TITLE: Tindomerel’s Bane
AUTHOR: Elfwine
RATING: PG
FEEDBACK: Always welcome and coveted. Please leave a review at: 
http://www.quicktopic.com/18/H/fkXFkFKRQshUi  
A/N: I’m not sure what people will think of this chapter. There is little, if any action, but 
is more a summary of the present situation in Rohan, and probably builds a little more on 
Elen’s character. It sets the scene and is a ‘taster’, if you will, for Chapter Four. I’ll be 
interested to see what people think *nudge nudge, wink wink*  
 
  
 
* * *  
 
  
 
Chapter Three  
 
  
 
  
 
When Elen was a child, the walk from the hewn stone steps of the house to the 
dappled, intimate bank of the stream that flowed past the walls of the City and 
wove like a ribbon into the plains beyond, had seemed a long one. It was a lazy 
summer past-time, a period of restful peace wherein she, her mother and brother 
would seek out the serene voice of the river and sit awhile on the sun-warmed 
grass, or cast stones into the water, or sing as one of the stars and the moon. In 
that time, a woman and infants might wander alone, unprotected in the 
meadows of Rohan. The hours spent were leisurely; lying in abandon on the 
grass, laughing at the ludicrous vastness of the sky; hot feet in the stream, cold 
water on the face; scraped hands and bruised knees; tongues stained pink with 
berry-juice. Elen's mother would spread a blanket on the ground, and lying there 
she would be a dragon or a troll, or some various form of monster, and her 
tickling fingers would induce shrieks of mirth from their happy victims. In that 
idyl of gentle play and sweet ignorance, a voice might carry far, unanswered by 
peril or darkness. There was no need for the presence of a blade, or the snarling 
wrench of a dog upon the end of a chain. The king was high in his power, and 
the jealous whisperings of Grima had not yet stained his heart with blackness. 
The country was alive. 
Beyond the stream, where the grass grew in lustrous swards and a path ran 
haphazardly, trodden by hardy feet, there was a curious rise and fall in the earth. 
Upon this barrow a shroud of white flowers bloomed. There were perhaps two 
dozen in total, growing in three wandering lines like the assembled troops of a 
tiny, exquisite regiment, the delicate skirts of their petals clothing them like fair 
corslets, their bracts arching to the sky in silent salutation. One member of this 
diminutive legion was slightly taller than the rest. It stood apart in its 
magnificence, isolated and gleaming like the keen edge of a bright white knife. 
Elen named it Leofhelm - she was perhaps seven at the time. Leofhelm was the 
captain of this mighty army, and Elen was their combat master. She was stern in 
her command, shrewd as a dancer fulfilling some practised and intricate step; 
leading her band of flora to certain and glorious victory in the childish recesses 
of her imagination. A troop of Orcs -- crushed. An attack of wolves -- defeated. 
On one of these ventures, Leofhelm was suddenly and unfortunately trampled 
underfoot. Thus Leofhelm the Brave, Leofhelm the Great, Leofhelm the Bold was 
slain. A hero's death, Elen had gravely noted, but he was soon to be replaced by 
a second-in-command.  
These fanciful imaginings were all very well; Elen was alone in her thoughts and 
she preferred it that way. She had been one of those children who possessed an 
insatiable desire for order. She appreciated the quiet that her solitary play-acting 
brought to her; a stillness, like the moment in the mind between thought and 
speech before sound came like ripples across a plane of water. She was not one 
for the titivating of skirts and the learning of manners, the art of a disdainful 
glance and the cared folding of bedclothes. She knew all of these things as a 
matter of course, yet part of her had long been seduced by the dazzling glory of 
battle; a romance of mud and war, the screaming of horses and the tang of 
leather. Hers was a capricious love, fickle and wicked and cruel. It came and 
went, ungentle and swift, a passion born of brave tales and songs sung by men as 
intoxication rendered them high-voiced and merry. It was a strange, fascinated 
joy, a half-horror, to listen to accounts of slaying and blood, unseen by the story-
teller; she was only a child. Indeed she was, a near-untamed little girl, sharp and 
dark and challenging; solemn in her demeanour, grave as a morning touched by 
frost. Recreational past-times held little pleasure for Elen the child; her heart was 
in the battleground, where the clash of steel against steel rent the air, and blood 
fell like rain from the sky. 
The forging of the floral army had proved an intricate part of Elen's childhood. 
Not only that, but it was secret and precious, would crumble as a dream if 
unknowing eyes were held witness to it. Her seclusion was necessary; she would 
withdraw from the company of her few friends and, as she grew older and was 
allowed to venture out alone, depart to the melancholic barrow by the river-
