As the darkness of night descended upon them, the group found themselves huddled together around a small campfire. The gentle crackling of the flames provided the only source of sound in the still and quiet clearing. Kitra sat close to Gandalf, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the ominous shadows of Mordor seemed to draw ever nearer.
In the flickering light of the fire, Kitra's features were illuminated but there was a noticeable weight in her gaze, a burden that seemed to weigh heavily upon her as they journeyed closer to the heart of darkness.
Gandalf sat beside her in silence, his own gaze directed towards the East where the faintest glow of Barad-dûr could be sensed, if not seen. After a few moments, Kitra broke the silence with a soft voice filled with emotion.
"I'm grateful that you are still alive," she said, her words carrying a steady yet heartfelt tone.
Gandalf turned his head slightly, offering her a small and tender smile. "As am I," he replied warmly, his expression tinged with deep thought. Then, after a pause, he spoke again with a more serious tone. "I sense Galadriel's blessing upon you."
Kitra's hand instinctively went to her forehead where she had once felt the strength of Galadriel's blessing. "It fades with each passing day," she confessed softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "The closer we get to Mordor, the less I feel its presence."
The flickering flames of the campfire cast an orange glow on Gandalf's weathered face, emphasizing the lines of wisdom etched in his features. His expression was understanding, but also tinged with worry as he spoke to Kitra. "As to be expected," he said gravely. "The darkness grows stronger as we approach its source. But do not lose hope. Her blessing lingers still."
Before Kitra could respond, Aragorn appeared from the edge of the camp, moving silently to join them by the fire. Without a word, he slipped an arm around Kitra's waist, offering her silent support and comfort. She leaned into him instinctively, finding solace in his presence.
Gandalf's sharp eyes turned towards the East, his gaze growing more focused as he spoke again. "The veiling shadow that glowers in the East takes shape," he began, his voice low and grave. "Sauron will suffer no rival. From the summit of Barad-dûr, his Eye watches ceaselessly."
A chill ran down Kitra's spine at Gandalf's words, feeling the oppressive weight of Sauron's presence even from such a great distance.
"But," Gandalf continued, his voice gaining strength, "he is not so mighty yet that he is above fear. Doubt ever gnaws at him. The rumor has reached him. The heir of Númenor still lives." His words held both determination and caution as he gazed back towards the distant fortress where their enemy resided.
Gandalf's sharp, piercing gaze shifted, fixing on Aragorn. Kitra could feel the tension radiating off of him as Gandalf's words struck home like a heavy blow.
"Sauron fears you, Aragorn," Gandalf said, his voice weighted with both solemnity and hope. "He fears what you may become. And so, he will strike hard and fast at the world of Men. He will use his puppet Saruman to destroy Rohan."
Kitra's breath caught in her throat as the weight of Gandalf's warning settled in like a dark cloud. War was imminent, and the shadow looming over Rohan seemed to grow darker by the day.
"War is coming," Gandalf continued, shaking his head gravely. "Rohan must defend itself, and therein lies our first challenge... for Rohan is weak and ready to fall. The king's mind is enslaved, an old device of Saruman's. His hold over King Théoden is now unbreakable. Sauron and Saruman are tightening the noose."
Kitra's eyes drifted towards the flickering flames of the fire, her thoughts racing as she processed the gravity of Gandalf's words. She had heard tales of Saruman's treachery, but the thought of Théoden—once a mighty and proud king—succumbing to such dark magic filled her with dread.
"But for all their cunning," Gandalf said, his tone shifting slightly, "we have one advantage." His eyes flicked to each of them. "The Ring remains hidden. And that we should seek to destroy it has not yet entered their darkest dreams. And so, the weapon of the enemy is moving toward Mordor... in the hands of a Hobbit."
A silence followed his words, the weight of their task heavy upon them all. Kitra's thoughts turned to Frodo, small and brave, bearing the greatest burden of all.
"Each day brings it closer to the fires of Mount Doom," Gandalf continued, his voice softening. "We must trust now in Frodo. Everything depends upon speed... and the secrecy of his quest."
