With this chapter, we finally enter the third and last part of this story – The Return of the King. Here, we will see the ultimate revelations that will amaze, shock, and change not only Estel's family, but also the rest of Middle-earth.

Chapter Forty-One

~ Eldarion ~
Murmurs of shock raced through Éomer, Théoden, Gimli, and Boromir when our horses waded through the water and muck and mud to find a giant tree waiting for us. A tree that suddenly straightened, walked over, and spoke in a booming, slow voice as though he was an ancient old man who could barely move.

Of course, it wasn't just any old tree.

It was Treebeard, Lord of the Ents and one of the oldest of his kind.

"Young master Gandalf," he rumbled. "I'm glad you've come. Wood and water, stock and stone I can master, but there's a Wizard to manage here, locked in his tower."

I exchanged a glance with Legolas. This was why we had not wanted Estel to come, even though she had wanted to. It had taken the interference of Mithrandir himself before she agreed not to come – even if her agreement had been sullen and reluctant.

Slowly, we urged our horses closer to the tower of Orthanc. But it was an uneasy advance; Saruman was dangerous and cunning, said to the be the most cunning of all the Istari.

Mithrandir voiced that concern. "Be careful; even in defeat Saruman is dangerous."

"Then let's just have his head and be done with it," Gimli suggested.

"No," Mithrandir said sharply. "No, we need him alive." He paused, as if considering how best to frame his reason, and returned his gaze to the top of the tower. "We need him to talk."

So that was his reason. It made sense too; Saruman had been in contact with Sauron up until this "unfortunate" flooding of Orthanc and the slaughter of his army at Helm's Deep. Surely he knew something, anything that could help us in our struggle against Sauron.

Granted, of course, that we could pray the price he wanted.

Then a voice spoke, weary and old yet strong and full of dreadful knowledge. "You have fought many wars and slain many men Théoden King," it said as the speaker appeared on the top of the tower, "and made peace afterwards." Saruman leaned heavily on his staff, appearing to all the world exhausted and old. "Can we not take council together, as we once did, my old friend? Can we not have peace, you and I?"

Saruman's voice was enchanting, and for the smallest second I fell under his power. But then the Ring of Barahir burned on my finger as if I'd plunged my hand into boiling lava – and I remembered Mithrandir's warning about Saruman.

Théoden was silent for a while, and I feared he had fallen as I had when he said slowly, "We shall have peace."

Éomer stirred, his expression outraged, but Théoden spoke again.

"We shall have peace," he declared, "when you answer for the burning of the Westfold, and the children that lie dead there. We shall have peace, when the lives of the soldiers, whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg, are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows . . . then, yes, we shall have peace."

His burning words removed any doubt that he had fallen under Saruman's spell.

And Saruman knew it.

His expression turned furious, and he spat, "Gibbets and crows? Dotard!"

Then he turned his attention upon Mithrandir. His voice turned almost . . . condescending now, but then again, Mithrandir was the least likely of all of us to fall under the spell of Saruman's voice. Especially now that he was the White Wizard.

"What do you want, Gandalf Greyhame? Let me guess: the key of Orthanc, or perhaps the key of Barad-dûr itself, along with the crowns of the seven kings and the rods of the five wizards!"

Mithrandir was unruffled. "Your treachery has already cost many lives," he said instead. "Thousands more are now at risk – but you could save them, Saruman. You were deep in the Enemy's council."

Saruman's expression turned arrogant. "So you have come here for information," he said softly. I have some for you."

With that, he reached into his robes and produced . . . a Palantír. As he gazed at it, a light flared up in the middle, brilliant gold sullied by the inky murkiness of the outside. It was like a flame that was being shadowed and dimmed by a concealing, strangling hood of evil and darkness. And it spoke – no, whispered of things good and ill, small and large, present and future. It called to me, to my blood, to my heritage, to my desire to learn and it murmured of what I could learn if I would just put my hand on it and make myself its master.

In some ways, the whispers of the Palantír were at more once alluring and more repulsive than any charm wrought of Saruman.

And Saruman seemed ensnared so deeply within that trap that nothing would ever save him.

"Something festers in the heart of Middle-Earth. Something that you have failed to see. But the Great Eye has seen it. Even now he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon."

Saruman looked at us then, and his expression was a mix of insanity and triumph.

"You're all going to die," he said, his voice soft.

I shifted uneasily. I knew that in my past, obviously everyone had lived. Well . . . mostly everyone. But still, not enough of them had died to warrant the label "all". So either Saruman was completely deluded and power-crazy . . . or the survival of my family demanded a blood-price for balance – and everyone else would pay it.

Saruman wasn't finished, though. "But you know this, don't you, Gandalf," he purred self-satisfactorily. "You cannot think that this Ranger will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor. This exile, crept from the shadows, will never be crowned king."

As if insulting Aragorn wasn't enough, Saruman then turned his leer onto Aragorn himself.

"Gandalf does not hesitate to sacrifice those closest to him, those he professes to . . . love," he warned, but the warning was marred by how smug his voice was.

