Chapter 15:

When you mess with fire, you get the burns

The ride from Fangorn to Edoras is far too long for my liking, taking note of the continual teasing of Ruelin and Frerin, largely in part of my position on the Palomino.  By the time we arrive to capture a view of the great and grainy human city, I've taken full comfort in both riding a horse and resting my back upon Boromir's chest.  Indeed, to any stranger, the two of us would look like a couple, and a perfect one at that, with my our hair whipping around in the Rohirrim wind.  It is much like a elvish romance novella, to be sure.

Upon a hillside, our horses patter in their hindered motions as we gaze upon the Rohan capital and home of Theoden, King of Rohan.  And though it looks as it did both ten and twenty years ago, fear lurks in my heart at the visions of toppling flags and black-worn citizens.  It is a day of mourning, to be sure, though for what reason I'll quickly find out.   

"Edoras and the Golden Hall of Meduseld.  There dwells Théoden, King of Rohan, whose mind is overthrown.  Saruman's hold over King Théoden is now very strong," Frerin remarks, looking to us from his position in front of Ruelin.  His words hold no comfort in our hearts, only heightened by Gandalf's next words.

"Be careful what you say. Do not look for welcome here," the wizard warns, galloping off with our forms following behind.  We make a quick progression across the short plain, trotting through the gates as the Rohirrim flag swirls across the grounds, mirroring the black-adorned men and women of Rohan.  Our forms are watched in wary silence, eyes digging into our every nerve as we move through them, sharing in their darkness.  The only light this place offers stands upon the Golden Hall's balcony, a woman of remarkable beauty yet the greatest darkness of this town.

"You'll find more cheer in a graveyard," Gimli remarks with a wariness to match these stranger's.  This dwarf has seemingly lost his dramatics, muttering to himself in exchange for an outright expression.
     "It may just be a graveyard," I whisper, though the close contact with the man of Gondor keeps me from privacy.  At my words, his left arm wraps tighter around my waist in what could be his comfort or my own.  But as our movement goes, we dismount a mere second later, tying our horses to the ramparts of the Hall and climbing the hill to meet armed guards of lurking betrayal.

"I cannot allow you before Théoden-King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame.  By order of Gríma Wormtongue," one of the soldiers says, knowing our wizard from his times of travels.  Rather than making a fuss over the traitor's rules, Gandalf simply nods at us to remove our weapons.  So as Boromir and Aragorn simply hand the guards their swords and daggers, Gimli doing the same with his axes, Legolas has to make a show of twirling his knives before relinquishing them.  Seeing as we are weapons of mass destruction in our natural form, we, the Phoenicians, just stand idly by, having the guards stare suspiciously at us.  Honestly, their suspicion is understandable, but I wipe that away with a strong glare at the men.

"Your staff," the guard of before, Hama I later recall, gestures to the old (yet new) wizard.  I scoff at the notion that Gandalf will ever break from his wizard weaponry, as he even cuddles with it at night.  To think he'll hand it over to this man is humorous.

"Hmm?" Gandalf questions before taking recognition of his staff.  "Oh. You would not part an old man from his walking stick?"  A look of pure innocence, much like a young dog, crosses the face of Gandalf, prompting Hama to stutter in response.  But as magic works, we are pushed into the hall from thence forth, Gandalf winking at Aragorn as Ruelin and Legolas "help" the "old" wizard walk.

"My lord, Gandalf the Grey is coming. He's a herald of woe," I hear Grima whisper into the ear of the visibly decaying king, spewing lies with his each breath.

"Get off your high horse, Grima Wormtongue!" my brother shouts threateningly, yet humorously as I yelled this at Boromir just months ago.  Memories are a true and wonderful gift, especially in times like these.

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King," Gandalf remarks, his footfalls echoing across the hall as he moves towards the duo.  I take this moment to survey the danger of this situation, armed men coating the walls with faces that scream "you should be afraid."  And yet, I cannot help but smirk as they are no match for me.

"Why should I... welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?" Theoden questions our Fellowship member, though he looks to Grima as if in affirmation of his words.  It's a look that a small boy gives his father upon completing a task, though used quite differently in this current situation.

"Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear.  Lathspell spell I name him.  Ill news is an ill guest," Grima remarks, pacing towards the wizard though taking a look at the Seven Hunters of the Fellowship.  More precisely, Grima takes to staring upon Ruelin and myself, his looks perverted to even the innocent minded.  And thus, I cannot hold back a growl.

"Be silent!  Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth.  I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm!" Gandalf exclaims, his voice echoing off the walls as he raises his staff high in the air, frightening the King's "advisor."

"His staff!" Grima recognizes, backing away as if distance will save him.  He looks to the soldiers in the room, addressing them with a, "I told you to take the wizard's staff!"