Aragorn's face clouded with worry, guilt flickering in his eyes. Kitra could feel the tension in him, the weight of leaving Frodo behind gnawing at him. She knew he had struggled with the decision.
Gandalf, sensing Aragorn's turmoil, looked at him reassuringly. "Do not regret your decision to leave him," Gandalf said gently. "Frodo must finish this task alone."
Aragorn hesitated, then spoke, his voice filled with quiet determination. "He's not alone. Sam went with him."
Gandalf's face softened into a warm smile, and he let out a quiet, almost amused laugh. "Did he?" he said, his eyes twinkling with fondness. "Did he, indeed?" He nodded, the weight of the situation lessening for a moment. "Good. Yes, very good."
Kitra smiled softly, the warmth of Aragorn's arm around her and Gandalf's words offering a moment of solace. But even in this brief respite, the shadow of Mordor loomed ever closer, and the uncertainty of the road ahead remained.
Tomorrow, they would ride to Rohan, but tonight, beneath the stars and beside the fire, they took what small comfort they could in each other's presence.
The wind swept across the rolling plains of Rohan, carrying with it the fresh scent of grass and distant rain. Kitra and Alana rode alongside their companions as they crested a hill, and there, laid out before them like a painting on canvas, was the vast expanse of Edoras. The city sat upon a hill, its wooden structures gleaming under the moody grey sky, but at its heart, the once-glorious Golden Hall of Meduseld now loomed like a shadowed reminder of better days.
Kitra leaned forward, resting her chin on Aragorn's broad shoulder as she tightened her arms around his waist, steadying herself on the steady gait of their horse. Her eyes locked onto the Golden Hall, a sense of foreboding filling her chest and making her stomach twist in unease. Alana rode next to her, her own usually calm face set with concern as she too took in the sight of the distant hall.
Gandalf, their wise guide who rode just ahead, spoke quietly over the sound of the wind. His tone was heavy with both sorrow and urgency. "Edoras and the Golden Hall of Meduseld," he began, his voice carrying a weight that matched the ominous atmosphere. "There dwells Théoden, King of Rohan, whose mind is now overthrown by Saruman's dark influence."
Kitra stole a glance at Alana and saw that her cousin's worried expression mirrored her own thoughts. They had heard rumors of Saruman's manipulations and control over those in power, but seeing the once-proud city now cast in darkness made the danger all too real.
As they approached the city of Edoras, Gandalf slowed his horse and turned to address the group, his stern expression warning them all to be careful with their words. The wind carried the sound of distant horns and the soft murmur of conversation from within the walls.
The rhythmic beat of Aragorn's horse hooves pounding against the ground echoed through Kitra's body as she held on tight to his waist. The air was thick with tension, a palpable weight that settled over them as they neared the city. Kitra could feel Aragorn's muscles tense beneath her, and she squeezed him tightly in silent support.
As they approached the towering gates, adorned with the proud banner of Rohan, it suddenly fell to the ground at Aragorn's feet. Kitra looked up at him, their eyes meeting in an unspoken understanding. It was clear that Edoras was a place filled with despair.
The streets were quiet but not empty. People stood watching as they passed by, their expressions etched with suspicion and wariness. Kitra noticed how hollow the city felt—its people looked broken, their spirits dimmed from the weight of whatever burden they bore. She glanced over at Alana, who walked beside them with a hardened expression, her keen senses undoubtedly picking up on the fear emanating from the townsfolk.
Gimli, always quick to break the silence, grumbled under his breath, "You'll find more cheer in a graveyard." His words rang true in this desolate place, where even the wind seemed to carry a mournful tune.
Kitra's gaze turned upward as Aragorn's did, towards the Golden Hall where she caught sight of a woman standing alone. Dressed in a flowing white gown that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, she stood tall and regal, despite the subtle sadness that lingered in her posture. For a brief moment, their eyes met - Kitra could sense the weight of Théoden's fall on this woman as well, and it pained her to see such a strong figure burdened with sorrow.
But just as quickly as she had appeared, the woman vanished from view, leaving Kitra to wonder about her true identity and connection to the King of Rohan.
