~ This tale accounts the hitherto unheard of incidents and nameless characters omitted 
from the Red Book of Westmarch. It is a tale within a tale, of faith and hope, and a love 
that was made and lost during a time of great war. When the lines of battle are drawn, and 
the threat of the Shadow reaches far across the land, the story of two people emerges, 
brought together by the weight of the past, divided by very different destiny. Their tale 
remains unknown up till now, when the borders between truth and legend blur. A story of 
devotion can no longer be denied. ~ 
TITLE: Tindomerel's Bane 
AUTHOR: Elfwine 
RATING: PG 
FEEDBACK: Greatly appreciated. Leave a review at 
http://www.quicktopic.com/18/H/fkXFkFKRQshUi  
 
  
 
DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to the imagination of JRR Tolkien, apart from the 
character of Elen.  
 
  
 
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story will be *long*, I'm warning you. So you'd better jump 
ship now, or settle down for a lengthy spiel. I'm a sucker for long stories. Hopefully it 
won't be too unbearable. 
NOTE 2/12/02: Those of you who are already familiar with this story will notice that this 
chapter is somewhat different - for the better, I hope. I'm editing as I write and the 
following chapters, with the exception of '6', will receive the same treatment. Let me 
know what you think.  
 
  
 
* * * 
Chapter 1  
 
  
 
