Frosted
Fire
The breeze ruffled Éowyn's long pale dress as she faced east, the direction of the rising sun. Too often, the great shining orb brought news of more death, more corruption, more decay. A single tear wound its way down her long face and disappeared into the crevasse between her lips, but she did not move, choosing instead to face the dawn as she always had: proud, head held high. She was a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, and she would not be reduced to anything less.
A plume of dust to her right caught her attention, and her gray eyes shifted, half of her subconscious dreading an Orc attack, the other half welcoming any sort of change, whether for better or worse. As the rays of the sun played across her fair hair, she turned to face the strangers fully, and for a moment she entertained the notion that somehow her brother Éomer had returned, that somehow, in some unfathomable way, he had refused the terms of his unjust banishment and come back to her. The thought was ridiculous and she broke it off immediately, instinctively wishing to spare herself the pain thinking of her brother would bring.
The indistinct shapes resolved into three horses carrying four beings. The first horse, a magnificent white beast, galloped effortlessly to the city wall, stopping and shaking its head in confusion when the gates did not give way. A voice rang out, the words lost over distance, and the beams of the gateway creaked open just enough for the men to enter. Suddenly frightened of something indescribable, Éowyn retreated to the safety of the palace's receiving hall, her gown swirling and catching the final colored light of morning.
A casual observer might have thought the throne room vacant; Éowyn knew it was not so. She stepped toward the throne with quiet care, and noted with relief that King Théoden's advisor, Grima Wormtongue, was nowhere to be seen. The king sat heavily, one hand gripping a worn scepter, the other resting on the arm of his chair. His crown lay heavily on his graying blonde hair, and his pale lips, once inclined to smile often, maintained an absent frown. But for the occasional slow movement of his empty eyes, he could have been sleeping. And he might as well be sleeping, Éowyn thought, angry at her helplessness. He may be dying, and I am no more help than a newborn.
"My lord, can you hear me?"
Théoden twitched slightly at her words, but did not respond. Biting back tears, Éowyn tried again, this time more forcefully, desperation tingeing her voice. "Uncle, you must hear me! We are in danger, my king, and we must have a leader! Do you not understand?"
"He comprehends perfectly, I assure you." The voice emanated from an alcove behind her and Éowyn straightened quickly, refusing to acknowledge the man standing behind her. Grima Wormtongue spoke words of bitter venom, and though she could not remove him bodily from her lord's service, she could ignore him, and keep the lofty and regal bearing which had discouraged so many before him.
"I will leave you to discuss matters of state," she said, her voice ringing with sarcasm. "I am sure you have much to tell my king before the guests arrive." She turned to see his response and was gratified to see his detestable face twist into an expression of surprise. Just as quickly as it had come, however, the expression faded into the conniving mask which regularly hid his true features.
"We have visitors? And you do not go to greet them?"
"I understand that our Doorward, Háma, will see to that."
Wormtongue sneered at her. "You will not assist him?"
"Is our guard so poor that they need my assistance in receiving strangers?" Contempt coursed through her veins, and Éowyn felt a rush of hate so strong it nearly manifested itself upon her face. "I think it would be wise for the king's advisor to look into such matters, as—" she cut off when the door to the hallway banged open and a junior member of the palace guard stepped in.
"Milord, milady," he nodded respectfully. "We have four visitors at the gates: a Man, a Dwarf, an Elf, and an old man who looks to be a wizard. They ride several of our horses, and claim to have news of Éomer. They wish to speak with Théoden; shall I direct them to come to the hall?"
"Of course," Éowyn said, before Grima could reply. "We will show them what sort of hosts the people of Rohan make. Bring them in straight away, and spare no courtesy." At last, a chance, she thought, her heart growing light at the prospect of hearing a report on her brother's well-being. A strange party indeed, but nonetheless an intriguing one.
