PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

Chapter XXXV: Rohan In Five Scenes

Okay, okay, I know you hate long explanations (which is probably why you hate me right now for telling you this whole story…most of which you already know…but it has a point, I promise). Anyways, you'll be glad to know, that I can summarize my two week stay at Edoras in five scenes. Five scenes are all it takes, I swear. And then, I'll move on to the next part of the story. Okay? Please don't get mad at me and walk away. I'll keep it as brief as I can.

Ready? Set? Action!

Scene One: Meeting The Worm

"We cannot allow you before King Théoden armed."

I looked at the red-headed soldier in front of me (Háma was his name, I think). Did he seriously think I was a threat? That I was a capable of harming the king? Did he not see my wimpy arms? I turned to look back at Éomer. "Is he serious?"

Éomer fought back a sigh. "Just do as he says, Ana."

I reached into my riding boot and pulled out the Sword Breaker. I stared at the sheathed blade for a moment and then looked up at Háma. My eyes narrowed. "If anything happens to this blade, you will have hell to pay."

Éomer clapped a hand to my shoulder. "Stop being dramatic. It is a dinner knife."

Begrudgingly, I handed over the Sword Breaker, but not before I eyed Háma darkly and said, menacingly, "I'm warning you."

"Come on," said Éomer.

He guided me by the shoulder into Meduseld, the Golden Hall of Rohan where the king dwelled. I remember the hall vividly. The ceiling, which was black with intricate carvings of mountains, rivers, and grasslands, dripped down to form dozens of golden pillars that were decorated with the images of horses running wild throughout Rohan. The hall was vast with a smooth, stone floor that stretched from the heavy-set doors from which I entered to the opposite end of the hall where Théoden sat on his golden throne.

Soldiers of Rohan mulled about the hall, sitting long wooden tables. They watched as Éomer, and I entered the hall and muttered amongst themselves in low voices. I caught sight of Taysend and Dorthin to my left, and I smiled and waved. They pretended I didn't exist.

Éomer steered me forward until I stood before the throne. King Théoden was sickly indeed. Not just in mind, as the riders had told me, but physically. He looked weathered and almost crooked, as if he might snap in two if you pushed him too far. His white hair was thin and curly, and his face wrinkled and beaten, peeling in some places. He seemed aged beyond his years, dressed in gray furs and heavy coats.

"Uncle," said Éomer, "I bring before you, Ana Stonbit of, um, Ohio."

"Hi," I said, waving.

Théoden peered at me through his hooded eyelids. "She is small."

I bit back a sigh. Why was that always the first thing people said about me? That and "She's strange." Was there really nothing else noticeable about me? I was just the short, strange woman people met on the road.

"And she is dressed like a man." Théoden's voice cracked as his spoke.

Well, that was somewhat original.

My irritation must have shown on my face because Éomer's grip on my shoulder tightened, and he hissed, "You are being disrespectful."

"I'm always disrespectful," I muttered back. "You should see me making fun of Elrond. His crown is a frigging tiara." I glanced up at Théoden and managed a weak smile. "Though, I might add, that your crown is nothing like a tiara. That is a good and proper crown."

Théoden ignored my compliments, and his blue eyes flickered to someone behind me. A smooth voice cut through the hall as a man asked, "What sort of lonely vagrant is this?"

I felt Éomer stiffen beside me. When I glanced over, his face was drawn up as though some dark storm had come. I turned to see who had caused such instant dislike and found myself face to face with Gríma Wormtongue.

I have to say, he looked like a Gríma Wormtongue. You know how some people don't look anything like their names. For instance, I once knew a Mary-Ann Bryant, but she looked nothing like a Mary-Ann Bryant…she was more of a Florence. Well, there was none of that misnaming nonsense here. Gríma Wormtongue was Gríma Wormtongue to the very core of his being. He was small and bent over with slicked-back, black hair and a pale, clammy face. Dressed in all black, he moved like a worm, wriggling about uncomfortably.

Now, I know you're not supposed to judge a book by its cover…but, well, I judge books by their covers. And I did not like this extremely awkward, slimy-looking Wormtongue.

"I'm Ana Stonbit." I lifted my chin. "You got a problem with that?"

"No, no. Of course not." Gríma moved to the wooden seat beside Théoden's throne and settled himself into the chair. "I only wonder who exactly Éomer has brought into these sacred halls. You, a woman dressed like a man and speaks in a manner not known by anyone here."

I gasped. "Are you questioning Éomer's judgment?"

"I do no such thing." The haughty look in Gríma's eyes suggested that my words were spot on.

I turned to Éomer. "Is he questioning your judgment?"

