TITLE: Tindomerel’s Bane AUTHOR: Elfwine RATING: PG FEEDBACK: Brilliant. Please leave a review at: http://www.quicktopic.com/18/H/fkXFkFKRQshUi A/N: I have despicably altered the time-scale in this chapter. In the appendixes at the end of ROTK, it states in the Chronology of the Great Years that Gandalf came to Edoras on Sept. 19, and was granted admittance the following day. However, in this story a week passes between his arrival and his admittance. I am a shameless abuser of poetic license. Chapter Two * * * No tales exist to tell of the coming of the Grey Wanderer to the court of Theoden King, and thus the legend cannot be accounted in full. Whither he went in that dark night it is unknown, for none in the villages would welcome him to their hearths. He passed away from the gates of the City, vanishing like the pale breath of a lingering mist upon the coming of dawn. Naught was seen of him again that night, although many an exaggerated tale was told before the fireplace, cattle were withdrawn suspiciously from the field and doors were bolted against the outside. In his dim chamber, the king burnt a solitary candle long into the night, for the cast of shadows upon the fall of dusk was a plague to his mind, and his dreams of late had been black and fell. A rain passed in the hours of dark. Few awoke to its soft drumming against their roofs, casting a vague thought towards the whereabouts of the wizard amidst the downpour, considering a brief glimmer of guilt that plucked tentatively at their consciences; then, having banished any concern of wrong-doing on their part from their minds, sighed and turned in their beds, welcoming the familiar warmth of the coverlet, and finding slumber once more. The day dawned, and earlier fears seemed foolish. The milk did not run sour, nor had any person been struck blind or deaf or mute by wicked spellcraft. Life resumed its comfortable routine, and still there came no sign of any iminent bewitching, or cursing, or sorcery. But a rumour had been born, and little by little it changed and grew and spread, until the small pocket of communities at the foot of the great hill- fort was thrilled by a wave of gossip and speculation, like the fabled winds of change that blow through a dusty and stolid society, altering it forever. He was a spirit, some said, possessing the ability to change shape and guise at will; now a black- breasted bird of prey, now a red-tailed fox, now a wolf from the hills. Others swore he was an enchanter, who laughed and sang to his unwitting victims so that they followed him like sheep. To where he led them none could agree. Some said to the Pits of Utumno where they would be kept forever as slaves; others said to the Golden Wood and to the mercy of the Lady who dwelt there, of whom old tales told. But one thing that everyone could agree on was the name of this strange wanderer. He must have a name in his notoriety, for the sake of idle chatter, and to speak of him - especially within the safety of one's own house, feet propped before a fire and a draught of mead in the hand - was quite delicious. And the name that seemed to settle on him, without anyone really knowing why, was Greybeard. "Don't stay out late, or Greybeard will get you!" "My cousin, he says he saw Greybeard around the Royal stables. Lurking, he was." "We haven't seen the last of that old Greybeard. You mark my words, all the crops will be dead in a week!" And, inevitably, once the rumours and stories had reached the circles of children: "Let's play Greybeard's coming!" Of course, none of these reports were entirely true, and in many cases had been wholly fabricated from the workings of somewhat fertile imaginations. The wizard had indeed vanished, or, as one Eothan of the Guards said - "Turned into a great, grey eagle - giant, it was - and flew off into the sky, towards the Snowbourn." Such tales circulated for nigh on a week. At length the wagging of tongues began to wane, for fresh gossip came and captured the village-folk's interest, such as the corn famines in the East, and the troubling rumours that emerged from the South, and Gondor. There was very little talk of bewitchings, and those who happened to mention it were oft looked upon with scorn and disinterest. The legend of Greybeard had come and passed, like an insignificant myth from the scrolls of ancient Men, and one which very few cared to remember. * * * However, there was one rumour-monger who had been right, although they did not know it at the time. The last of Greybeard had not been seen, as the dawning of September 20th would prove. * * * A clamour was raised in the mid-morning - it had just gone nine o' clock. A figure had been sighted on the road leading up to the