A/N: Finally, here's a surprise surrounding Friday the 13th that ISN'T necessarily bad luck! SURPRISE! I'm back! I don't know if any of you are still reading, but if you are, well, thanks for sticking around!

And to those of you who just discovered this story... Welcome!

Chapter XVIII: The Fate of The Children

Théodred, son of Théoden, was dead. His once handsome face was now little more than a pale mask of mortality. His once shining golden hair had dulled and darkened, as though to match those who mourned him. His still corpse had been dressed in his finest armor and was now lying on an elegant stretcher, ready to be buried with his fellow kin who had died honorable deaths. Six royal guards carried him out of the gates of Edoras, the path flanked with his former subjects, all dressed in black.

King Théoden led the guards to his son's open grave on foot, his grief apparent despite his majestic, solemn façade. Fergus was immediately behind them, followed by Aragorn, Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli. A few scattered whimpers and sobs from the crowd could be heard in the quiet, still air.

Éowyn stood at the mouth of the open grave, directly in front of a huddled mass of weeping women. Her black veil blew about her in the breeze, despite her holding it down with her pale, graceful hands. As the guards slowly handed what remained of the Prince of Rohan to the women, who reverently laid him in his tomb, she began to sing a mournful farewell.

Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended

Giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende on Meduselde

Thæt he ma no wære, his dryhtne dyrest

And maga deorost Bealo...

...

"Simbelyne. Ever has it grown on the tomb of my forebears. Now it shall cover the grave of my son."

Fergus stood beside his old friend, while Gandalf remained a couple feet behind them.

Théoden turned to Fergus, on the verge of tears.

"Tell me, old friend, do you have any children of your own?"

"Aye. A daughter and three wee lads."

"Has fate been kind to them in these evil times?"

"Not entirely."

"What has befallen them?"

"I left my wife and three sons home in Dunland.

My daughter..."

Fergus paused, uncomfortably wondering if he should tell Théoden about the mission she'd joined. For a moment, Gandalf looked at Fergus the same way a father would to a child on the verge of blurting something inappropriate.

"...she... ran off to fight in the war."

Théoden raised an eyebrow.

"The battlefield is no place for a maiden."

"I pray that they all meet better fates than Théodred," the king of Rohan continued solemnly. "though I don't trust to hope- especially if what you say about your daughter is true. It has forsaken these lands. Alas that these evil days should be ours. The young perish and the old linger. That I should live... to see the last days of my house."

The look on Gandalf's face softened dramatically - as did his voice.

"Théodred's death was not of your making."

Théoden's lip began to quiver, his voice breaking.

"No parent should have to bury their child."

He finally broke down, falling to his knees and sobbing.

Fergus took a few steps back and joined Gandalf, leaving Théoden to mourn in peace.

In the distance, the two men saw a horse wearily carrying two riders on its back. Soon, the horse stopped seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly, the rider in the front swooned and fell to the ground.

Gandalf rushed to them. Fergus followed at his heels and helped him bring them all into Edoras.

...

Saruman's long fingers, tipped with claw like nails, hovered over the fiery black Palantír. The wizard who had until recently possessed the mind of King Théoden was more than eager to make up for that setback in his conquest of Rohan. He'd all but had the wild men of Dunland wrapped around his finger. They'd raided and burned villages, swore their allegiance to him and had slain for him.

All that was left was the disgustingly stubborn royal family. He'd hoped that they'd be overthrown and done away with by now. Alas, they were not. The alliance between King Fergus and Théoden made his blood boil. The mere thought of it was enough to put a hideous scowl on his face.

All of this was just salt in a gaping wound. That gaping wound was the fact that Gandalf had just supplanted him as the White Wizard- and the leader of the Istari. He was the one who had driven him out of the mind of King Théoden. On top of that, he had been accompanied by the rumored heir of Númenor, along with the Elven prince of Mirkwood and the son of one of the dwarves who had set out to reclaim Erebor many years ago. If it weren't for them, Rohan would have been like a tender, frightened maiden ready to be taken in the heat of battle.

The virtue that eminated from Saruman's former friend made him so sick he could taste the bile building up in the back of his throat. He swallowed it back, his scowl only worsening.

He finally managed to summon the visions of what surrounded him from the orb beneath his hand. The men of Dunland were continuing to raid the villages near Edoras. Flames consumed the thatched houses. The screams of the villagers echoed about him, only to fade into the sound of sizzling and clanging metal. The vision had suddenly switched to the bowels of Mordor. Dark, filthy orcs and goblins worked to forge armor and weapons. The inside of the cave glowed red from the light of heated metal and flames. A slight smirk of approval graced his thin, severe face before he transitioned the vision off to the wretched royal family of Dunland. His grin quickly resumed the scowl from before as he watched Fergus and Théoden continue their alliance. He quickly switched to the castle that Fergus had abandoned, curious to see if he'd left anyone vulnerable at home.

He saw a woman with two brown braids that practically swept the floor, her green gown brushing the stony ground where the now mournful castle stood. A simple gold crown rested on her head, along with a noticeable streak of silver in one of her plaits. Her hand caressed the wall beside her, as though in lieu of her husband's face. Three little red-headed boys stopped in the middle of their games in order to look up at her, a look of innocent confusion in their eyes. Saruman chuckled.

"So, Fergus, you've left your wife and children behind while you frolic about in your misadventures?"

He grinned widely.

"A poor choice for a king whose subjects have turned against you. Perhaps your wife shall be wiser than you."

A flame of dark inspiration lit illuminated his mind. He knew exactly what to do now.

A tall, dark orc with a distorted face littered with scars and piercings suddenly entered the room.

Saruman's black eyes finally shifted to the creature.

"Go fetch me a horse."

...

Frodo and Merida were fast asleep, while Gollum was merely pretending to be - at least until the gaze of the intimidating phantom called Boromir seemed to shift elsewhere.

As soon as he thought so, the gangly thing used the cover of night to slip by, towards the shelter of a decrepit piece of stone ruin.

"We wants it... We needs it... We must have the precious!"

His expression changed as soon as he said that, his older alter ego emerging - but only for a moment.

"They stole it from us! Filthy thieves - Wicked! Tricksy! False!"

His face softened after the brief rant.

"No, not Master."

"Yes, Precious - False! They will cheat you, hurt you, lie!"

"Master's my friend."

"You don't have any friends - Nobody likes you!"

Smèagol placed his hands over his ears.

"I'm not listening! I'm not listening!"

"You're a liar - and a thief!" Gollum taunted.

"Murderer...!"

"Go away," Smèagol quietly remarked, halfway between a whine and a whisper.

"Go away?" Gollum let out a wicked laugh.

"I hate you. I hate you...!" Smèagol whined.

"Where would you be without me? *Gollum! Gollum!* I saved us," asserted the more aggressive half of the little grey imp bound to the Ring.

"It was me. We survived because of ME!"

"Not... anymore..."

"What?"

"Leave now... and never come back."

Gollum growled, baring his teeth like a hostile dog.

"Leave, now! And never come back!"

The exclamation was followed by silence. Surprisingly, neither Frodo nor Merida had even stirred - although Smèagol wouldn't have cared if they did.

"We-we told him to go away! And away he goes, precious! GONE! GONE! GONE! Smèagol is free!"

Smèagol spent the rest of the night in a clumsy celebratory dance.