A/N: 18 reviews! Thank you all, and I say unto you: More! Pretty Please. With a Cherry on top. And as a reward, your eighth chapter in 60 days, and third in 5 days! And a long one at that.
This is a rather Rohan centric chapter, because it's the last big bit (I think) from them before Eomer gets exiled, and some plot centric things happen.
The blindfolding bit hasn't/won't happen because, well, you can guess why. Also, 2 films are quoted below, one quite obviously the other less so. Also, taking a cue from Virtuella's fantastic 'Truth be Told', something I agreed with when she asked me about it, is making the Dunlendings the equivalent of the Welsh.
Why? Because the Rohirrim were Tolkien's dream version of the Anglo-Saxons, one that had developed cavalry that could fend off the Normans. The Rohirrim were granted the land later known as Rohan by the Steward Cirion of Gondor in the Third Age, pushing out the previous inhabitants. In Britain, the Saxons came and pushed the ancestors of the modern day Welsh and Cornish West. The Welsh called England 'Lloegyr', meaning 'lost lands'. Being proudly Welsh (most of me is Welsh and the just under half is English, making me a walking paradox), I can empathise with the Dunlendings and their desperation, but in this the Rohirrim come off better. In fairness, I like both a lot. The OC (please tell me if I've made him a Marty Stue) I'm introducing in this chapter may become more important later, but is only likely to take centre stage in a side story or sequel (which I am planning).
Night fell in Lothlorien, while they were still some miles from the citadel. Haldir whistled up at the tree's and an elf up amongst them dropped down a deceptively thin looking ladder, which Gimli looked at with distinctly worried expression.
"Will it hold my weight?" He asked, eyeing it.
"It will. Elven rope ladders last as long as their grudges and are twice as strong." Harry deadpanned.
Gimli chuckled slightly, as Harry added fairly, "The only thing that outlasts it and is stronger than it, is their loyalty and their word once given," a turn of phrase that mollified a few of the Elves who had begun to look noticeably grumpy.
"You use fair speech, Master Potter. If only you did so more often." Haldir said loftily. Yep, Harry thought, he was still irritated. Damage control needed.
"I use it when I feel it is warranted." Harry said mildly, then followed Legolas up the rope ladder as Haldir glared slightly. The rest made it up, Gimli a trifle reluctantly, but upon feeling the softness and strength of the cord muttered approving how his father would love some of this, drawing a grateful smile from an elf by the name of Rumil, whose sister helped make the ropes.
"Indeed Master Dwarf, maybe when this is over the old trade relations could be set up again." The young elf chattered excitedly on the talan, perhaps too young to remember the old problems, or merely more friendly and open-minded, drawing a reproving stare from one of his fellows.
"Aye laddie, I would like that." Gimli said warmly. Here was an elf, Legolas aside, that he could like, not merely respect. Harry was grinning madly. He'd suggested to Gimli that he swap positions supposedly to talk with Aragorn, breaking the ice as he did so with a comment that Gimli was renowned even among his own people for his skills with jewellery, something which elves had always loved and admired about the dwarves.
"I think it's going rather well," he said to Aragorn in Rohirric, having picked up a conversational skill in it during his many travels and stays in Rohan. It also had the advantage that the only remaining party member with a chance of understanding what they were saying was Boromir, who understood quite a bit of the language, as long as it was spoken slowly. Which it wasn't in this case. The man in question glowered suspiciously, until Harry told him slowly what they talking about. He nodded and grinned, though a hint of doubt remained in his eyes.
"And It is gaining a foothold in our friends head," Harry said grimly, using words that Boromir was unlikely to pick up on.
"I know. You must speak to him of It. He will not trust me or anyone else in his state. As for your plans," He said, nodding to where Legolas, Rumil and Gimli were chatting amiably, "I'm not entirely sure if Thranduil will be entirely pleased."
"Thranduil doesn't scare me." Harry said breezily, and when Aragorn raised an eyebrow in blatant disbelief, he amended, "he doesn't scare me much."
"You seem to have dealt with your grief for Gandalf well." Aragorn said neutrally. When Harry looked up, vaguely puzzled, he elaborated. "You haven't set fire to half the wood yet."
"No. Galadriel wouldn't be pleased, and I feel I need to grieve for him at some other point. Besides, I have this feeling… as if pieces are being moved, as if this is a far larger game than any of us had imagined. Things are stirring that haven't stirred for an age of this earth." Harry said softly.
"That as may be, but Gandalf is still dead." Aragorn said bluntly. There was no use or good in Harry kindling a false hope that Gandalf may be alive.
"I know. And I will grieve for him later." Harry said calmly. And that was the end of it.