gates of the City. Amidst the ructions, the Guards of the dike had been roused, and they sprang at once to their feet, not willing to be caught idle in the face of attack. "How now: what comes?" "An old man, clad all in grey," came the answer. "It is Stormcrow returned, as he is known to the king." The Captain of the Guards shaded his eyes as he gazed beyond the wall and down the green slopes of the hill. This was what he had been dreading. He had listened to the rumours - although he cared not to disclose this fact - and had reached his own conclusions about the identity and purpose of the Grey Wanderer. None of his ideas were favourable. "What fell errand does he bear with him, now?" he said. "If he comes a- begging again there will be spear-work up here." Once more, as it had been just seven days ago, the way was barred. The guards waited patiently; the old man's pace was slow, and they had little to fear, although the seeds of superstition which had been sown in childhood encouraged some amount of caution. The old man came, blown by the winds of a carnival of intrigue, and before their stern gaze he did not quail, nor did warmth soften the hard edges of his aged face. They regarded each other like the grimly determined troops of enemy sides, awaiting their first word of a command which would bring certain and inescapable doom. At length, the Captain stepped forward, and his eyes blazed with a rekindled flame. "Halt, beggar-man!" he cried in Rohirric. "Your business here is done. Make your foul path away from us and do not come again." "I wish to counsel with the Lord of the Mark," the wizard replied. "I am Gandalf the Grey. I mean no harm to either your king or country but my news is grievous. I am in much haste. Let me pass." The Captain faltered. He had not expected words of defiance from this decrepit traveller of the hills. He took a breath, drew himself up and thrust his spear forward, the tip just brushing the hem of the wizard's cloak. "The Lord of the Mark has spoken," the Captain said. "You shall not be granted entrance. It is his will." "Would you not send to say that I am come again? Mayhap the Lord's mind is changed. I come to you for help, for the hour is ill and deadly." "What interest would the Men of Rohan have in helping a wandering wizard? Especially one so beggar-like to behold." "Surely that is for the Lord of the Mark to decide? Go now and tell him I am come, and mayhap he will permit me to enter his hall. The day is bright and tempers may be soothed." The guard's fingers tightened briefly on the shaft of his spear. Long he looked into the stern grey eyes of the old man before him, then suddenly he blinked, as though coming out of a dream. "I will report you as you bid," he said. "Although my master's will doubtless will be unchanged." Turning, he strode swiftly away, leaving Gandalf in the icy care of his comrades. After some time he returned, and his eyes were strangely bright. "Come!" he said. "Theoden gives you leave to enter this one time. His mood is generous and he grants you a great favour. But you must leave your staff at the door, mayhap it serve as a weapon." * * * The great gates swung open slowly. Gandalf was escorted through, flanked by four stern-faced guards. Up a broad stone path they went, passing many wooden houses, dark and great, their roofs shining brightly after the night's rainfall. Folk paused to watch the solemn procession, to gaze in open wonderment at the strange old man clad in grey robes, stained with much travel and toil. Greybeard had come to Edoras. A legend walked amongst them out of riddles and children's tales from the North. At last they came to the crown of the hill, where a high platform was set upon a green terrace, its roof thatched with gold, standing tall and proud against the clear sky. A stone stairway marched upwards to two great doors, on each side of which there stood a guard with drawn sword, their golden braids of hair glistening in the brightness of the day. "There are the doors of Meduseld before you," said the Captain. "I must return now to my duty at the gate. Farewell! And I counsel you, beggar; speak no haughty word as you stand before the Lord. His patience runs thin in these dark days." * * * And thus the Captain of the Guards went away, and as he cleared the stair a voice rang out: "Open! The Lord of the Mark commands it!" The doors rolled back, their ancient hinges groaning in protestation. A great hall was revealed and it seemed that a shadow was cast out from it; the light of day did not penetrate the deep cavern that was the hall of Meduseld. As Gandalf's eyes adjusted, he could make out the mighty pillars that withheld the roof, tall and richly carved, gleaming