These words set off a chain reaction of hostility in which the men of Rohan charge at our Fellowship with small weapons.  So as the wizard moves forth on Theoden, we eradicate the enemy in seconds, the Phoenician flames coming to alight the feet of men, stopping them without death.  It is the least we can do for their families.

"Théoden, son of Thengel, too long have you sat in the shadows," Gandalf addresses this king, moving close enough to see his every eyelash.  From the corner of my eye, I notice an escaping Grima, attempting to crawl away as Gimli and Frerin pin him to the ground.  He's lucky we're not hurting him more.

"I would stay still, if I were you," Gimli growls, staring angrily and disgustedly at the one man of Rohan.

"Hearken to me! I release you from the spell," Gandalf chants at the royal, hands raised in what I assume to be a power enchantment.  But, in surprise of us all, the man begins to laugh loudly and in a fake joy unconquerable to even the greatest of foes.

"You have no power here, Gandalf the Grey!" Theoden exerts, but with little mind of what is to come.  Gandalf throws off his grey cloak, the bright white of his new form throwing Theoden back upon his seat.  It's a divine light, heightened by his Phoenix blood, that can only be explained in Valar terminology.

"I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound," Gandalf exerts, pointing his staff at the man possessed by the original white wizard of Isengard.  At the frightening scene, the woman of earlier, white adorned, attempts to rush towards her uncle, only to be held back by a knowledgeable Aragorn.

"If I go. . . Théoden dies," Saruman's voice speaks from the mouth of said king.  I furrow my eyebrows at this, head tipped in wonder at the strange scene.  But it is all for naught as Gandalf's staff swings forth and Theoden is thrown against the chair once more.  He'll have bruises later, that's for sure.

"You did not kill me, you will not kill him!" Gandalf remarks, illuminating an interesting aspect of this whole situation.  Apparently, through all his greed and hate, Saruman has enough heart to spare the life of Gandalf.

"Rohan is mine!" Saruman exclaims through Theoden, once again.

"Be gone!" the White Wizard commands for a final time, proving right as Theoden lunges at him, Gandalf throws him back (into the chair, of course), and the King of Rohan slumps forward on the throne.  From the presence he now exerts, and relieved ache upon my chest, I know Saruman to be gone from this man.  Eowyn rushes to his form as he falls from the chair, face rising to witness its growth from old age to youth.  But more poignantly, his eyes now radiate sense and morality as he stares upon his niece.

"I know your face. Éowyn... Éowyn," he mumbles, prompting the woman to release tears of relief and joy.  As her emotions stream forth, the man turns to look upon our company, though they rest solely upon the worker of miracles, Gandalf the White.

"Gandalf?" the king questions, furrowing his eyebrows as if in question that we are here.

"Breathe the free air again, my friend," Gandalf responds with a smile as he begins to exert a light.  With the others, I throw balls of flames into the torches and fire pits around the room, casting a light once extinguished in the heart of Rohan.

"Dark have been my dreams of late," Theoden remarks, standing to his feet as he looks upon his shaky hands.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped your sword," Gandalf replies poetically, prompting Hama to bring forth the king's sword, which he grasps and draws.  It is a remarkable silver blade of great valor, prompting Grima to attempt an escape, once again, only for Gimli to pull him back.  This draws the attention of the King, as only expected, who sends Grima flying out the door in a rushed anger of betrayal.

"I've only ever served you, my lord!" Grima pleads, truth unable to escape his lips from this day forth.

"Liar, liar pants on fire!" Ruelin chants, tossing a small flame onto the traitor's pants, and prompting him to pat it down in a fearful hurry.  I cannot help in chuckling at this, as he deserves every bit of pain he receives.

"Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!" Theoden responds, pacing towards Grima with each word.  His threatening sword lays clenched within his hand, a true vision of his every intention.

"Send me not from your side," Grima commands, rather than pleads, and prompting Theoden to raise his hand with the intent to kill.  But as we so work, the Fellowship will not allow this, Aragorn and Boromir holding the Rohirrim king back from rash decisions.

"No, my lord! No, my lord. Let him go. Enough blood has been spilled on his account," Aragorn pleads, giving Grima the chance to push through the crowds of gathered citizens in his allowed escape attempt.  He has no power in Rohan anymore.

"Get out of my way!" he exclaims, grabbing some passerby's horse and plowing forth from the city.

"Hail, Théoden king!" Hama exclaims, prompting the Rohan crowds to kneel to their king, in conjunction with Aragorn.  I am not one to bow to other people, commanding respect rather than inferiority.  In addition, Phoenicians are considered "superior" to the common races of man, elf, and dwarf as we are direct creations of the Valar.

"Where is Théodred? Where is my son?" the King asks as if on a second thought, and prompting the silence of everyone.  That is why the whole country is adorned in black, that is why Eowyn looks a mess, and that is why the Rohirrim has a new leader.  Theodred is dead and Theoden did not know.