Éomer stared at me, not saying a word. The rest of the hall was dead silent, the eyes of the riders on me and Gríma. I suppose it must have been entertaining. I got the feeling most of the Rohirrim hated Gríma but couldn't say anything against him out of respect for their king. I, however, had very little respect for anyone who wasn't majestic and had almost no filter on my mouth.

"If Éomer thinks that I am important enough to bring before the king," I said icily, "then important I am."

"But," said Gríma, leaning closer to the king so that his lips almost touched the ends of Théoden's white hairs, "perhaps the king does not trust his nephew's judgment. Perhaps the king does not want little vagrants of unknown origin wandering through his halls. Perhaps the king wishes you gone. Perhaps the king wishes you dead."

A shiver ran down my spine. Gríma's words weren't meant for me, but I believed them. I believed that the king didn't want me in Rohan and that he would sentence me to death if Gríma wanted it. And when someone wanted me dead, there was only one thing I knew how to do. Lie and bluff and hoped it worked.

I tried to make my voice sound full and impressive (though I probably failed miserably). "Not even the king cannot tell me where and when to go. No one can command me, for I am the Senturiel and I come and go as I please."

Silence.

"What devilry does she speak of?" asked Gríma.

Éomer shrugged, though I couldn't help but think that he was amused by my outburst. He said simply, "She always speaks of strange and unknown things."

I sighed. "That was such an anticlimactic reaction."

"What is the Senturiel?" asked Éomer.

"Has she lost her mind?" asked Gríma.

"No," I said. "I give up. I try to be dramatic and everyone ends up thinking I'm weird." My eyes narrowed in Gríma's direction, and I said the greatest insult I could think of: "Even elves would've given me a better reaction than that."

Gríma stared at me for a full minute, perhaps sensing the meaning behind my words, before he said, "Send her to prison."

"Aw, come on!" I cried, throwing up my hands in defeat. "Why is it that wherever I go, someone tries to throw me in prison? I'm not a criminal. It's usually just an accident that I break the law."

"She means no harm," said Éomer, stepping in between Gríma and me. "She is a friend of dwarves and elves. She means to stay here for a short while. Do not be so quick to resort to hostilities, Wormtongue."

I decided not to point out that Éomer's first idea when he saw me was to throw me in prison.

Gríma glared at Éomer, his gaze occasionally flickering to me and then back to Éomer. I could see the loathing in Gríma's eyes, but there was also a shrewdness. There would be a time to punish Éomer, Gríma knew that. But he had to play his cards right. Arresting Éomer and me right now sent no message except that Gríma hated Éomer. The riders would support Éomer. However, if Gríma waited, he could find time to turn the tables. After silently deliberating the issue, Gríma nodded once. "She is your responsibility, Éomer. See to it she does not do anything…disruptive."

I smiled at the aged king before Éomer grabbed me by the shoulder and practically dragged me to the exit.

The moment we were outside the keep, I turned to Háma and held out a hand, waiting for him to return the Sword Breaker to me.

Éomer pinched the bridge of his nose and released a long sigh. I glanced at him, taking note of the deep shadows his face. Sidling up to him, I elbowed him in the ribs. He opened his eyes wearily and stared down at my grinning face.

"Come on," I said. "It'll be just like old times. Éomer and Ana back together again."

Éomer sighed but some of the exhaustion had disappeared from his face. "There are no 'old times', I have known you for a whole three days."

"Exactly," I said. "They've been an awesome three days."

Scene Two: Bonding Over Alcohol

Taysend slammed his drink on the wooden table, ale sloshing over the sides of the mug. "Gríma despises you, and I do mean that he despises you."

"I advise sleeping with a dagger under your pillow tonight," added Dorthin.

"Meh, I can take him," I said, finishing off my first mug of ale. "I don't think he owns a sword, let alone knows how to use one."

"You do not own a sword," said Éomer.

"I own the Sword Breaker," I said proudly. "A gift from the elves. Beat that."

"I own an actual sword," said Dorthin. And then, mimicking my voice, he added, "Beat that."

"The elves did not trust her with a real sword," said Éomer, "so they gave her the little dagger."

"How did you know that?" I gasped.

The riders roared with laughter, and Taysend called for more drinks. The inn was filled with Rohirrim—the townspeople after hard day's work and riders who were stationed in Edoras filled the wooden tables. For the most part, the mood of the inn was somber as riders exchanged stories of the orc-infested lands and rumors of Prince Théodred's approaching death.

The only laughter came from the small table in the corner were Éomer, Gaenry, Dorthin, Taysend, and I were drinking mugs of ale. We did not laugh because we were unconcerned about Théodred's wounds or because we did not care about the fate of Rohan. No, we laughed because sometimes there is nothing else to do.