As they approached the towering gates of Meduseld, the golden hall of Edoras, Kitra's gaze swept over the vast, solemn structure. The air was thick with tension and anticipation, as if the very walls of the fortress held their breath in anticipation of what was to come. The stone steps leading up to the entrance were worn with age and countless footsteps, their edges softened by time.
Beside her, Alana walked with measured purpose, her sharp eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of trouble. Gandalf led the group with confident strides, his long grey robes swishing in rhythm with his steps. He gripped his gnarled staff tightly in one hand, its magical power pulsing beneath his touch.
Just as they reached the top of the stairs, Hama and his guards stepped out of the hall to intercept them. The captain of Rohan's guard looked troubled as he approached, his expression pinched with worry. His words were respectful but firm as he addressed Gandalf.
"I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame," Hama said, his voice carrying the weight of his duty and loyalty. "By order of Gríma Wormtongue." He glanced over his shoulder with a hint of fear in his eyes, as if expecting the treacherous advisor to appear at any moment.
As the group approached the gates, Gandalf gave a slight nod to the others, signaling them to comply with the guards' request. Kitra's heart felt heavy as she began to hand over her weapons - starting with her fighting knives, followed by her sword, and finally her mother's sword which held sentimental value. She also relinquished the dagger given to her by Celeborn, feeling a twinge of sadness at letting go of these symbols of protection and power.
But the guards weren't satisfied yet. They gestured for her to continue, and Kitra reluctantly retrieved the smaller knives hidden on her body until her hands were full of blades. She passed them over to Hama, feeling vulnerable without her weapons close by. The others had already gone through this process and were patiently waiting by the gates, but just as they were about to be led inside, Kitra stopped abruptly.
"Wait!" she called out, causing the guards to look at her curiously. With a mischievous smirk, she bent down and pulled out a hidden dagger from her boot. Alana shot her a knowing smile while Aragorn, standing beside Kitra, couldn't help but chuckle at her rebellious act. She decided against handing over the small blade strapped to her thigh, feeling a sense of defiance and determination in keeping one weapon on her person. Standing back up, she held up the boot dagger triumphantly.
"Okay, now we're good," she declared with a glint in her eye.
As they continued towards the hall entrance under Hama's watchful gaze, Kitra noticed Gandalf's sly wink directed at Aragorn. She couldn't resist chuckling quietly at their playful exchange. But when they reached the grand hall, all amusement faded from their faces.
The once-welcoming atmosphere was now overshadowed by an oppressive presence - that of Wormtongue and his treacherous whispers in Théoden's ear. The king sat slumped on his throne, looking far older and weaker than he should, his mind clearly clouded by the malevolent influence of Saruman. As they stepped into the hall, Gandalf gripped Legolas's arm for support, continuing their ruse to hide their true intentions from Wormtongue and his master.
The grand hall loomed before them, its walls adorned with tapestries depicting ancient battles and heroic deeds. But even these reminders of valor couldn't dispel the dark cloud that seemed to suffocate the once-glorious space. Gríma sat beside Théoden like a serpent coiled around its prey, whispering poisonous words that twisted and corrupted the king's thoughts. Kitra could feel the weight of his presence as she stood before him, her hand tingling with the urge to draw her hidden dagger and rid the world of this treacherous advisor. But she knew she had to bide her time - they were here on a mission from Elrond and must not reveal their true purpose until the right moment. With a determined glint in her eye, she braced herself for what was to come next - a delicate dance of deception and strategy in order to sway Théoden back to their side and defeat Saruman's hold over him.
"My lord," Gríma whispered, his eyes gleaming with malice as a sinister smile crept onto his face. "Gandalf the Grey is coming. He's a herald of woe, a harbinger of chaos."
As they approached the throne, Gandalf's usually bright and friendly eyes narrowed into stern slits. "The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King," he said, his voice carrying the weight of disapproval and disappointment.
Gríma, unfazed by Gandalf's presence, leaned closer to the king, his breath hot on his ear. "He's not welcome," he whispered, his tone dripping with venom like poison seeping through his words.