bank, where a wealth of battles and heroes existed like an echo from the past, 
heralded by a cluster of simbelmyne; where a voice had chanted out the names of 
invented warriors, victories had been won, renown had been earned, alliances 
had been formed. Here a legend would be acted out in full; death would be 
greeted with resolution; greatness would come from the ability to endure, and 
triumph, always, would be achieved by the valiant. This was her infant world, 
beyond the brightness of toys and game-making; no more of a pleasure than war 
itself but a vital doing, a breath of life to a suffocated existence. She had seen, in 
an abstract, fragmented way, what it was to be a man. 
It would end, as all things of joy do. Of a morning, she was followed; her voice 
betrayed her, overheard from amongst the swaying grasses. Thus she was 
discovered, leaping up in indignant rage; humiliated, ashamed; face burning, 
eyes stinging with unshed tears. It was not her hated vulnerability, the 
embarrassment of being happened upon in such a private situation. It was the 
defiling of her secret world, the place of her own creation where silence 
prevailed and time stood still. Now it was shattered, brought naked and 
powerless into the glare of *others*; stripped of its intimacy, ravaged of its 
innocence. The floral army was disbanded. Her secret world dissolved. Elen 
never went back to the riverbank again. 
She grew up. It was not befitting a maid of noble birth to take joy in the hellish 
wrath of war, be it real or imagined. For the most part, she was patient. With 
maturity came a jewelled casket of wonders to be prised open and savoured, a 
girlish whispering between best friends in the dead of the night. She knew the 
effect that she had on men; it was fascinating, puzzling; it excited her. Her body -
- flushed, secret, confiding; a thing of mmysteries, often alien even to herself with 
its flourishing curves and hidden niches. Her mere existence, a simplicity of 
being, and she could feel their eyes on her, watching, wanting, longing. She was 
empowered in her very self, her own feminine frailty which she had for so long 
despised. It amused her; their comical faces, throats moving in an effort to 
moisten bone-dry mouths; eyes bright and cheeks a-flame like young boys met 
with the prospect of a scolding. It meant nothing to her. These men, jockeying 
like puppies in search of attention, were no more of a reality than her fragmented 
dreamings down by the riverbank. To them she was a figment, as insubstantial 
and distant as the pale light of the stars. Teasing words tripped lightly off the 
tongue, gentle flirtations abounded, but it was shallow and baseless, an anomaly 
of being. Elen was divided from them, separated by a wall of ice, unable, 
*unwilling* to attempt to break through. She existed as a thing of intrigue, 
enclosed in a cage of silk and cotton, and her solitary watches of the night 
became a custom, a pilgrimage of frosty isolation and cold comfort. Aloneness 
found her, the very thing she had sought in the beginning.  
* * * 
The land had changed in its duelling with the years. The soil was embittered by 
overwork; little goodness was drawn from it. The crops were weak, felled by 
hard frosts, possessing neither nutrient nor agreeable flavour. Stoically the 
farmhands toiled, fingers worn numb and raw by the pitiless grasp of the scythe, 
yet the sting of disappointment brought them near to their knees; they had 
families to feed, the bellies of hungry children went unfilled, and the precious 
foodstuff of which they had so little withered in their very hands. Their 
frustration was turned towards the City. Blame must be laid in hard times, and 
Edoras seemed distant and uncompromising in its mighty towering above the 
lands. The king, sitting like a spider amidst the despair of a tangled and 
shattered web, was faint in the troubled minds of his subjects. Oft a layman 
might travel to the gates, and there shake an angry fist and cry, 'Bring out the 
king, for he has much to answer for!' This was the shared opinion of many. What 
right had they within the Golden Hall to sit in a haven of comfort, when the 
babes of peasantry starved in the night, and the milk of mothers ran dry? What 
fairness was there in misery, where people who worked for the bread on their 
table went unsated, and the brigands who dwelt in lofty splendour had their 
every desire met?  
It had not always been this way. Few cared to cast their minds back to those 
days, for the memories were uncertain and poignant, and there was always the 
danger of them being revealed as simply that - memories. They might be recalled 
as a tale told before an evening fire by an aged worker of the lands, with damp 
eyes and a smile lingering like a ghost upon his lips. Never were the stories more 
welcome than during the harvest season, when words of bread soft and warm 
from the mill and butter newly churned set the mouth a-watering and the 
stomach clenching in thwarted lust. Not now; winter came, frighteningly fast, 
