"Gríma he is named, but Wormtongue we called him," Théoden said darkly, "for he slithers like a snake in the dark, always whispering, always plotting. We know little of him, save that he became chief advisor two years ago."
Harry frowned. Two years were long enough to do some serious damage.
"Naught from his lips bode well from Rohan. Counsel we had thought wise are now revealed to be treacherous."
"Does the King not see this danger in his halls?"
Théodred laughed bitterly. "The King? My father cares nothing of the world. Each day he grows older upon the throne, listening to none but the snake which speaks in his stead."
"Matters are dark in Rohan," Harry murmured thoughtfully. "But you may ease your troubled thoughts now, for even as I speak, Gandalf is riding to Edoras. He of Many Colours cannot defeat the White, though doubtless Saruman will try."
"You Wizards speak ever in riddles," said the Rohir with bark of laughter. "Though you say Gandalf is coming to Edoras? Gandalf Greyhame is known in the Mark, but he is no longer welcome in Meduseld. Still my heart lightens at the news. It will take a Wizard to undo another Wizard's work."
Harry nodded, beginning to rise to his feet. "I must leave ere it is too late. Take heart, Théodred. The tide is turning, and we will see an end to this darkness yet."
Théodred rose too, and clasped Harry's arm tightly. "Béma bless you, Wizard. You have my lasting gratitude."
With a faint smile, Harry waved him off. "Béma looks pretty fondly on me already. I don't need his blessing."
Mounting Prongs, he bade the Rohirrim goodbye and headed east with all due haste.
Harry frowned into the horizon. Smoke drifted upwards, curling lazily from the village he knew was ahead. That was normal. What wasn't, was the ominous void above it and the lack of bright people-spots that were supposed to be bustling around the buildings. Faintly feeling of dread, he nudged Prongs towards the small settlement.
The wind carried the smell of blood to him before he even reached.
Prongs slowed down, treading lightly on the muddied ground. Smouldering wooden beams collapsed on themselves as he passed through the gate, and torn canvas rippled in the wind.
The village was silent.
Men, women, children lay on the ground, some still holding on each other even in death. The attack couldn't have been more than a day ago. He may yet find some survivors.
That hope grew bleaker the further he went. Harry looked into each still-standing building, searching for the barest flicker of life. Each look only brought disappointment.
A hacking, rasping cough broke the silence better than a crack of thunder. He turned, urging Prongs to move faster, to seek out the source of the cough.
"Hello?" he called, approaching a wrecked stall.
"H-Help," came a weak voice, and something twitched beneath the tent of dirtied canvas. "Anyone…"
Harry quickly dismounted and ducked under the fabric. Orbs of light formed around the small space, and he bit down on his lip to stop his swear.
Red-rimmed eyes quickly found his own, and the boy coughed again. The long wooden pole that supported the canvas pierced his torso, pinning him under it, and instantly Harry knew that the boy was beyond saving. Remove the pole and he'd bleed to death. Shift the pole and the boy would die more swiftly and in greater pain.
"Please sir," said the boy, his teeth grinding together. "W-water?"
Wordlessly, Harry knelt down, conjuring a cup of clean water and held it to his lips. The boy gasped but drank greedily, water spilling from his lips with every desperate gulp. From the corner of his vision, Harry could see Death, no longer the amorphous mass of before but something more condensed, patiently awaiting.
He turned his head by the smallest degree so he would no longer see it.
"Child," he said softly. "What is your name?"
"Rófmund, sir," the boy said, lowering the half-empty cup. He looked up at Harry in wonder. "Are you an Elf?"
"Elf?" A smile curled on his lips, and Harry shook his head with a laugh. "No, I'm no elf. I'm a wizard."
"Oh," said Rófmund, and he coughed again. The cup fell to the ground with a dull thunk, splattering mud and blood. "S-sorry."
"It's alright." Harry inhaled slowly. "There is only one thing I can do for you now."
He took out his wand, watching as Rófmund's confusion slowly gave way to understanding, and waited for him to brace himself.
"I've been told that it doesn't hurt," Harry added, and received a small, tentative smile in return. Then he severed all of the boy's mortal bonds in one downward stroke.
Death pulled the silver-white wisp close and left.
How long he had spent kneeling beside the body, watching life's glow fade from it, he did not know. In the end, Harry took a slow, deep breath, stood up and walked out. Prongs nudged his shoulder as he approached, and Harry mustered a weak smile, reaching up to rub the stag's velvety ears.
"The choice appears to have been forced on me. Námo warned me, didn't he?"