As the guard inclined his head again and retired from the room, Éowyn took her place behind the throne of Théoden, determined to whisper her true advice to him should it become necessary. Though Wormtongue attempted to lure her out from her position, she refused to move, and it was thus the four visitors found her. She stood haughtily, coldly, welcoming and forbidding, gracious and aloof. Her gaze swept from one man to the next, dipping for a clear view of the Dwarf's black beard, catching a flash of the Elf's clear green eyes, lingering on the wizard, and coming to a full stop on the Man, a tattered, bedraggled, yet somehow commanding specimen of his race. It was the Man who stepped forward, bowing, to introduce his compatriots.
"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. The Dwarf is Gimli, son of Glóin, and the Elf is Legolas of Mirkwood. Gandalf—"
"And why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?" Théoden interrupted, his voice low and gravelly, as though each of his words ground against the others in an effort to escape. Éowyn stiffened slightly—the discourtesy of her uncle could drive the strangers away before they could be of assistance to her. Subtly, she turned, intending to convince Théoden to converse more affably, but as she was about to speak, Grima supported the demands of his puppet.
"You speak justly, lord," he said, his voice dripping with condescension as he turned on the four guests. "Why should we welcome you? You could bring nothing but misfortune and ill news."
"I bring ill news, it is true," Gandalf conceded. "But it is not of a new variety. The armies of Sauron and Saruman move toward the borders of Rohan, and none but Éomer and his group of loyal riders move to meet them."
"What would you have us do?" asked Grima. "We cannot stand in the face of such adversity." He turned to Théoden. "We must surrender, my lord. Surrender, before it is too late."
"I disagree," said Gimli, speaking for the first time. "You do not know the power of the Dark lords. If they prevail in this war, a shadow will be cast over the land, and your people will be forced into slavery. There is nothing but destruction if we follow that path. And as yet, who knows where the other road might lead?"
"We already know, do we not, where some of those roads have passed? Éomer, loyal as he was, reported that you are in league with the Sorceress of the Golden Wood, weaver of such webs of deceit as never impeded the thoughts and actions of Men."
The dwarf started forward angrily, but Gandalf stopped him with a quick glance. Grumbling under his breath, Gimli retreated, his hand nevertheless gripping the handle of his axe.
The silence that held the throne room in its frigid grip threatened to smother Éowyn, and she shook her head quickly, seeking to dispel the wrenching feeling of dread which had settled deep within her. When she looked up again, she caught the Elf's green-eyed stare and thought she caught a flicker of understanding, and perhaps a spark of sympathy. She averted her gaze and instead watched the wizard, who sighed, and then quite unexpectedly began to chant.
In Dwimordene, in Lórien
Seldom have walked the feet of Men,
Few mortal eyes have seen the light
That lies there ever, long and bright.
Galadriel! Galadriel!
Clear is the water of your well;
White is the star in your white hand;
Unmarred, unstained is leaf and land
In Dwimordene,
in Lórien
More fair than thoughts of Mortal Men.
At the end of his song, Gandalf stood straight, and with one hand cast away his grey robes, until he stood clad in the purest white, his staff level with Grima's chest. The sky darkened, and Éowyn cringed with delicious apprehension. She felt no fear of the wizard, only fear for the safety of her uncle when Grima could no longer control him. Soon, Gandalf alone was visible, his garments swirling in an unfelt breeze, his staff at his side. "Now Théoden son of Thengel, Lord of the Mark, will you hearken to me?"
Théoden raised his head and opened his heavy-lidded eyes as a newborn might when first introduced into the world, and Éowyn hurried to assist him as he rose from his throne, seeking the clear mountain air outside his hall. He smiled at her when she offered her arm, accepting the support gracefully as he shuffled toward the door. She wanted to laugh aloud, to shout her joy to the shimmering sky, but she decided instead to reserve her thanks for Gandalf alone. When the two looked at one another, she was sure he understood the gratitude shining from her eyes, and he nodded slightly, his face crinkling into what might have been the hint of a smile as she passed.
They stood outside alone – Éowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan, Théoden, Lord of the Mark – and neither darkness nor defeat could have stopped the elation streaming from each of their hearts, running down the cold mountain stream and filling the valley. For one clear moment, Éowyn almost believed that the dark was conquered, that the enemies of her people were no longer. In the distance, a horse whinnied.