sweeping like a wash of the tide across grass-blade and tree-limb, drinking their 
colour, sapping moisture and vitality like a parched and ravenous spirit. Where 
fruitless cultivation fails folk must turn to other means, but the slaughter of 
livestock takes time, and seconds, minutes, hours slipped like the finest sand 
between desperate, clutching fingers. There was little solace to be found in 
bittersweet reminiscences now. Despair came as a cloud, gathering, swelling, 
spilling its evil rain over a land seized by a drought of fear. They would drown 
in its flood. 
Yet there was always something else to think about. In his wake, the Grey 
Wanderer had left still a rumour of change. There was a strange, half-expectant 
tension existing like a knot pulled taut throughout the villages. Beyond the 
passing of Greybeard, and the subsequent vanishing of the Horse-prince, there 
came a wild ferment of stories to set even the most idle and curmudgeonly 
tongue wagging; stories that made some people laugh and others grow silent, as 
some scoff at the idea of ghosts and others fear their coming in the dark. There 
was a fell talk of war in the South. Gondor was but a once-spoken name to the 
folk of the Eotheod; a word that, when recalled, might prompt one to pause in 
distant, fractured thought like the glimmer of a infantile memory, seen through a 
veil of many years past. Any recollections, images of rangers in green and the 
pale silhouette of a white tree against a dusky blank, were instantly forgettable. 
Long it had been since the coming of the Steward's sons to the Mark, or any of 
his soldiers. The ties between Theoden Horsemaster and Denethor of the Citadel 
had long been severed by a blade that rang with a doom-song. 
* * * 
It was true that the peoples of Rohan had little dealing with folk outside their 
own country. Perhaps an old suspicious had been stirred in the subconscious of 
their minds, a simmering fear re-ignited by word of trouble and international 
unrest. This could have been a good thing; such independence had its own, social 
benefits, and to rely too heavily upon another kingdom would inevitably prove 
foolish. But in its cloistering of its nation, Rohan had become secluded; they had 
lost the trust of other realms and the princes of neighbouring Gondor came little 
to its lonely plains. Travel was avoided as much as possible, for along the high 
roads and by roads lurked bands of marauding Orcs and various fell beasts and 
wild Men, who might cut your throat for a penny sooner than look at you. No, 
the Rohirrim were not inclined to traverse the lands in hope of a hospitable 
reception from foreign parts. Ne'er a countryman might turn his eyes towards 
the South, and wonder at what lay there, undiscovered. 
From time to infrequent time, tradesmen would stop along their route from the 
far reaches of the world and the lands of Harad and Rhun, and here they would 
barter their wares; a market of strange and exotic goods from lands unknown: 
from lavishly embroidered garments made of hessian and serge, shirts of 
cambric and gowns woven of silk and muslin, to intricately wrought weaponry 
with blades as keen as the light, made by elvish-fine hands. A wary transaction 
existed between these traders and the Rohirrim; the goods were of splendid 
quality and, oftentimes, were irresistible. But this relationship was a tense one; 
both parties might reap the rewards of commercial benefit but neither was 
willing to offer any more than was necessary, be it the hand of friendship or the 
support of a nation. Thus the tradesmen came little to Rohan, and with the going 
down of the years their visits became more and more scattered. Hereafter the ties 
with the South were cut, and no more was thought of it for a long time.  
Until that day in the waning of September, when a band of strangers came forth 
with a promise, and therein exists the interweaving of Men's lives; for above all 
else they alone posses the power and art of deceit. 
* * * 
There was already a large throng of people at the Gate, and the babble of many 
voices raised in alarm, each vying to be heard over the other. This was not the 
silent, creeping suspicion that came in the wake of the wizard, but a swarm, a 
mob, a hue-and-cry. For although these strangers fashioned themselves as 
Gondor Men, they were not the revered Dunedain of the North, whose noble 
blood it seemed had been all but spent in years of interbreeding; whose pride 
and dignity had percolated into the very essence of their own land and vanished 
like a dew on morning's first breath. No, these Men were kin to the Easterlings, 
for they were in look and manner both swarthy and trustless. Their leader, 
however, was beheld with the suggestion of a grim respect, for he was proud in 
his demeanour, fair of face and grand of stature. Within the fine tailoring of his 
garments, the cut of his cloak and the sheer folds of his tunic, there was the 
implication of a man of great standing. In his eyes there was the shrewd and 