"The sad part is," I said. "That's the truth. They tried to teach me the sword—that failed miserably. They tried to teach me the bow—that failed miserably. They tried to teach me the axe—um, well, I'm now known as the Beard Defiler."

"Why does that not surprise me in the slightest?" asked Éomer.

The next round of drinks arrived, and we helped ourselves as Dorthin cried, "Drink up!"

I slammed my drink down on the table. "You guys drink like my mother."

"Does your mother drink well?" asked Gaenry, frowning.

"Not at all. It takes her about one glass of wine to get her drunk."

"Then what do you speak of?"

I sighed. "I think 'you mother' jokes are lost on the men of Rohan."

"And do dwarves understand 'you mother' jokes?" asked Gaenry.

"Oh yeah," I said. "They get really enthusiastic too. Your mother was an ox. Your mother can't even grow a beard. Your mother was an orc. Your mother was an elf. You get the idea?"

"I would think it would be a compliment that your mother cannot grow a beard," said Gaenry.

"You are one to talk," said Taysend, taking a long sip of ale.

"What are you implying?" asked Gaenry.

"He means your mother has a beard so thick that rats could live in it," said Dorthin.

"Well." Gaenry took a long draught of ale and then slammed the mug on the table. "Your mother is so fat that she requires five chairs at the dinner table."

"Is that supposed to offend me?" asked Dorthin.

"Your mother is so fat that she requires two horses to get anywhere," said Taysend.

Dorthin laughed and finished off his ale. "Your mother is so hairy that she was mistaken for a bear once."

Taysend grinned. "Your mother is so hairy that she puts dwarves to shame."

"Whoa now," I said. "Let's not get carried away."

But, of course, there was no stopping the riders now that they had begun their onslaught of "your mother" insults. They ran wild with the idea until all three were drunk off their asses and sleeping on the table. I left the insult-battle when they started comparing their mothers to trolls and instead turned my attention to Éomer. He had not been joining in the laughter, and his blue eyes remained fixed on the wall behind me.

"Why so serious?" I asked, sipping my ale.

"I am thinking," said Éomer.

"Thinking is boring. You don't come to a bar to think—you come to pick up pretty people and get wasted. And since you already have me, there's only the drinking left to do."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "I think you have drunk enough for the both of us."

"Hardly," I said. "I'm only on drink number three." I chugged down the last bit of my ale and called for some more. "Make that four."

"My point is proven for me," said Éomer.

"You're too somber for your own good," I said. "It is a wonder you have any friends. If you keep being so serious and sober, you're going to end up like Gollum—going completely insane and talking to yourself all the time. As your longtime friend, I'm quite worried. What will you do when I'm gone?"

"I think I will survive."

"Don't be ridiculous. When I'm gone, you're going to stay awake at night, thinking to yourself 'Where is Ana? Why is Ana not here? I need Ana to provide amusement for me because my life is so painfully serious.'" I took another sip of ale.

"All that horse riding has addled your brains."

"I do hate horses. But so would you if you were extremely short and were chased by a nazgûl across Pelennor Fields after being thrown across the horse's back improperly. I like to say—thanks a lot, Faramir. It's bad enough that I have acrophobia, arachnophobia, myrmecophobia, and pteronarcophobia—and now you have to add hippophobia to the list."

Éomer stared at me.

"No, I didn't make those words up," I said with a sigh. "God, Boromir makes fun of my strange words all the ti—" I stopped.

"What is it?" asked Éomer. He caught sight of the dark expression on my face and his voice grew more intense. "What is wrong, Ana?"

It was too late to turn back now, so I forced myself to be cheerful and said, "Boromir made fun of my strange words all the time. I'd call him my BFF, and he wouldn't know what it meant, so he'd say that he wasn't—"

"Stop," said Éomer, cutting me off. "You are not allowed to do that."

I tried to look wide-eyed and innocent. "Do what?"

"You cannot have a little reflective moment and then keep talking as if it never happened. I will not allow it. Explain."

"Explain what?"

"Who is Boromir?"

I grabbed my ale and drank as much as I could, hoping that it could somehow save me from answering that question. I coughed and lowered the mug. Éomer was still waiting for an explanation; he was not letting me get out of this. If I had been sober, I probably would have come up with some excuse about memory loss, but at this point, I was just drunk enough to talk about Boromir.

"He's a friend," I said. "We drank together and he piggybacked me a lot."

Éomer waited.

"And he died."

Éomer nodded. "And what else?"

My eyes narrowed. "You are really nosy, did you know that?"