He swung back to Mithrandir, almost cackling in the discomfort his words caused. "Tell me . . . what words of comfort did you give the Halfling before you sent him to his doom? "The path that you have set him on can only lead to death."

"I've heard enough," Gimli growled suddenly. "Shoot him. Stick an arrow in his gob."

Legolas, to my surprise, immediately reached for his quiver without question. Normally, he would have hesitated before accepting an order from a Dwarf – or before he killed someone, even a crazy old man.

Thankfully, Mithrandir stopped him. "No," he said quietly.

Then he raised his voice. "Come down Saruman, and your live will be spared."

"Save your pity and your mercy; I have no use for it!" he spat. Then he angled his staff and a roaring fireball formed and shot towards Mithrandir. It engulfed him and Shadowfax, but we were powerless to do anything; our own horses shied from the flames, and it took a bit to get them back under control.

By then, the flames had died out.

"Saruman," Mithrandir announced calmly as the flames dissipated, "your staff is broken."

The staff shattered in Saruman's hands, startling him so much that he dropped the useless remains.

And behind him, a hunched figure approached.

Théoden started and spoke at the same time that I recognized the Man. "Gríma," he called, "you need not follow him. You were not always as you are now. You were once a man of Rohan! Come down."

"A man of Rohan?" Saruman spat, as though Théoden had spoken to him and not to Gríma Wormtongue. "What is the house of Rohan but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek and their brats roll on the floor with the dogs? Victory at Helm's Deep does not belong to you, Théoden, horsemaster! You are a lesser son of greater sires."

The words seemed to wound Théoden physically, aging him as Saruman's magic had. But this time, with a great effort that to me showed his true kingship, he looked back up and said calmly, "Gríma, come down. Be free of him."

Once again, Saruman acted as though Théoden had spoken to him. "Free?" he laughed. "He will never be free."

But then Gríma murmured something, so softly even Legolas didn't hear it.

Whatever it was, it enraged Saruman as nothing else had. He whirled and ordered, "Get down, cur!" Then he slapped Gríma so hard that the Man fell back.

"Saruman, you were deep in the Enemy's council. Tell us what you know!" Mithrandir commanded.

"You withdraw your guard, and I will tell you where you doom will be decided. I will not be held prisoner here," he declared.

Light glinted off a bared blade, and without thinking, I seized an arrow and sent it flying into the heart of the bearer of the knife – Gríma Wormtongue, eyes full of rebellious murder.

I lowered the bow, full of rage that yet another life had been destroyed because of Saruman.

"Tell us what you know, Curumo!" I demanded, using his true name. "This is your last chance to redeem yourself, else you will be cast down and wander, incorporeal and naked and powerless, ever in between life and death, Mandos and Middle-earth."

Saruman had flinched at my voice, and then at my usage of his true Maia name, and then at my reminder of the fate he would suffer. But he quickly recovered.

"Name yourself, then, 'prophet'," he sneered. "You who dare to decree the destiny of a Maia!"

"I am not scared by a Maia, for the blood of one runs in my veins as it has since the time of the Elder Days," I answered. I lifted my hand and raised the Ring of Barahir high in the air, so Saruman could see for himself to whom he spoke. "For I am Eldarion, firstborn and only son of Lord Elessar of Gondor and Lady Kiria of Rohan, descendent of the unbroken line of Beren Barahirion and Lúthien Tinúviel!"

Now Saruman seemed momentarily silenced. I knew he understood what I had said; he knew Elvish just as well as Mithrandir, Aragorn, and Legolas did.

"Hah! So you are a scrawny brat who thinks himself heir to Gondor's throne," he scoffed.

"Unlike you," I answered, "I seek no honor but that which I have earned – not what I think I deserve. So answer me, Curumo, or resign yourself to the fate you know will befall you!"

"Here is my answer," he said softly.

Fireworks spat in front of my eyes, blinding me even though my eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Roars sounded in my ears, roars that were the terrible combination of tsunamis, hurricanes, tornados, and every other natural disaster on earth, roars that deafened me to everything else around me. A foul taste entered my mouth, so revolting that it was everything I could do not to vomit – and I was suddenly glad that I hadn't eaten anything before we set out on this trek. The most disgusting smell, acidic and deadly, invaded my mind with the power of poison gas, filling me with horror as I fought for air. Fiery pricks tormented my skin, making me feel like someone was stabbing me over and over, all over, with melting needles that bit my skin before melting on to it.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over.

I opened my eyes slowly, just in time to see Mithrandir raise his hand from my forehead.

I stirred weakly, and Aragorn's voice sounded in my ear, concerned and commanding and urgent, as his arms tightened about me. "~Don't move, Eldarion! Rest. Try and recover until we can get back to Edoras.~"

I saw two more sights as well, one right after another.

Saruman, impaled on the spokes of a large wheel with two arrows in him. He was dead.

And Legolas, slowly raising his bow from where he had aimed it at the top of the Orthanc tower.

Then, finally, I sank into blissful unconsciousness.