Prongs gave him a doleful look, and Harry shook his head with a sigh. Damn the Hallows, damn his idiot seventeen-year-old-self, damn his luck, and while he was at it, damn the universe too. "It's too early to deal with this," he decided suddenly, settling himself on Prongs. "Too early."
The stag snorted.
Harry made one more circuit around the wreckage in case he missed a survivor, then spurred Prongs on. To Edoras.
It was long past noon when he finally came before the gates to Rohan's capital. From afar he saw the guards milling at the gates, and could determine the exact moment that they saw him. Where there had been only one guard on the lookout, four now stood, clustering at the edge of their tower.
Even as Harry drew near, the guards gaped at him, their eyes shifting from Prongs to his robes and Caladui at his side. After a moment, one recovered enough wits to do his duty.
"Halt!" Came the call in the stern Rohirric tongue. "Who goes there?"
"Greetings," Harry replied in kind. "I am Harald."
He opted not to go for his older, better known names. There was no need to forewarn the spies who'd recognise them at once. Let them wonder at the identity of the stranger who rode a stag.
"Purpose?" The guard asked.
"I bring tidings to Théoden King."
One of the guards turned around to address someone Harry couldn't see, and another guard called down at him to wait. Harry nodded agreeably and let Prongs investigate the wood-and-stone walls that circled the city, aware of the watchful eyes upon him.
After some time the dark gates swung open, and the guard leaned over the barrier. "Théoden gives you leave to enter, but any weapon that you bear, you must leave on the threshold. The doorwardens will keep them."
"Thank you," Harry called back, and he passed through the gate.
He went up the winding path to Meduseld, feeling unfriendly gazes upon his back the entire way. The atmosphere was subdued, as if all cheer had been sucked dry.
"-then I will sit out here until it pleases Théoden himself to hobble out to speak with me."
Harry looked up sharply.
That was Gandalf.
He gave Prongs a nudge and the stag cantered up the bend, allowing him to see Meduseld and the quartet at the doors.
He could distinguish Gandalf at once—he shone like a torch, subdued but unhidden. Legolas stood beside him, bright in his own right. Immortals. Harry smiled wryly. He knew he himself did not shine. Death was the absence of life, after all. It was a void and a gateway. Its Master would not be too unalike.
There was a gruff yell. "Harald?"
Harry waved a hand at them, dismounting as Prongs drew near. "Hello Gimli."
"Good afternoon Harald," said Gandalf, leaning on his staff.
"Hello you lot," he replied, coming up the stairs.
Before he could say more, a guard stepped before him. "I am the Door-ward of Théoden, and I must bid you to lay your weapons here before you go further."
He gestured at the wall against which Anduril and Glamdring were already leaning. Harry nodded.
"Alright," he said, removing his belt and placing Caladui beside Glamdring for company. He had no sooner straightened up than the doors to Meduseld opened, creaking on their hinges. With an arm on Aragorn, Gandalf led the way in. A guard attempted to stop Harry as he followed the quartet. "Théoden King will see you after," said the man, "it is not yet your turn."
"He is with us." Aragorn turned around, pausing in his steps.
"It is best if Théoden hears our news together," Harry added, steeling his voice. "For the good of Rohan and your king, I would ask that you do not argue on this."
The guard paused, looking between them and at his fellow doorwardens.
"You may proceed," he said at last.
"Thank you."
Harry swept after the group.
Meduseld was dark and warm within, with a great fire burning merrily in the hearth in the midst of the hall. Sunlight fell in beams from shafts in the high ceiling, only to reveal how dusty the hall was. Once Harry was in, the doors closed behind them with a deep thud.
Upon the throne at the other end of the hall sat a wizened, withered old man, bent low with age. Harry frowned. Given Théodred's age, he had expected Théoden to be old, but the man before him looked like he could have been well into his hundred-and-fifties.
Milky grey eyes watched them approach impassively, revealing as much as a brick wall and showing just as much warmth. Harry narrowed his eyes, catching a faint movement beside the throne. Threads not unlike a spider's silk coiled around the king, some taut and some loose, stretching from his body and continued seeming without an end.
A marionette of a king.
A man, dressed entirely in black, crouched at the foot of the throne. Upon their entrance, he whispered something indistinct into Théoden's ear.
So this was Gríma.
"Hail Théoden King!" Gandalf called, striding forward. Upon the pointed silence that followed his words, he stopped before the dais and continued. "The courtesy of your hall has been somewhat lessened of late."