"Answer the question."

I crossed my arms and sat back in my seat, glaring across the table at Éomer. "And what if I say no?"

"You still have a warrant on your head," said Éomer with a smile.

I stuck my tongue out at him. I didn't care if it was immature—I was drunk enough to get away with it. Leaning back, I said, "I should've been able to save him. I have this ability…and all these people expect me to use it somehow, to save the world. They talk about this big responsibility I have, but when I tried to use my ability to save Boromir, I couldn't do it."

"I suppose you will not tell me what this ability is," said Éomer.

"I'm not drunk enough for that." My gaze dropped down to the empty mug clutched in my hands. What was I going to tell Faramir? I'd promised him that I'd save him brother, and in the end, I hadn't been able to do anything. Aware that Éomer was watching me, I glanced up at him and said, "All right, your turn."

"My turn?" he asked.

"I've told you my emotional problem of the day, and now it's your turn. Sharing is caring, you know."

It was Éomer's turn to stare down at his mug of ale. He was silent for so long that I thought he wasn't going to tell me, but then, in a low voice, he said, "My cousin is dying and with him dies the Second Line of the House of Eorl."

"The Second Line?" I asked. I didn't understand any of this inheriting stuff. In my world, we voted on who we thought should rule us…not that we always voted for the right person.

"The direct line of kings passes from father to son," said Éomer. "Théodred is King Théoden's only son. If he dies, then the line dies with him."

I tried to figure out where that left Éomer in the equation, and I ventured a guess. "And you would be next-in-line for the throne?"

Éomer nodded. "I would begin the Third Line of the House of Eorl."

"Oh…" I hesitated. "Is that a good thing?"

Again, it took Éomer a long time to answer. I supposed he'd had a bit too much alcohol as well, because I got the feeling he didn't have many conversation about the possibility of him becoming King of Rohan. But finally, he said, "When I was a child, the idea of being king crossed my mind. It was a boyhood fantasy of course, and by the time I was eight, I had accepted that my older cousin would be king. Théodred was meant to sit on the throne, and I was meant to be his right-hand. I was satisfied with the future laid out for us."

But now that future was gone. I didn't say it, of course. But the words hung between us.

"I do not know if I can sit on the throne of Rohan," said Éomer. "I was made to ride on the back of a horse with a sword in my hand."

We sat, our silence punctured only by the sound of Taysend's snort. I didn't know what I was supposed to say to Éomer. I could barely figure out my own life; I could hardly be expected to help someone else figure out theirs.

"Thank you," said Éomer abruptly.

"For what?" I asked. I was genuinely confused. I was fairly certain I hadn't done anything worth thanking me for.

"For sharing and for listening," said Éomer. "Sometimes a stranger to listen is what one needs."

"I hardly count as a stranger now," I pointed out.

Éomer considered this. "No, I suppose you do not."

Scene Three: Bonding Over Marriage

I didn't spend much time with Éowyn while I stayed in Rohan. Most of my visit was spent with the riders. There were a lot of drinking parties and a lot of hangovers. Éowyn was a lady of Rohan; she didn't really associate with the coarse crowd (which I guess included me).

But there was one day that I remember where Éomer and the riders left Edoras to chase down a party of orcs that had been running across the plains. I had wanted to go with them (I didn't want to be left alone in a strange city with Gríma, who really did not like me), but as Éomer pointed out, I couldn't ride a horse, so I would only be a hindrance. Instead, I ended up spending the day with Éowyn. And, well, that was an interesting experience.

"How do you stand it?" I asked.

A frown crossed her face. "How do I stand what?"

"This." I gestured at the Golden Hall in which a sort of despairing, gray sickness clung to every pillar and cornerstone.

Éowyn didn't respond.

"How's Théodred?" I asked.

She didn't look at me directly but kept her gaze focused on her sewing. "He passed during the night."

I swallowed. I shouldn't have asked.

We were sitting in the Golden Hall at the end of a long wooden table. Éowyn was doing some sort of sewing. She was focused on her craft, her head bent and her eyes fixed on the thread. I sat on the other side of the table, tracing the lines in the wood with the tip of my finger.

"I'm bored," I said.

"I apologize, but we are in the middle of a war. Entertainment and cheer are scarce in these times."

She seemed genuinely apologetic. (God damn, she was pretty and nice. That just wasn't fair. Pretty women should have rotten personalities, just to even out the playing field a little.) I scowled at Éowyn and turned my attention to the rest of the hall. If only Éomer and the others would hurry and come back. How long did it take to kill a party of orcs?