As twilight turned to night, all fell asleep, save the elves on guard. Even Frodo eventually fell asleep, though he soon woke everyone up with a scream. Harry snapped bolt upright, and locked eyes ever so briefly with the thing that was attacking Frodo. It was small, bony and hissed like some sort insane cat. Gollum. Harry fired a stunner at the creature, but it moved fast, dodging the spell and a hail of elf arrows, hissing defiance once more, then disappeared, several elves in hot pursuit.
Harry apparated over to Frodo's talan, scaring the poor hobbit further and causing Sam to nearly hit him over the head with a frying pan.
"Don't go scaring people like that Master Harry!" Sam scolded.
"Sorry. I didn't think. And please don't call me Master, just Harry. It brings back bad memories." Harry said with a wince, thinking of Dobby.
"Sorry M- Harry." Sam said.
"Is Frodo all right?" Harry asked crouching down to examine the frightened Hobbit.
"That foul creature never touched him. He's fine in body, but in mind?" Sam looked down doubtfully at the terrified and wide eyed Frodo.
"Frodo. Frodo look at me." Harry said firmly, gripping the Ringbearer by the chin and turning his face gently towards him, looking him dead in the eyes, deep green locking with deep blue.
"You're safe now, among friends. The creature Gollum is gone, it can't hurt you. And if I have my way it will rue the day it tried." Harry said kindly. "Sam, look after him. I'm off to have a word with Haldir." He spotted the Marchwarden on the ground below and disapparated, the sun rising in the background, casting a soft glow over the forest.
"What was that creature?" Haldir said, bewildered. Few creatures were so agile and stealthy. Harry didn't blame him for his confusion, or for the fact Gollum managed to sneak past their guard.
"Gollum. Formerly known as Sméagol, and 3rd bearer of the One Ring after Sauron and Isildur. The Ring gave him a lengthened life span, but addicted him and warped him. He was once of some sort of Hobbit stock, now, no one quite knows what he is."
"We've been hearing of babies disappearing from cots, small woodsman's children being taken when their parent's attention was elsewhere for but a moment…" Haldir said. "I take it this Gollum creature is responsible."
"Almost certainly." Harry replied grimly. "Especially if the tales of Bilbo, Gandalf and Aragorn are correct."
"Then he has a long overdue date with Eru's judgement, even if it takes me the rest of my life to find him." Haldir said, eyes narrowing.
"There's the Haldir I know and love. The one willing to go to the ends of the earth to right wrongs, but it took Aragorn and Gandalf together months to find him, and right now we don't have the time." Harry said, clapping the thoroughly puzzled elf on the back.
"Aragorn is with us right now, and the creature cannot have gone far." Haldir said stubbornly.
"Why didn't you list him among our assets?" Harry said, affecting slight irritation, then grinned, as if there was a joke only he was privy to. Haldir, not unsurprisingly, looked puzzled. Still, at least Harry seemed to have forgiven him, for now anyway. The raw fury in Harry's eyes had been an unsettling sight, especially when hanging upside down and utterly helpless. Now he was merely puzzling. The Marchwarden vaguely wondered if the young wizard had gone mad at some point, a possibility borne out by Aragorn rolling his eyes and wearing an expression that said 'Get used to it.'
"Harry, in case you had taken total leave of your senses, something I have long suspected, we are on a quest. There is no time to hunt Gollum." Legolas said dryly.
Harry merely pouted slightly. "Has Harry truly gone mad?" Boromir whispered to Aragorn, momentarily putting aside his Ring induced worries. "You know him better than anyone."
"It's less a question of whether he has gone mad, more that he seems to be being more obvious about. Mithrandir's fall may have pushed him over the edge." Aragorn whispered back, half concerned half sarcastic. Harry and Legolas were having an adverse effect on him.
"You're delaying us laddie." Gimli said, somewhat testily.
Harry walked past the Fellowship and their escort, saying "Waiting on you now." With mingled sounds of exasperation and amusement, they followed the strangely jaunty wizard, while the soft laughter of the Lady of the Golden Wood sparkled in the early morning ether.
Rohan
Eomer waved away a groom. Like arming himself, he preferred to put on his horses tack by himself, especially with Wormtongue and his minions around, any one of whom could just say, tighten the girth just a little too loose, causing him to fall off at exactly the wrong moment. Theodred was doing the same, having come to the same conclusion. Living under the shadow of Isengard taught proper levels of paranoia, especially in these most troubled of times. Eomer wanted to talk to his cousin. Theodred would have a plan. Possibly one that would involve thwarting the rumoured Uruk mustering at the Fords of Isen.