with mingled, faded colours; like sentinels of a bygone age, strong in their tradition and majesty. A rich scent of woodsmoke and the aged smell of old dust that has settled and remained, undisturbed, for many years in a stagnant room filled the nostrils. Heat assaulted the face like sand blown from a desert, heat of a cloistered air that has existed long, heedless of the sunlight. At the far end of the house, beyond the hearth, was a dais with three steps, upon which was set a great gilded chair; the seat of the king. And the king - he was king, was he not? Where dark belied the eyes, a face so coursed with age stared forth. An old man, bent like a fraud upon that seat of noblemen, gazed with depthless eyes across the hall of which he was ruler. His white beard fell upon his breast, the unkempt fuzz of a vagabond of the hills, nay Theoden King. Theoden, so mighty in renown, in whose face dark and light fought like chieftains of the soul - and where dark triumphed, and light cringed, weeping in cowardice. A diamond-crested circlet, set loosely upon his brow, gleamed mockingly in the gloom, an eye of the past which gazed sorrowfully across time, relishing what once was, dreading the unknown wrath of the future. In his despair the king was not alone, for better or worse, for by his feet there sat a strange wizened creature, hardly a man, with a thin shrewd face and the eyes of a Crow. Two women, both clad in white, stood behind the chair, pale spectres in the sullen dim. Both were young, but one was fair, fair and cold, with hair like a golden river, hanging loose down her back. The other was tall; tall as a man it seemed, yet slender as a girl. Her hair was dark, like ribbons of dusk, like soot and smoke interwoven. Unlike the Rohirrim was she, a stranger amidst these proud, fair folk, but her eyes were grave and fierce, and her gaze was merciless, the unyielding stare of a she-wolf sizing up her feeble prey. There was beauty in her face, the living image of Elentari come upon earth, yet not elf-like; but strong and cold and pure, the embodied breath of a shattered glacier. A woman of the Edain was she. For a long while the wizard and the king regarded one another, both silent and unsmiling. Then Theoden rose slowly to his feet, leaning heavily upon a short black staff, bone-handled and unlovely. He swayed, straightened, and met the wizard's gaze directly. "If you seek welcome you will not get it," he said in the Common Speech. "But I greet you, though reluctantly. Your coming to us is as the bearer of woe and misfortune. You bring trouble with you wherever you journey. I am not glad to look upon you, Gandalf Stormcrow." He sat back down. "Maybe you speak justly, Theoden son of Thengel," said Gandalf. "But my tidings are worthy of a listening ear. Saruman the White, wisest of the Istari, has turned traitor. I come from Orthanc, wherein I was held prisoner for many nights, until being rescued by Gwaihir the Windlord. I am in need of a horse to bear me far across Middle- earth, and as there are no horses like those bred in this great vale between the Misty Mountains and the White, I sought to come here in the hope that you would provive me with a beast." "What is this of Saruman? Long he has dwelt in Isengard and we presumed him worthy and peaceable. If Chief of the Istari has become evil, then what of other wizards?" Theoden drew himself up and all could see that in his youth he had been both strong and tall. "What of you, Master Gandalf? Are you a spy of Saruman?" "I am neither spy nor traitor," replied Gandalf. "I merely seek your assistance, and to warn you of the shadow that grows in Isengard." The pale man at the king's feet stirred suddenly. "Heed not his words, my lord," he said, in a soft voice that whispered through the air like an unsavoury breath of the wind. He turned to the wizard, lifting his heavy lids to gaze upon the old man with strange, dark eyes. "Why indeed should you be welcomed, Stormcrow, when you bring tidings of evil straight from the mouth of Isengard? What would you wish to achieve in this doing, to spread such alarm then leave us in peril? You bring us no aid; not men nor horses nor arms. Ill fortune is borne with you, Master Stormcrow. It is inside you skin." "Your words may be wise, Grima son of Galmod," said Gandalf, "if they were not spoken with a forked tongue. That tongue whispers readily in the king's ears; too readily methinks. Strange that you should protest so much against my guidance. You work upon the fears of Men: that there is no ally beyond Rohan to be trusted. Your own words are ill, Grima, if that is the belief within your cold heart." "I believe only what is known to be the truth," said Wormtongue, turning his