The hall was practically empty. Háma was standing near the doors, talking to another soldier who had wavy hair. The two of them spoke in undertones, every so once in awhile casting glances across the hall where the shriveled Théoden sat on his throne while Gríma Wormtongue muttered dark things in his ear.

And then, I noticed something odd. Gríma glanced in our direction. For a moment, I thought his expression was somewhat soft. Then, he saw me staring, and his expression hardened again. He quickly looked away.

"Well that was odd," I said.

"What was odd?" asked Éowyn.

Gríma glanced over again.

"Extremely odd."

Éowyn frowned. She tried to follow my line of sight, peering over at Théoden and Gríma in wonder. Gríma saw that Éowyn was looking, and his face turned a shade of light pink. Then, he saw me, and again his gaze turned cold. He learned over and whispered something in the king's ear.

"Gríma," said Éowyn, her voice colored with distaste.

"He keeps looking over here." I paused. "Maybe he has a crush on me."

Éowyn frowned. "I do not understand that term."

"He's in love with me," I said. "He pretends to be cold and hateful, but secretly he spends his nights by the windows writing love sonnets about my enchanting beauty and exotic ways."

Éowyn stared at me. She opened her mouth a couple of times and only to close it again.

I grinned. "Kidding."

She sighed with relief. "It is best when my brother is around. Gríma fears him. But Éomer is often sent away from Edoras." There might have been a hint of jealousy in her voice.

"Well, who wouldn't fear Éomer? He's a giant, he's good with a sword, and he's rather intelligent." I leaned forward, propping my elbows up on the table and resting my chin in the palms on my hands. "So, your number one suitor is Gríma Wormtongue. How does that make you feel?"

Éowyn bit her lip. "He would not be so bad if he were not…so…"

"Wormy?" I suggested.

Éowyn managed a small smile. "Yes, I suppose so."

"Well," I said. "Even with Gríma stalking you, your love life is better than mine. I have, um, a failed relationship with my next-door neighbor. And I think the man that lives in the alley outside my apartment building might have a crush on me. He always tries to hug me when I pass by. Either that or steal my purse. I'm not exactly sure which one."

"You tell unusual stories," said Éowyn.

"It's a talent," I said. "And don't worry. You're nice and ridiculously pretty. You'll have better suitors than Gríma."

Éowyn laughed. (God, even her laugh was pretty. This isn't fair! God's cheating! God is a cheating elf!) "Well, there was once a marriage proposal from Dunharrow, but nothing became of it. Gríma has had my uncle's ear for many a year. He would not let me go so easily."

"Disappointing," I said. "God, that sucks. What would life be without some good romance to gossip about?"

"But surely you must have some suitors," said Éowyn. "You get along so well with the men."

I laughed. "Sure. Let's see. Who are the male figures in my life? Nick—he's like my older brother, and he has a girlfriend. Nothing happening there. Aragorn—he has Arwen. Enough said. I can't compete with that. Legolas—frigging pretty-boy elf. Gimli—Aw. I could marry Gimli. We'd have a good life together. We'd go live in Erebor and spend our nights by the fire complaining about stupid elves. Who else is there? I wouldn't date hobbits. They're shorter than I am—and that's saying something. Elladan and Elrohir are elves. I like them. They're good elves. But they're still elves. And then there's Ori, Dori, Nori, Óin, Glóin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Fíli, Kíli, Dwalin, and Balin. That would be a no, no, no, no, no, no, he's ridiculously lovely but no, no, maybe, he's a beardless dwarf—definitely not, no, and no. Oh, and then there's Thorin. He's too majestic to love anyone but himself."

Éowyn stared at me blankly. "I did not understand a word of what you just said."

"Good," I said. "Because it was all nonsense. Basically, the only candidates for marriage are dwarves." I considered this for a second. "You know what, I'll marry Gimli. I think that works. Though I did cut off part of his beard once. That's kind of a wedge in our relationship. But we can work to overcome that. Lots of therapy, you know."

A small smile played at Éowyn's lips. "Should I arrange for your wedding?"

"Definitely. I want a strapless wedding dress with a long train. And my bridesmaids have to wear puke green—I can't have anyone looking better than me on my wedding day. It's a rule of thumb."

"Flowers?" asked Éowyn.

"White. Everything has to be white." I paused. "Do you think I can have dwarves as my bridesmaids? I'd want thirteen bridesmaids. They'd all be short and in puke green dresses. Oh, this is getting good."

And that was my bonding experience with Éowyn. We went on to spend the afternoon planning my wedding, reception, and honeymoon with Gimli. Let's just say there were some "your mother" contests at the reception and some wild elvish partying going on. And Thorin and Elrond had a majestic versus grand fight. Well, let's just say, I seriously started to consider marrying Gimli after that.