There was an old man at the gates.  
It came like a rumour of night, running like the twisting length of a dark river 
through the thoughts of many. Whisperings emerged amongst folk, tellings of a 
revolution; a change that existed on the air as surely as the wind blew from the 
mountains. He was a prophet, they said. A herald of doom from the north, 
guised in his ashen robes as a man of the earth. Old he was, indeed. The lives of 
Men had waned with the passing of the Ages, and those who reached the tale of 
three score years were looked on with amazement and often fear, for 
bewitchments were not unheard of in local lore. Yet this stranger was aged 
beyond reckoning, more lined than the most venerable crone of the villages. 
Children pointed in wonder at his long, stiff beard and the mysterious stains of 
travel upon his cloak. Was he a spirit? they asked. Would he do magic, cast a 
black spellcraft; make the sky darken above them, the crops wither in the fields, 
the cattle be struck mad and run wild, and the horses fall lame? Word travelled 
fast, reaching the City like smoke from a distant fire, a foretell of an approaching 
storm. The battlements were armed as if for war, guards standing tall against the 
Sun, shading their eyes as they searched like portenders of a doomsday awaiting 
their superstition. The dike and the wall would not avail it. None should enter, 
or their spears be hewn from their own hands.  
Thus he came. 
Within the City, a woman awoke. Some alien music it was in the wind, or the 
divine shifting of the earth's spheres, for the fate of many were intertwined that 
day.  
A Maiar was come to Rohan. 
* * * 
Some time before noon, the woman stood, still and silent before the doors of the 
great hall. Men within the ranks had been gathered and they spoke softly, 
seeming not to see her, holding some sacred debate that only the commanders 
should hear. The woman watched the old king in his seat upon the dais. Old 
before his time, some said, and indeed the years had come quickly, fleetingly, to 
his shadowed face. Time stood still, yet flew and passed like a wind in the 
meadow. Age did not belie him; his wrinkles were grief-born.  
"He seeks admittance, my lord. He begs it, if wizards beg." 'Man' was a strange 
name for the creature which spoke these words. He was indeed of mortal kind, 
more so than most for a repellent ailment always seemed to linger about him, 
like the agonised collapse of a mind as shrewd as crystal trapped within a body 
full of decay. Yet there was no lack of strength in this creature's heart, man or no. 
His walk was the shuffling gait of a dotard, yet his gaze was darkly brilliant, 
unworthy of the hated face from which his eyes looked forth. To many he was 
'Wormtongue', a title invented by the guards who listened to his crawling 
speeches and oft beheld his unlovely countenance; yet to the king he was Grima, 
and this was the name by which he went. 
In his weariness, the king's voice was faint. "I place my trust in your counsel," he 
told the man. "Pray, advise me. Give me your wisdom, for mine own is all but 
spent in my wrestling with the years. Whither shall he be sent?" 
"Grievous are his tidings," said the Wormtongue. He laughed suddenly, a high, 
false sound like glass splintering. "Thus I name him Lathspell, Ill-news. He may 
be a bringer of evil, as is the way of many wizards. A thousand foul 
enchantments he may rain down upon the land of Rohan, if he be allowed to 
enter. My lord, I counsel that you send him far over the fields, away from us, and 
may he never darken our door again." 
There was a swift movement and turning her head, the woman saw a young man 
leap to his feet. Tall and slender he was, fair of hair and beard, and all the light of 
the sky was in his eyes. Moved by passion, he turned to the king and spoke 
earnestly. 
"Mayhap the old man's tidings are worthy of listening, my lord," he said. "Would 
you send him away without hearing his words? Would you take guidance from 
this -" He looked at Wormtongue, his mouth twisting in revulsion " - this snake, 
this creeping traitor? I would strike him down this instant, had I sword or bow. It 
is more than he deserves." 
The old king rose to his feet, swaying but a little, and a glimmer of what once 
was, strength and honour, shone in his clear blue eyes. "Would I take counsel 
from a strange old beggar rather an my known and faithful serving-man, say 
you?" he said to the young man. "You rebel against my wishes, Eomer. I 
command you be silent. Sit down and listen to the words of those who know 
more of this world than you ever will. You threaten death to Grima in my hall? 
Then you mock me, Eomer, whom I once called sister-son. You mock me and 
defile the name of Riddermark." 
The two men stood, one tall and strong, the other old and bent, and for a 
moment there was a perfect hush, as though the hall was holding its breath; as 
though the very walls leaned inwards to listen and the ceiling frowned down at 
them, watchful. The woman's heart beat quickly in her breast. 
It was Eomer who turned away first, for while the king was old and frail his gaze 
pierced the soul. "You command me, lord," Eomer said, "so I must obey." 
"Obey me you do not," Theoden said. "You shame me, Eomer son of Eomund. I 
look upon you with disgrace when once I valued your mind and voice. Try you 
to be a counsellor of kings? Your pride goes before you, Eomer. One day it will 
be your fall." 
Silent the young man stood, and his gaze upon the old king was empty and 
bleak. For a moment he seemed to have turned to stone, a figure carven of the 
very foundations of the earth, where anger met with grief, battled, and lost.  
Turning swiftly, he strode past the dais, looking not once at either Theoden nor 
the Wormtongue, and to the door where the woman stood. Pausing he looked 
her in the eye, and she looked back, unflinching. He was as pale as the dawn and 
as cold as the hills and he touched her cheek, lightly. Then he turned away and 
was gone, without looking back. The great doors closed behind him. 
The king's voice speaking her name made the woman lift her head up. 
"Go, Elen cousin-daughter," he said. "These fell words are not fit for the tender 
ears of womenfolk." 
"Not so fell, my lord," she said, "as sad. It grieves me to hear such things."
"Do you stand beside Eomer?" Theoden said gravely, and in his eyes there was a 
proud, dark fire. "Keep a still tongue in your head, lady. Check where your 
loyalties lie, with your king or he who scorns him." 
"It is not my place, sir," said Elen. "I spoke out of turn. I am sorry." 
"Go, lady," the king repeated. "And speak to no one of these things." 
The woman turned and went slowly to the doors. As she reached them she 
looked back and caught Wormtongue watching her. His sharp eyes glittered in 
his white face and a strange smile curved his thin lips. He inclined his head in 
what would have been a gesture of respect, were it not for the mocking light in 
his eyes. 
She held his gaze for a moment, then turned and went silently from the hall. 
* * * 
The old man looked up at the sky. The Sun reared up haughtily above the White 
Mountains, telling him that the afternoon was growing old. A curious stillness 
had befallen the vast horse-plains of Rohan. Not Man nor beast was to be seen. 
The old man puffed quietly on his pipe. He had little else to do - that and wait. 
But wait for what? A miracle, more or less. So it seemed that the hand of 
Saruman had stretched further than merely to the borders of Isengard. Theoden, 
once a good and noble king, was greatly changed. There was evil in the court of 
Meduseld; evil that breathed and lived, if you could call it living. 
Gandalf had noticed of late that his own walk was more laboured, his back more 
bent. He relied heavily upon his staff, much like the old king of Rohan. He often 
wondered why the Valar had sent him to this world in the body of an old man, 
prone to every mortal ache and pain. The cares weighed heavily upon him, it 
was true. He had much to bear. Though that was little, compared to some... 
He wondered often about Frodo. It was pointless to worry about the hobbit's 
safety; he would never be safe, not while he bore...that thing. That treacherous 
object that was the bane of every living soul, that threatened freedom and peace 
merely by existing. The wizard had come to Edoras seeking help, only to be 
turned away at the gates. The Men of Rohan were true and valiant but while 
their leader was under the influence of the Enemy, it would not be long before 
they too fell. Rohan was weak. 
Yet there was something strange about the great hill-fort of Edoras. As Gandalf 
had stood before the gates, seeking admittance from the stern, mail-clad guards, 
he had felt the gentle touch of a mind, familiar yet strange, distant yet close by. 
He had dismissed the idea as foolish, for no beings of that sort dwelt within the 
walls of Edoras. 
An Elf. 
Rohan was not a place of legends. The earth of its plains was frank, trodden by 
hardy feet. The honest workings of the land were their only crafts; they made not 
songs of myths, nor wrote books to pass down to their young. Now Gandalf 
wondered as he sucked on his pipe, gazing at the wooden buildings of Edoras, 
shining brightly in the late afternoon sunlight. He wondered often these days. 
Nothing seemed straightforward. But for now, he would smoke another 
pipeweed, and watch the sun go down, and wait until the time was right before 
he once again attempted to break the impenetrable fortress that was the City of 
Edoras. 
* * *  
 
  
 
Please do review, or else it means I have to revise (work).  
 
  
 
((In the next chapter: tidings of betrayal are brought to the court of Meduseld.))