face aside, as though uncomfortable being looked upon so keenly. "What is told to us by Gondor, and what our own findings reveal. The Dark Lord has allies is many quarters, and they are spreading, as is his shadow." "This is all truth, indeed," said Gandalf, "but twisted truth spoken by twisted tongue. Will you not hearken to me, Theoden? Will you only hear the words of the witless creature that sits like a beaten dog at your feet?" "Faithful is my counsellor," said Theoden. "Faith that will stand beside me when all else has vanished from hope. You speak yourself with a twisted tongue, if you seek to poison my mind against those who are held dear to me." "I seek only to warn you," said Gandalf, "in the hope that his treacherous mask of friendship may be torn." "Speak no more!" cried the old king. "These are fell words you utter, and dark beyond the measure of thought. I was foolish to permit you entrance to Edoras. You should never have come here, Gandalf the Grey." It seemed that a shadow passed over the Sun, moving too quickly to be a wisp of cloud, and for a moment everyone glanced up. The light was blotted from the eastern windows and the hall was encompassed in shadow. When Gandalf looked back down, his eyes met with those of the dark-haired woman. Her soft white raiment hung like a shroud of ice upon her feminine curves, and once again Gandalf felt the gentle whisper of a mind, very close by now, like a fair voice singing quietly far over the mountains. "You should not have come here," the king said again, almost to himself. "Evil are your words and you bring evil to my kingdom. I command you to go! Take any horse, only be gone ere tomorrow is old!" "That is all I asked for, lord," Gandalf said. "But take heed of my words. The arm of Sauron grows longer. Protect your noble kingdom, Theoden, from foes within and without. Be strong!" With that, the wizard turned and went swiftly from the hall. The guards stood and blinked and glanced around themselves, as though coming out from a spell of waking sleep. With a fierce look from Theoden, they turned and hastened after the retreating figure of the wizard. "A wise decision, my lord," said Wormtongue. He smiled and clasped his thin hands. "He will not return, be sure of it," he added in a quiet voice. "Gandalf the Grey will go to his long home." "But I will not be happier for it," said Theoden. He seemed old again and very sad. The proud fire had gone from within him. "May none be permitted to enter the hall for the remains of the day, Grima; for I am weary and in need of much thought." * * * Two guards at the door watched the departure of the wizard. None within Edoras was ignorant of the strange old man's feared comings and goings, for the legend of Greybeard had stretched beyond the gossip of village-folk; but these two considered themselves nothing short of experts in the field of Stormcrow, for they were oft held witness to the king's fretful bandying with the outside. "I see how the king holds his advisor in high regard," said one. "First the Lord Eomer, now old Stormcrow is sent forth from the hall in disgrace. Grima whispers prettily, methinks." "Not so without a tongue," answered the other. "Give me leave to swing and cut, and see how prettily the Worm whispers then." They both laughed and were glad, for many things went beyond their knowledge and tomorrow the Sun would rise again on their simple lives. They had no reason to doubt it. * * * The thoughts of others went regardless in that time of uncertainty, and Elen, although called Edain by Gandalf, had troubles of her own that exceeded the old man's warning. Who knew what she whispered to a fair evening, alone, her words falling unheeded in the dark? Who knew if she drew comfort from hearing her thoughts spoken aloud, with only the night to listen and the wind to reply? Yet untrue was the aloneness, at least some of the time. * * * Elen would oft look upon Gwydion, and laugh, and think - What a strange fate that we should be siblings! And it was so, for golden was his countenance, a young and heralded lion in the prime of his existence. He was like the fathers before him, the sons of the land, the mother that they shared; while she was of the image of her own father, tall and dark and pale. He was perhaps more decent than she; perhaps goodness came more easily to him as his nature dictated, for he was, by all accounts, a kind man. Three and twenty autumns he had seen in his life, and she but two more than that, yet his wisdom was indeed greater than hers. Mayhap this was born of experience, for had he not felt the cold grip of the sword-hilt in his hand and wielded such a blade in battle? Had he not been bereft of a parent at a young age, with