Scene Four: Arresting The Bold

Éomer and his men returned later that day, their horses' hooves thundering through the city to the Golden Hall. I practically sprinted outside while Éowyn followed at a more even, graceful pace. After squires took charge of the horses , the riders approached the Golden Hall to discuss their journey with the king. I met them on the stone landing outside the hall, the wind blowing my hair in all directions and the green flags rustling wildly.

"How was it?" I asked. "Mission accomplished?"

"The orcs were slaughtered during the night," said Éomer. "It was a long journey, and we lost two of our riders."

I cringed. "Sorry."

"We met some interesting people along the way," said Gaenry.

"Who?" I asked.

"You will find out soon enough," said Éomer. "I must report to the king."

"You mean that you must report to Gríma," muttered Éowyn in one of the rare moments where she let her temper get the best of her.

"Greetings, sister," said Éomer, giving her a quick hug. "Yes, I will give the news to Gríma if he is present."

"Did you two ladies manage to find entertainment while we were gone?" asked Dorthin.

"We planned my wedding," I said. "It's going to be epic."

"I can imagine," said Éomer, who looked genuinely amused at the idea.

"It is," I said. "Two words—dwarf bridesmaids."

Éomer sighed while the other riders tried to image the sight. Instead of commenting on the epicness of dwarf bridesmaids, Éomer grabbed my wrist and steered me towards the entrance to the keep. Once we were out of earshot of everyone else, he asked in hushed, urgent voice, "Have you contacted Gandalf Stormcrow yet?"

I swallowed. "I'm trying. He does as he pleases. It's, um, very hard to keep in contact with Gandalf."

I was lying through my teeth there. Éomer looked so hopeful that Gandalf would come; I didn't have the heart to tell him that my ability to contact Gandalf was a lie that I had spun to avoid being sent to prison.

"Hurry," said Éomer. "I do not know how much longer we can suffer Gríma."

I nodded. "I do not know how longer your sister can suffer Gríma."

Éomer released my arm and stepped away. "You noticed."

"It's not hard to notice," I said.

"I have tried," said Éomer. "I have tried to keep her safe. But I do not know how much longer I will be able to protect her." Éomer glanced over at his sister, concern in his dark eyes. I had never had a sibling, but I imagined that if I did, they would love me like Éomer loved his sister.

The other riders and Éowyn joined us at the door. Háma allowed us entry, and Éomer led the way inside the Golden Hall. He and his fellow riders strode across the hall to stand before Théoden's throne, while Éowyn and I drifted to the side, watching with curiosity at the events about to unfold.

"What news do you bear, Éomer, son of Éomund?" asked Gríma.

"We caught the party of Uruk-hai," said Éomer. "We left none alive."

"Good," said Gríma, leaning back in his chair. "You have served your king well."

Éomer ignored Gríma and continued talking, "We were not the only ones pursuing the orcs. On our return, we met three strangers. They had run many miles after the Uruk-hai, and they sought to rescue two of their companions from the clutches of the orcs. We encountered the orcs first and killed them, but we did not see the companions."

"Strangers?" There was a tone of worry in Gríma's voice, but he quickly masked it with a crooked smile. "What of these strangers?"

"They come from the north," said Éomer. "Almost as though they sprung from the fireside stories. There was a man, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, one of the Dúnedain. As well as an elf and a dwarf."

"Legolas and Gimli," I said. All eyes turned to me. It would probably have been better to remain silent and let Éomer do all the talking, but as always, I suffered from a lack of filter. I smiled awkwardly and scratched the back of my head. "They're semi-friends of mine."

"You do know a lot of people," said Taysend.

"It's a gift."

Éomer ignored me and turned his attentions back to the king (and Gríma). "I leant them two horses belonging to riders who fell during our battle with the orcs. They promised to return the horses when their errand was complete. I have the upmost confidence in their promise."

Théoden stirred. His sleepy eyes fluttered, and he shifted in his seat. "You leant Rohan's horses to strangers?"

"They are honorable," said Éomer.

"You should not have done so."

"They—"

"Do you not listen to your king?" asked Gríma. "He does not approve of your conduct. You may be the king's nephew, Éomer, but that does not give you leave to fulfill any fanciful desire that crosses your mind."

Éomer's eyes narrowed. "Fanciful desire?"

"Things are about to get real tense in here," I murmured.