Eomer was far from stupid, and in another timeline, would have made a great and shrewd King, but it was Theodred who had the knack for dealing with politics and complex plots, while Eomer was the better general. Each had always accepted the other's strengths, save for that short period in their teenage years when each felt they had to prove they were top dog due to hormonal imbalances, causing Eowyn to despairingly cry, 'boys! Complete idiots!', at the somewhat ridiculous posturing. Hermione would have been able to empathise with the Shieldmaiden of Rohan and Only Sane Woman of Rohan.
Both mounted up, and trotted to the head of the column, purposefully interposing trusted men between them and Wormtongue's minders.
"What's the plan of action, cousin?" Eomer asked quietly.
"There is no plan. We had one chance, one shot and it failed." Theodred said flatly, then quirked his face into a quasi-smile, looking sidelong at Eomer. "Maybe it would have worked better if you had dressed in one of Eowyn's dresses."
"Are you sure you would rather deal with an enraged Eowyn when the dress inevitably broke?" Eomer countered.
Theodred shuddered. "Good point and well made. God knows I love my cousin as dearly as any of my family still living, but she terrifies me sometimes."
"Watch it, or she might make you eat some of her cooking." Eomer said dryly.
"Maybe we could force Wormtongue to eat some. See how well he corrupts father whilst glued to the Privy." Theodred said thoughtfully.
"He may not corrupt father if that happens, but he'll poison half the city if what happened to you is any indication." Eomer replied.
"Trust you to bring that up." Theodred said, making a face of disgust. "Speaking of the people, they look frightened. And starving."
"Aye, they are. Saruman has Dunlendings fighting for him. Maybe we can take their supplies. Unlike those of the orcs, they at least should be fit for consumption." Eomer said, mulling it over.
"If we beat them. I am not sure how large this force is." Theodred said grimly. He turned and commanded scouts be sent out. What he didn't know, turning around before they left, was that the scouts were Wormtongue's men.
When they arrived at the Fords, the force before them was small, and according to scout reports passed up the line, unsupported.
"I would suggest we split our forces cousin. You command the first attack on the enemy, and my force can move around to the enemy rear and mop up whatever is left, while fending off any unexpected interference from Isengard."
"The scouts said nothing was nearby." Theodred said, with a cocked head. Eomer had the feeling he was being tested.
"I find it is most prudent to hope for the best and prepare the worst cousin." He said.
"A good plan and a wise philosophy. Eomer, circle your eored round the right flank and keep below the skyline and hide on the edge of the forest until the time comes to attack. My eored will attack, and yours will pick off any survivors." Theodred summarised decisively. He waited 5 minutes, and once he was certain the time was right, he bellowed, "Forth Eorlingas!" The horses were kicked into a trot, then a canter, then a gallop, each trooper drawing a weapon of choice. This was what Theodred loved about war. Not the death, or the killing, though if he was facing orcs he took a certain savage satisfaction in ridding the world of another creature that sort to despoil all that was good. It was the feeling of being part of a greater whole, part of the herd that moved in synchrony as if of one mind and body. Feeling together. Adrenaline aside, he hadn't really felt that since his father, uncle, aunt and cousins had had the occasional quite moment in his youth.
Then there was the shuddering crash of impact, as the enemy ran helpless before them. He hacked down one orc, then another, beheading a dunlending. Then he wheeled his horse to find another target. As he got closer, the target turned and with a jolt he realised two things. The target was human, thin and dark haired with frightened light green eyes. Almost like a younger version of Harry. The boy couldn't be more than 15. As the impact came closer, he shifted grip on his sword and clobbered the youngster, who had raised a rusty sword in a shaky but defiant defence with the flat of his blade, sending the boy reeling. He looked around him, then dismounted. They might as well take a prisoner. The boy had recovered his equilibrium, and, Theodred was secretly impressed to see, held his sword up in what must have been wild courage in the face of what must have been to him some sort of demon in armour. The boy lunged, surprisingly fast, but Theodred simply caught his arm and twisted, forcing the boy to drop the blade. He removed his helmet and said gently, "You are brave, but outmatched. Surrender, and I swear on the blood of my ancestors that you will not be harmed by I or my men."
The light green eyes, not as deep or dark as Harry's, but still intriguing widened, looking at something over his shoulder. Then the boy slithered out of his grip and shoved him violently to one side. Theodred was about to swear a blue streak about stubborn Dunlendings when he felt an Uruk blade cut into his side. If that boy hadn't pushed him to one side, that swipe would have removed his head. He staggered and turned to face his foe, one hand clutching his dagger, having dropped his sword, and the other clutching his side. The Uruk in question was enormous, a good 7 feet tall, and it snarled at him, slashing once more. He managed to fend off the blow, and the next. He couldn't survive much longer. The only reason he had survived this long was because this Uruk was as stupid as it was large.
