be possible. Regardless, I will do my best. Thank you for reading this chapter, please do let me know how you feel about it! Reviews are such a wonderful way of gauging what works and what doesn't, and a great reassurance that I am not the only one who values the time I put into this story.

That said, what's really important is the reading, so I thank you all for that, and I hope to see you soon.