"You call these things fanciful desires?" asked Éomer, stepping forward. "We are at war, Gríma. Orcs roam freely across our land—unchecked and unchallenged, killing at will. Yet we do nothing to stop them. When will you acknowledge what is right before your feet? When all the men are dead? Then will you say that we are at war? Or do you know we are at war and yet you refuse to acknowledge it? What are you, Gríma? You come from Rohan, yes, but you are not a man of Rohan. You feed wicked words to the ears of our king. But are they wise words? No, they are the words Saruman wants the king to hear, they are the words Saruman wants the king to say. We can suffer you no longer, Gríma. Be gone—before I use some other means to be rid of you."

I buried my face in my hands at this point. I can't say I'm the brightest bulb in the bunch, but even I knew what was going to happen next. I think Éomer knew—even as he spoke those words—what fate awaited him.

"You see much Éomer, son of Éomund," said Gríma as he stepped between Éomer and the king. "But because you see so much, you have become blind to the truth. I seek only to protect Rohan, whereas you only wish to involve her in wars that are not hers to be involved in."

Éomer was shaking with rage. "You—"

"We no longer have need for you war-mongering, Éomer." Gríma turned to the soldiers nearest to him. "Put him in iron and behind bars. He will be of more use to us there."

"No!" Éowyn stepped forward to defend her brother, but Dorthin placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

My heart went out to Éowyn; she had always seemed so lonely, and now her brother was leaving her as well. A part of me wanted to go to Eowyn, but I couldn't bring myself to move. I stood with Taysend and Gaenry, watching with bated breath to see what would happen next.

Éomer lifted his head and stared at Gríma for a long time. "You will come to regret this, Gríma Wormtongue. I can only hope that I live to see that day."

Scene Five: Rescuing The King

"Stupid Éomer." I kicked the gate of a horse stall to let out my frustrations. Except the gate was made of wood. And it didn't like to be kicked. A spasm of pain shot up from my toes to my leg and I gasped, hopping away from the stall and clutching my aching foot.

"I think you are the stupid one," said Gaenry.

"He did what he thought he must," said Taysend. "Not to say that I approve of his actions."

"He's stupid," I said definitively. "He's off the usher list for my wedding."

The four of us—Gaenry, Taysend, Dorthin, and me—were hanging about the stable, tending to the riders' horses. Gaenry was grooming Éomer's white mare since the Third Marshal of the Riddermark was unable to do so himself.

"Not the wedding again," groaned Taysend as he finished feeding his horse. "Lord Éomer is in prison, and you're talking about your non-existent wedding again."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked. "Break Éomer out of jail?"

"You have escaped a Rohan prison before," said Taysend.

"That was different." I scowled. "I got lucky. But there's no way I can break out Éomer—in case you haven't noticed, I'm not the most competent person around."

"I have noticed," snapped Taysend. "I just wish you would be serious from time to time."

"You want me to be serious?" I asked incredulously.

"All you do is make jokes," said Taysend. "For once, it would be good if you could control yourself."

"I am controlling myself! If I weren't, I would be crying and screaming and lying on the floor in a puddle of mess right now."

"Good. Maybe then we'd get some kind of emotion out of you besides laughter." Taysend slammed his fist against a wooden pillar in the stable.

"Calm down, both of you." Dorthin's deep, even voice cut through are argument. "Taysend, Ana cannot help the way she is, and Ana, please realize that we are not in the mood for your humor right now."

I glowered at Dorthin, and he raised his eyebrows in response. He may not believe in a psycho-connection, but I could feel the calming affect his actions had on me. My shoulders slumped, and I leaned back against the wooden gate of the stall. "I'm worried about Éomer."

"We all are," said Taysend.

Right then, a shrill voice filled the stables, "They have come! They have come!"

A squire came sprinting through the doors of the stable, shouting at the top of his lungs. He came to a screeching halt in front of Dorthin. For a moment, the boy could not find words; he stood there, panting and gasping. Then, he lifted his head and cried, "Stormcrow and three strangers have come!"

"Stormcrow?" repeated Gaenry.

"Gandalf," I said. "Aragorn, Legolas, and my future hubby."

"Ana." Taysend's tone was tense with warning.

"Sorry," I said. "Force of habit."

"Quickly," said Dorthin. "To the keep. We do not want to miss this."

The riders sprinted out of the stable, closely followed by the squire. I chased after them, but as much running as I have done, I'm still ridiculously slow. I lugged my way up the hillside to the Golden Hall. Most of the riders was already inside, and I was able to slip in after them. Dorthin, Taysend, and Gaenry had gathered together by the door. Háma stood nearby, fidgeting nervously. I stood on tiptoe, trying to peer over the shoulders of the Rohirrim, but I was too short. Instead, I tilted my head to the side, peering at an awkward angle through the gap between people's arms and legs.