He sounded conversational, as if he was a common traveller who just happened to stop by and not in the least like he had raced across Rohan to save it.
"He is not welcome," Gríma whispered, and Harry saw the threads connected to Théoden move, pulling and relaxing in turn.
"Why should I welcome you, Master Gandalf?" The king's voice was halting, each word arduous and quavering.
Harry revised his first impression—Théoden could have passed for a man older than Gandalf.
"You have ever been a herald of woe. Troubles follow you like crows and when you leave, worse evils come to plague us. Tell me why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow."
"You speak justly, lord," said Gríma, rising from his crouch. "Late are the hours this conjurer chooses to return, always as if to bring aid but instead always seeks it. This time he brings three ragged wanderers…"
He only just seemed to realise Harry's presence. "And who are you? Another beggar that has come to seek aid?"
"Rest assured that any aid I may need would not be coming from this side of existence," Harry said frostily, staring down at the man as he crept near. "I have come straight from the Fords of Isen. You may be pleased to note that Théodred, Second Marshal of the Mark, had successfully driven off orc parties coming from Isengard."
"Lies!" Gríma turned to face the unmoving king. "Isengard has ever been our ally. Saruman the White has guarded the Gap of Rohan all these years. Our lands have stood strong with him at our backs. Théodred must have been mistaken."
"Then I must be mistaken too, if I say I have seen the creatures Saruman bred in Isengard and the price he took from the Mark?"
Théoden nodded slowly, mechanically, as Gríma sneered. "What do you have to gain by defaming Rohan's greatest ally? Perhaps you would have us both fall in war, and pick at our bones as does a carrion-fowl?"
"If I wanted to speak to a worm, I would have just transfigured one myself. No doubt it would have proved a better conversational partner," Harry said softly. "Be silent. I did not traverse a hundred and fifty leagues within an hour to defend myself before a sycophant and a puppet."
His wand leapt to his fingers, but Gandalf acted first, gently pushing Harry to the side as he raised his staff. A roll of thunder echoed through the hall.
The sunlight vanished. The fire faded into glowing embers. The hall became dark as night. Standing at the foot of the dais, Gandalf made for an intimidating figure of white. "The wise only speak of what the know, Gríma son of Gálmód."
Someone tried to sneak up on Harry. He jabbed his elbow back, catching the man in the midriff, and then slammed him onto the floor.
Wormtongue hissed, and in the gloom, Harry heard him say, "Did I not say to take his staff? Háma has betrayed us!"
Without hesitation, he slashed his wand at the figure crouched behind the throne and was rewarded with a sharp cry. Gandalf shot him a warning look, before turning back to face Théoden.
"Théoden son of Thengel, too long have you sat in the shadows."
A thump to his side told him that Legolas had neatly downed a man with a fist to the face.
Théoden shifted. The threads tightened.
"Hearken to me! Too long have you listened to twisted tales and crooked counsel. Come back to the light."
There was silence, as if all present were holding their breaths.
Théoden laughed.
"You have no power here, Gandalf the Grey." He seemed suddenly stronger, all the falter gone from his speech. "Even with Reviauron at your side you cannot defeat me."
Someone else was running into the room. Aragorn halted her before she could reach Théoden.
Gandalf raised his staff and cast aside his veil. Théoden flinched violently, forced back against his throne, and Harry was temporarily blinded by the star-like brilliance that filled the room.
"I need no help to defeat you, Saruman. Leave him."
Théoden was gasping now, pinned against the back of his throne.
"If I go, he dies."
Harry stood beside him, ready to sever the threads at any moment. "You will not," he said calmly when Théoden looked at him.
Gandalf smiled grimly. "No, you will not. You did not kill me with your orcs, and you will not kill Théoden with your sorcery."
Saruman persisted. "Rohan is mine."
"Be gone."
This was accompanied by a rush of power and a boom of thunder. Harry sliced his hands downwards, stopping Théoden's forward lunge as the threads were cut. The king slumped forward, and the newcomer ran towards him. Harry stepped back to allow her to attend to her king, retreating to his position beside Aragorn.
A faint light grew in the hall again, until the afternoon sunlight streamed through the shafts as if nothing had occurred. Once again, the room seemed to hold its breath.
Slowly, Théoden looked up.
"I know your face," he whispered, reaching up to the woman's face. "Sister-daughter. Éowyn."
Then his gaze shifted, and his eyes, no longer clouded but blue as the skies above, widened at the sight of them. "Gandalf?"
"Breathe the free air again, my friend," said Gandalf with a smile, leaning on his staff.