Theoden, barely able to lift his head or form coherent thoughts, echoed the words fed to him by Gríma. "Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?" His voice was weak and trembling, a mere puppet under Gríma's control.
Undeterred and confident in his power over the weakened king, Gríma rose from his seat and approached the group with an air of superiority. His thin smile mocking them all as he sneered at Gandalf. "A just question, my liege," he said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, his cold eyes fixed on Gandalf. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear."
As Gríma spoke, a group of menacing guards moved closer, their weapons glinting in the dim light and their intentions clear. Kitra tensed at their approach, feeling the shift in the air and preparing for danger.
"Lathspell, I name him," Gríma continued smugly. "Ill news is an ill guest." He seemed to relish in the tension and turmoil that his presence had caused.
Gandalf's usually calm demeanor shattered like shards of glass. His piercing eyes flashed with a dangerous flame as he fixed his gaze upon Gríma, the traitorous man who had been whispering poisonous words into the ears of King Théoden. "Be silent," Gandalf commanded, his voice booming like thunder. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not traveled through fire and death only to engage in meaningless banter with a witless worm like yourself." With a swift motion, he raised his staff and pointed it directly at Gríma's face.
Gríma's confidence crumbled into fear at the sight of Gandalf's powerful staff. "His staff!" he cried out, panic rising in his voice. "I told you to take the wizard's staff! It holds great power!" The sound of desperation could be heard in his trembling voice as he realized the grave mistake he had made by underestimating the true strength of Gandalf and his staff.
Without warning, the guards lunged towards them with savage ferocity, their swords glinting ominously in the blinding sunlight. In a split second, Kitra, Alana, and the others reacted with lightning speed, unleashing a coordinated flurry of strikes that sent their opponents reeling backwards. Kitra's fists were like lethal weapons, each punch landing with enough force to shatter bone and knock out multiple guards in one blow. Alana moved with grace and precision, her sharp kicks and swift movements taking down yet another guard.
The air was thick with the sounds of battle - steel clashing against steel, bodies hitting the ground with sickening thuds, and shouts of determination and pain. Despite their skill and strength, Kitra and her comrades were not immune to injury. One guard managed to land a solid blow across Kitra's face, causing blood to trickle down her cheek. But she refused to back down, gritting her teeth as she drew her dagger from its sheath on her thigh.
In the midst of chaos, Aragorn fought like a legendary warrior, his sword cutting through the remaining guards with deadly accuracy. He never wavered or showed any signs of exhaustion, his eyes blazing with a fierce determination to protect those he cared for. Kitra felt a surge of gratitude when he offered her a hand to steady herself, silently acknowledging his support before turning to continue the battle. The ground was strewn with broken bodies, but they knew this was only the beginning of their long and treacherous fight against the brutal king
Gandalf pressed on, unfazed by the chaos brewing behind him. The sound of swords clashing and men shouting faded into the background as he approached Théoden, king of Rohan. As he advanced, Gamling, one of the king's loyal men, stood ready to join the fray, but Hama held him back with a hand on his shoulder, his gaze fixed on Gandalf with cautious hope.
"Theoden, son of Thengel," Gandalf called out in a voice that echoed throughout the hall. "Too long have you languished in the shadows."
As Gríma tried to slink away, Gimli blocked his path and planted a heavy foot on his chest, pinning him to the floor. Alana stood beside Gimli, her hand resting confidently on the hilt of her sword. "I would advise staying still if I were you," she warned with a cold and unwavering voice.
But Gandalf's focus remained solely on Théoden. "Hearken to me!" he commanded with a fierce determination. "I release you from this spell."
Théoden let out a mocking laugh, though it was not entirely his own voice. "You have no power here, Gandalf the Grey," he spat with malice dripping from his words.
In a burst of anger, Gandalf flung off his grey cloak and revealed the bright white robes beneath. A blinding light radiated from him, throwing Théoden back in his chair. Kitra shielded her eyes for a moment before daring to look upon the brilliant display of power before her.
With a fierce determination in his eyes, Gandalf thrust his staff forward towards Théoden, who stumbled back under its powerful force. The dark influence of Saruman writhed within the king, resisting Gandalf's attempts to expel it.