unyielding look of one who is used to having his own way met, and without 
question. 
This grave and noble man came not on idle business, though for whatever reason 
he saw fit to bring with him such rough, uncultured folk none could guess. He 
requested audience with the king's advisor, and with him his tidings would be 
imparted. 
Grima Wormtongue was vaguely suspicious when the court messengers bore 
this news to him; he had not free rein of the City and his own affairs tarried little 
with those outside his normal boundaries. It was not of his mind to bandy words 
with the common-folk -- he had more than a realistic idea of an impending threat 
to his life. For once the man was reluctant to comply with the bidding of King 
Theoden. The morning ebbed gradually away, and the company at the Gate 
became increasingly fractious. 
But Grima's curiosity had been piqued, and at noon he sent word down that he 
would meet with the company, as requested. He declined to mention that an 
armed entourage would be accompanying him, consisting of two guards 
removed from their duty at the door of Meduseld. At an hour past mid-day, the 
counsellor and his following left the Golden Hall to descend to the gates of the 
City.  
There was an angry and unwilling snap to the air upon their imminent 
approaching, but all activity ceased the moment the assembled crowd saw that 
the royal counsellor had arrived. The guards of the dike came forth, their spears 
held aloft, and before them strode the leader of the company, a light of triumph 
in his eyes. 
"Good day, noble lord," he said, with a cursory inclination of his head. "Gracious 
indeed are the sires of Rohan, for finding time to counsel with such weary 
strangers." 
"A counsel it may be," said Grima. "Though of little length, I grant you. Verily we 
shall hasten in our speech ere your leave taking. I have no time to play at words 
with the brats of travelling folk." 
Something flickered in the man's face, a movement passing like a shadow across 
his handsome features. In an instant it was gone, and a gently placating smile 
shaped his mouth.  
"No idle play will it be, lord," he said. "For we are yet to take our leave. You will 
tarry, I think, to hear what I will say." 
"Then quickly," answered Grima, allowing a note of impatience to slip into his 
voice. "It is the will of my lord Theoden King that none should enter his gates 
save those who know our tongue and are our friends. Your dialect is that of the 
West, yet I wonder at your accent. Know you the speech of Numenor?" 
"Aye, for it is from thither that I journey." The man paused and a strange, cold 
glint came to his eyes, much like the artful gleam of a hunting beast when 
chancing upon an easy prey. "No fool's game is my business," he continued. "I 
come to you directly, for I have a proposition that may be of some interest." 
"That we will see," said Grima in a non-committal way. "But first I will learn your 
credentials; who is your lord?" 
"I have no lord, in this land or the next." 
"Then on whose errand do you come, if not from Gondor then some other 
realm?" 
"That is my birthplace and the land of my fathers, yet of no ruling power in my 
mind. I come on no man's errand but my own. I have no lord." 
Grima hesitated, the words forming in his throat but finding little breath or wit 
to voice them. Such a notion rang hollow in his dark, untruthful mind, for had he 
not entertained thoughts of a masterless life, or indeed indulged his own private 
fantasies of living as such a master himself? For too long he had grovelled on his 
knees as the thankless serving-man of a dotard. And now, standing here before 
him like a canny figment sent for his own learning, was an example of this 
splendid existence. The advisor straightened to his not considerable height and 
met the boldly staring eyes of the man with equal force. 
"You will tell me your name, stranger, ere we continue our debate," he said, 
finding, to his annoyance, that his voice was tight with anticipation. 
The man smiled; he was not deceived. "I am Ramas, son of Raleth," he said. "My 
kin hail from Minas Tirith, though that is no longer a place I would call home." 
Grima ran his tongue over dry, cracked lips. "And your companions?" he asked.  
"There and about," Ramas replied carelessly. "It matters not, for we are all of the 
same mind." 
"And what is that?" Grima insisted. "Is this a desertion of Denethor?" 
"I would not use so foul a word. A man may love him and yet not love his will or 
his counsels." 
"Yet you no longer yield to his iron hand? What concern is this of mine, or of my 
lord?" 
"Your lord may reap the benefits of our coming to you. Indeed he shall, if we 
reach an understanding. That is my promise." 
"All promises may amount to nothing." 
"Noble lord." Ramas regarded him slowly, his eyes dark, and grave, and 
seductive. "Mine shall not." 
Grima Wormtongue smiled.  
* * *  
 
  
 
  
 
((In the next chapter: an acquaintance is made and a memory is stirred.))