In the center of the hall, approaching the battered king, were four figures. A wizard with long, white hair and gray robes. A man with rugged clothes, dark hair, and a grim expression. An elf with a too-perfect-to-be-true face and long, blond hair. And, of course, a frigging awesome dwarf. It was strange seeming them now after everything that had happened with Boromir.

"The welcome of your hall has somewhat lessen of late," said Gandalf.

"Gimli!" I shrieked, totally ruining the effect of Gandalf's words. I pushed my way through the crowd and flung my arms around the dwarf's neck. Then, I left the stunned dwarf and managed to hug both Aragorn and Gandalf at the same time. (I did not hug the elf.) "Aw man, I missed you guys!"

"The hall seems pretty welcoming to me," muttered Aragorn.

I laughed. "The last time I saw you was under less than happy circumstances!"

"Was it?" Aragorn frowned.

"Bad times," I said, releasing him and Gandalf. "How have you been?"

"Good," said Gimli gruffly. "Merry and Pippin are safe."

"With then Ents," I said, nodding.

"How is it that you know everything?" asked Gimli. (Legolas scoffed at the idea.)

"I'm special. It—"

"Look out!" Aragorn pushed me out of the way. He swung his fist and whacked one of the Rohirrim in the jaw.

I stumbled away from the group. Gaenry caught hold of my shoulders and kept me upright. I watched in horror as Théoden's men besieged what remained of the Fellowship. Gimli, Legolas, and Aragorn punched and kicked and elbowed as the riders attacked. It happened rapidly. My eyes could barely keep up with the speed. I blinked, and a man who had been attacking one moment would be lying on the floor the next, writhing in pain.

Standing at Théoden's right hand, Gríma smiled. It was a twisted, cruel smile. His eyes flickered in the dull light of the hall, and he watched with eager anticipation as chaos ensued below him.

Gandalf didn't concern himself with the attackers. His eyes were fixed on a higher goal—the withered king on the throne. Théoden shifted uncomfortably under Gandalf's unwavering stare.

Gríma stepped between Théoden and Gandalf. "We do not welcome you here, Stormcrow."

"Be gone," said Gandalf. "I did not pass a foul death to trade crude words with you."

"You should be gone," said Gríma, gnashing his yellowed teeth. "You have no power here, Gandalf the Gray."

For the longest moment, Gandalf only stared at Gríma. His gaze was masked and his emotions hard to read. At first, I thought that Gandalf was angry with Gríma, but then, Gandalf's stare seemed pitying. As if he understood Gríma's suffering and wanted to embrace the sniveling man rather than cast him out. The moment passed, and Gandalf's gaze returned to an emotionless slate.

He tugged at the hem of his gray cloak. The outer garment fell away to reveal a glowing white robe beneath. It seemed as though the entire room had been filled with light, and I had to turn away, blinking rapidly.

Gríma howled and staggered away from Gandalf, shielding his eyes from the might of the wizard. Théoden thrashed about in his throne.

Gandalf pointed his staff at Théoden. The end of the white staff seemed to be shimmering, yet there was no light.

"Be gone, Saruman," said Gandalf. "We need you here no longer."

Théoden screamed and struggled with some invisible foe. There was a flash of light.

And then, silence.

Théoden sagged against the arm of his chair. His eyes fluttered. To his right, Éowyn's hands were clasped over her mouth, her eyes filled with tears as she stared at her uncle. Gandalf leaned on his staff, panting slightly. Aragorn frowned as if he was doubting Gandalf's abilities. Gimli squinted at the old king. Legolas stared at Gandalf in awe. Hama looked guilty, his head bent and his eyes flickering to the king and away.

I could not move. I knew what everyone was doing, and at the same time, I had no idea what was going on. The Golden Hall was filled with the silence of fear and hope. All eyes were fixed on the king.

The old man lifted his head, and I saw that he was not an old man at all. He was middle-aged with graying, blond hair and a world-weary face. His blue eyes were accompanied by shadows and wrinkles—but he was not old. He seemed stronger and more resilient than the wisp of a king that had sat there before. This was Théoden, King of Rohan, as he ought to have always been.

Théoden surveyed the hall, his hands trembling slightly. "Where have I been?"

"Lost," said Gandalf. "On the paths Saruman led you. But now, you have found your way home. And just in the nick of time."

Théoden let out a shaky laugh. All at once, the room seemed to join in his relief. The riders laughed and patted one another on the back. Éowyn wiped away her unshed tears and rushed to her uncle's side. The ever-set gloom of Théoden's halls broke like a dam and the giddy joy rushed forth.

"Well," I said, brushing off my hands. "That was fun. What do we do now?"

And, well, that was the question that would take a long time to answer.