Just as all hope seemed lost, Eowyn burst into the hall, her face contorted with fear at the sight of her uncle in distress. She rushed towards him, but Kitra intercepted her with a gentle but firm grip on her arm, silently urging her to wait.
Saruman, speaking through Théoden's body, snarled, "If I leave, Théoden dies!"
Undeterred, Gandalf's eyes blazed with determination. "You did not kill me and you will not kill him." The light from his staff grew brighter as he continued to advance.
"Rohan belongs to me!" Saruman screeched through Théoden's lips.
But Gandalf's voice was unwavering. "Be gone!" With one final surge of power, Théoden was thrown back once more and the dark presence of Saruman was forcefully expelled from his body. The king slumped forward, weakened but finally free from the grasp of evil.
With a fierce determination, Eowyn broke free from Kitra's grasp and rushed to her uncle's side. She caught him just as he sagged in his chair, his face etched with exhaustion and despair. Slowly, Théoden's features began to change before her eyes. His long and unkempt hair and beard shortened, and the fog that had clouded his mind lifted. His gaze refocused on Eowyn, recognition dawning in his eyes.
"I know your face," Théoden murmured, his voice soft and bewildered. "Eowyn?"
Tears welled in Eowyn's eyes as she smiled at him, relief flooding through her. "Yes, Uncle," she replied, her voice thick with emotion.
"Eowyn," Théoden repeated, this time with a sense of joy and warmth. He looked up at Gandalf, his eyes filled with wonder. "Gandalf?"
The wizard smiled warmly at Théoden. "Breathe the free air again, my friend," he said.
Kitra watched in amazement as Théoden, now freed from Saruman's grip, rose shakily to his feet. His hands trembled slightly as he flexed his fingers, still adjusting to the newfound strength in his body. "Dark have been my dreams of late," he whispered, his voice heavy with regret.
But Gandalf stepped forward, offering words of hope. "Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped your sword," he said, nodding towards Hama.
With reverence and awe, Hama stepped forward and presented Théoden with his sword. The king took it in his hands, lifting it in front of him as if seeing it for the first time. As he gazed upon the blade, a glimmer of determination and renewed purpose shone in his eyes, and the hall seemed to brighten with hope.
But the moment of peace was fleeting. The golden light that had illuminated Théoden's features now disappeared, leaving his eyes dark and brooding as he remembered the treachery that had befallen him. His gaze shifted to Gríma, who lay on the floor, still held down by Gimli and Alana.
Gríma scrambled backward, his fear palpable as Théoden advanced on him with a fierce determination. The once powerful advisor now reduced to a trembling heap of robes and desperation. "I've only ever served you, my lord," Gríma whimpered, crawling on his hands and knees. "Send me not from your sight."
Théoden's lips curled in disgust as he raised his sword, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light of the hall. "Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!" He spat out each word with venom, his voice thick with anger and betrayal.
Gríma cowered, but before Théoden could strike, Aragorn rushed forward and grabbed his arm, stopping him. "No, my lord! No, my lord," Aragorn urged. "Let him go. Enough blood has been spilt on his account."
Théoden hesitated, his fury still simmering beneath the surface, but at Aragorn's plea, he lowered his sword. Gríma took this chance to escape and fled past the people in the hall, pushing them aside in his haste.
"Get out of my way!" Gríma snarled as he rushed out of the hall and down the stairs, disappearing into the city.
As the tension faded, Hama stepped forward with reverence in his voice. "Hail, Théoden King!"
The people in the city and those in the great hall knelt before their restored king. Kitra, along with the others, bowed her head respectfully as Théoden surveyed his people. For a brief moment, peace seemed to settle over them like a warm blanket.
But the light in Théoden's eyes soon faded again, replaced by a deep sorrow and grief. "Where is Théodred?" he asked, his voice trembling with emotion. His eyes searched the crowd, desperately seeking out his missing son. "Where is my son?"
Kitra's heart clenched at the pain in his voice, knowing that the worst was yet to come for their beloved king. As the weight of their losses settled heavily on them all, the once peaceful hall was filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the soft sobs of those mourning their fallen prince.