only a stern and unfathomable sister left to raise him? Yet all these things would surely scar a soul into coldness, chase away pity and mirth and leave an empty hollow where a man had once been, or so Elen thought. This was all so untrue of Gwydion that she almost felt ashamed considering it. When she sought out the dusk he would sometimes follow, determined that she should not stand alone before the stark emptiness of the night. They might whisper together, or laugh and count the stars, or shout wishes to the moon and listen, half-believing, for a reply. He was her friend, her confessional, her confidante. As they stood, shoulder-to-shoulder - misshapen comrades, for he was taller than she -, Elen did not fear the void of darkness before her that was oft both a relief and a pain. There was no dread for her in the night; he would frighten the gloom away. Almost. But not quite. * * * She waited for him that evening, at the window of the northernmost turret of the house. Even before she heard his step in the corridor she was turning, one hand rested upon the sill, cast in a half-light by the pale gleam of the moon. "I must ask you," he said, as though continuing a conversation. "In what manner does the king banish the Third Marshal of the Mark from his own house?" "You speak of Eomer, I presume," she said. "A grievous manner, indeed. There was a dark force at work in the house that day." "Is there not every day?" He stepped beside her. "Evil things and evil doings are aplenty, Sister." "Faithless is as faithless does," she said. "The king has no trust in friendship. He would be better for it to have nay yet a single advisor, and then the sting of betrayal would be easier to bear. Or so he thinks." "Better? Perhaps." He looked out of the window, his mouth set in a line. "Elen, am I - am I wrong in my hatred? The spell of Wormtongue cannot be so strong as to wield a power over the land. Long I have lain awake, watching the passing of the stars, and such ideas that have plagued me - murderous, none the less. I do not wish to be alone in bitterness, lest it twist my heart and make me cruel." "Why do you seek my approval? They are your own thoughts." "You are older than I." He laughed. "And - I don't know, more dignified perhaps, in your stillness. I have hardly an idea of your sentiment. I would ask you - pray, tell me. What are your views on the king?" "Do not ask me," she said, and he shut his mouth quickly like a scolded child. "I have not the wit, I think, to bandy words with you. If you would be so gracious as to let me win an argument, then I would feel mocked." "You are troubled." "I am not." "Then why such a sharp speech, and all directed at your poor, foolish brother?" He made a sorrowful face and Elen smiled. "Heed me not, poor, foolish brother," she said. "I am in strange moods tonight." "Indeed." A companionable silence descended upon them. At length, Elen spoke again: "Does the Black Gate lie yonder?" "That is a curious question." "What is its answer?" "I know not. I have never travelled there." She shivered under her frosty raiment. "Will it not come hither, whatever lies within that dark place?" Gwydion looked at her, questioning. "Those are fell words," he said. "And I wonder why you speak them. Do you think of your father?" "No." "I think you do." "I do not wish to play at riddles," she said. "What do you ask of me?" He sighed. "Elen, I know the memory of your father torments you, but you are not bound to his fate." "His fate I do not dread. I have no fear of pain or death." "What do you fear?" "What I may become." "That will not come to pass," he said. "You are a lady valiant, and you shall not be tainted by greed or malice. You will defeat whatever darkness exists in you, and remain here, a woman of Rohan." "If I had your happy spirit, then I would be a nurse or healer, or the indulged pet of a nobleman - kind and moral and gay. I would be indeed beloved by all for my goodness. I would be so decent, in fact, that folk would look upon me with envy, and sigh and think - 'Ah, what a fine life we should have, if only we could be as Elen.'" Gwydion laughed. "I would see you in your little garden," he said. "Tending all that grows and is not barren." "And greatness would come from that," she said. "From a simple work in service." Then she reached forward and opened the window, and a wind came into the dusty hall, swept on the wings of night from the far South, smelling of open skies and the vast stretch of the Sea. And in the dark, they remained there, together, until the stars went out. * * * Reviews are the fruit of an author's existence. Go on. You know you want to. ((In the next chapter: a forgotten evil comes to the beleaguered kingdom.))