What he didn't see was the boy, known solely as Emrys, watching the fight, and coming to a decision. The Horselord hadn't needed to spare his life, nor had he needed to compliment him and take him prisoner so gently. Besides, he had gone to war to avenge his father, not to fight alongside creatures such as this that barely distinguished friend from foe and had no concept of honour. It had also dawned on him, he not being stupid, and with his father dead, he had a lot of time to think, how they were created, and the price at which the conquest of Rohan was to be bought by the Chiefs of the Dunlendings.
Over the last few years women had disappeared from both his own people and those of the Horseman, raiders taking any and all women to the White Hand in the dark tower. He knew why they had been taken and for what purpose. The Horseman may be cold and cruel, but they never stooped so low. He picked up Theodred's dropped sword and hefted it. The Horsemen made good steel that much he would admit.
His father, before he had been killed, had rigorously taught him the advice that had been passed from father to son since before the Horsemen took LLoegyr. 'Meet honour with honour, insult with insult'. This Horselord had shown him honour, and he was bound to do the same. That decided he moved slowly and silently behind the Uruk, and, seeing a weak point in the abomination's armour, lunged in a slightly clumsy, but efficient manner skewering the surprised creature. Unable to pull the sword out again, he grabbed his own rusty blade, blocking the dying but enraged Uruk's blows, leading it away from the injured Horselord. As he tired, one blow slipped through, scoring his arm, and as he yelled in pain, the Uruk got the second, surprise from behind when Eomer's spear took it in the back.
Emrys reached down, and dazedly removed first the spear and then the sword, handing the spear to a thoroughly puzzled Eomer, who examined him closely, then narrowed his eyes and hefted his spear.
"You're a Dunlending! Why did you save his life?" Eomer said, angry and puzzled.
"He spared mine when I was at his mercy, and disarmed me gently, offering his word of honour that I would be fairly treated. My father, a peaceful herdsman, once a raider, slain by your people, taught me this: 'Honour for honour, Insult for insult.' My mother was one of your own, taken in a raid who fell in love with my father. She died many years ago, and when he was killed, I felt betrayed by your people. I joined the army of the White Hand to get vengeance on you but this Horselord showed me kindness that he didn't need to." The boy said casually, though with a palpable harshness when talking about the death of his father.
"I also did not join to fight alongside monsters like that," he said, spitting at the fallen Uruk, "I have worked out how they are made." With eyes suddenly full of sorrow and pain that were suddenly disturbing reminiscent of Harry's, he said, "Have you noticed that women and girls are being taken more and more in raids over the last few years, by my people and the Uruk's?" Eomer nodded warily, not sure what to make of this boy who spoke perfect common and spoke with a measured coherence. Maybe his mother had been minor nobility, and ensured he got something approaching an education, Eomer thought vaguely, ordering the couple of men that had gone to stop Theodred's bleeding and tend to him to make a bandage.
"They took ours as well. They said that they had gone to work, or had mysteriously died, and we never saw them again. I hoped that my older sister, taken this last year, would be where we mustered, another reason I joined. That was how the White Hand created these creatures. I see that now, our Chieftains have sold their souls for a chance to retake Lloegyr. I will not be a part of that. And that is why I saved your kinsman Horselord."
"How did you know he was my kinsman?" Eomer said, surprised.
"I have seen the look that you have on your face many times after a raid, when someone has lost a brother, sister, mother, father, son or daughter. Too many times. I also see a resemblance in your face. My name is Emrys ap Derfel, Horselord. If I am to be your prisoner as your kinsman intended, I would ask yours." The boy, Emrys, said firmly.
"My name is Eomer, son of Eomund. I am the 3rd Marshal of the Riddermark and Cousin to the man you saved, Prince Theodred, who is heir apparent to the throne of Rohan." Eomer said, still not quite believing this was happening.
Emrys bent down and examined the late Uruk's sword, and sniffed it, looked at his bleeding arm and Theodred's wound and swore viciously in the language of the Dunlendings.
"The blade is poisoned." He said flatly.
"Grimbold, take the young one on your horse. We'll need as much information as we can get. Take him round the back entrance to my quarters, tell no one. If the worm should find out about this, I doubt he will live long." Eomer commanded, heaving a now unconscious Theodred into the saddle in front of him, while Grimbold did likewise.
"The scouts my Lord?" Grimbold asked.
"They were Wormtongue's men. Likely they betrayed us to Isengard, and they have been rewarded as traitors deserve." Eomer said, scanning the battlefield. Sure enough, each and every one of the so called scouts was dead.
"Mount up! We ride with all speed to Edoras!" Eomer called loudly. He balanced his cousin carefully. Hopefully they were going to be in time to save them.
A/N: A clue as to Theodred's ultimate fate is contained within. Happy hunting! And please, review you wonderful people!