Théoden stood up slowly, and Éowyn hastened to take his arm.
"Dark have been my dreams of late," he said in wonder, looking around.
Harry took the moment to knock on the wooden doors. They swung opened and the guards entered. At the sight of their no longer decrepit king, they halted to stare.
"-if they grasped your sword," said Gandalf.
Théoden moved his hand to his side, but there was no sword hanging from his belt. He frowned. "Háma," he said, "go and seek my sword. Gríma has it in his keeping."
One of the guards moved away with a bow.
Théoden turned to face Harry. "I heard you say that you bring tidings from Théodred, Master…"
"Harald," Harry supplied. "And yes, you have heard right. Théodred and his men has scored a victory against Saruman's forces this dawn."
Then he repeated the brief report that Théodred had asked him to convey. Théoden listened carefully, and at its end, smiled warmly.
"Thank you Master Harald. These news are immensely pleasing to hear—truly my heart lightens at them."
Háma appeared before he could continue. The guard knelt before Théoden and presented a long sword to him. Théoden looked down at the sword as if he had never seen it before, standing still and unmoving.
A minute passed. Slowly, he stretched out his hand and laid it on the hilt. As he grasped it, the last of his weariness seemed to fall from his shoulders, and he unsheathed the blade, swinging it whistling through the air.
"Herugrim," Théoden whispered, lifting the blade to his eyes. "The blade of my forefathers."
Abruptly, he turned, face turning stern. "Where is Gríma? Where is my counsellor?"
Harry coughed politely and looked away as the guards found Wormtongue slumped behind the throne. Gimli grinned at him while the others seemed morbidly fascinated by the damage when the guards dragged Gríma's motionless body to the centre of the hall.
He had, perhaps, been a little inspired by the man's nickname.
"Gandalf, could you undo your spells such that we may speak to him?"
"These are not mine, Théoden."
There was a pause, then collectively, the group glanced towards Harry.
"If you please," Théoden said.
Harry looked down at the body unapologetically and undid his multitude of transfigurations, ending with an rennervate.
Wormtongue gasped into consciousness, frantically patting his body and feeling his face before he seemed to realise the barely-civil looks directed at him from above. Théoden's face had hardened.
"What have you to say for your actions, counsellor?"
Wormtongue tried to persuade them. He accused, he defended, he pleaded, and Théoden had listened to all with an expression that could have been carved from granite. Before so many with evident hostility, Wormtongue didn't stand much chance. He was only saved from being tossed out onto the stairs when someone had suggested questioning him.
Which was why Harry was staring into those dark, heavy-lidded eyes now, wading through thoughts and memories to find out all the things Wormtongue had done. He let the man keep his own secrets, and rooted out everything else. They could have gone the conventional verbal questioning way, but the man had been extremely tight-lipped and overall unpleasant. Short flashbacks of Saruman's treatment revealed why, but Harry was still displeased.
"I am not dealing with this," he said to Gandalf once he ended the spell. "It's all yours."
Gandalf received the information with aplomb, reviewing it at the same rate Harry was delivering (that is to say, almost ten years of activity transmitted within two minutes).
Stiffly, Wormtongue began to stir on the floor, and Harry erased his memory of the Legilimency.
Apparently having greatly calmed down during the past half-an-hour, Théoden, despite how everyone else had looked strangely at him, offered the man a choice: to ride to war with the army, or to leave Rohan and face death if he ever returned.
Wormtongue rose slowly, head bowed. Harry would have thought him reformed, if he hadn't spent the past thirty minutes drifting within his head. Therefore, it wasn't overly surprising when Wormtongue reared like a striking snake and spat before the king's feet. Before Théoden could move, he had darted to one side and ran out of the open doors, fleeing down the stairs.
Harry scourgify-ed the stones.
They watched Wormtongue's retreating back as he mounted a horse and disappeared down the hill, until Théoden looked back at them. "My guests," he said, "come! Let us take some refreshments. It has been a long day."
Still Harry-centric. More on Boromir/Merry/Pippin next chapter, which will hopefully catch up to this chapter, time-wise. Then perhaps one on Frodo and Sam? But that'd mean writing Gollum and ugh. Ugh.
I thought I had a fair amount of free time this Dec, until things happened and now I sit in a lab from eight to six, and have that much less time to do other important things like revising (ugh again). Factor in how all details of Boromir and hobbits' trip to Gondor continue to evade me, I'd say the next chapter is probably going to take a while. A long while. Sorry folks.
(Remember when I said I hoped to complete this fic by this year? Hahahahano.)