And thus, later that day, I find myself at a sorrowing funeral of my great contempt.  Honestly, I've witnessed far too many deaths in the past few weeks and years, and thus, I hold no desire to attend another funeral.  But I suck it up for the sake of propriety, following solemnly as Theodred's body is carried from the city and towards the intended cemetery of his legacy.  The Fellowship follows along behind a heart-broken Theoden, preceding the masses of Edoras' citizens.  At the hindrance of the casket, the women make about singing of Theodred's death and existence.  And though I have little clue as to what they are singing, given the strange language of the lyrics, sorrow permeates my heart, and I am tempted to cry.

"Simbelmynë. Ever has it grown on the tombs of my forebearers," Theoden explains as white flowers are placed upon the fresh tomb of his heir.  He looks to our wandering wizard with potent pain at his loss.  "Now it shall cover the grave of my son. Alas, that these evil days should be mine.  The young perish and the old linger.  That I should live to see the last days of my house."

"Théodred's death was not of your making," Gandalf attempts to comfort him as I stand awkwardly at their side.

"No parent should have to bury their child," Theoden replies, falling into a deep stream of pain as the tears rush down his face.

"He was strong in life. His spirit will find its way to the halls of your fathers. Westu hál. Ferðu, Théodred, Ferðu {Be-thou well. Go-thou, Théodred, go-thou}," Gandalf remarks, in usage of the language unknown to my ear.  But all the same, I know he speaks words of upbringing and relief.

"Have faith that you'll see him again, in the very home of the Valar.  He is not alone, but dancing with your own family," Frerin remarks, alerting me of his arrival at my side in a very Frerin-like fashion.  My brother is definitely one for his secrets and spying skills.

As the three of us Phoenicians move to leave Theodred in peace, our eyes catch upon a quick moving dot on the horizon.  And though this view would be a simple speck to a human or dwarf, I see two children upon horseback, the young boy falling off at the that instant.  And as most things work with sacrificial and pure-hearted actions, I fly forth from the hill, Frerin at my side, to come to the children's aid. They make little news of our arrival, even as I jump upon the horse, Frerin hands me the boy and I gallop off towards Edoras.  So as I keep the children in place on the horse, Frerin flies above my head, and we make to the stables below the Golden Hall.

Frerin shifts back as I hand him and Gandalf the children, drawing the attention of many others.  As I struggle to make my way off the rather large horse, compared to my size, gentle hands wrap around my waist, placing me carefully on the ground.  And as the pattern goes, the helper is none other than Boromir who looks worriedly upon the children as we rush them inside the Hall.

    Evidently, Theoden watched upon the scene, seeing as he awaits our arrival at his throne.  As we go about placing the children at a large table, the King rises from his seat and paces towards us.  It is as if he is seeing us for the first time since our arrival, hours ago.

"You're Phoenician...the royals of Erebor," Theoden remarks, knowing the history of our kind well enough to identify our glowing skin, fiery powers, and flying forms.  Indeed, the only thing we could possibly be mistaken for is a dragon, which we are far too small to be.

"Indeed, and we come to you in your time of need.  These children are far more than orphans, but victims of a cruel and orcish raid.  We know them well, from our mother's stories," Frerin responds, drawing the both of us back into memories of our childhood and the stories of not-so-happy endings.  These stories consist of the original story of our father's fate, the extermination of the Phoenician kind, the murders of my aunt and uncle, and the desolation of Smaug.  Great fairytales, indeed.

Eowyn chooses to come into the room at that moment, rushing to the children upon first eye contact.  I follow in her lead, taking the time to clean them with wet rags as the chefs of Edoras go about making food.  By the time that the entire Fellowship and Theoden are in the Golden Hall, the siblings are eating, the young girl, Freda, upon my lap as I brush her hair.  Indeed, the only time I allow myself to be visibly compassionate is around children.

"They had no warning. They were unarmed. Now the wildmen are moving through the Westfold, burning as they go. Rick, cot and tree," Eowyn remarks, her eyes staring at the back of the boy's head as he eats heartily and with the power of starvation.

"That's how the orcs work...plundering in surprise and without a bit of morality.  This isn't new to the face of Middle Earth," Frerin responds, stories linked, once again, and with little regard for the children's ears.  I send my brother a contemptuous look as Freda turns around to look at me.

"Where's mama?" the young girl asks, eyes widening with the rupture from her innocence with the pain of war.  I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, unclenching a smile upon my face.

"Your mother is safe, Freda," I tell the young girl, moving my right hand to point at her chest directly above her heart.  "I can feel her every breath within my own lungs and her heart beat upon my chest.  She lays in wait of your arrival, and arrive, you will.  We will ensure that, darling."

"This is but a taste of the terror that Saruman will unleash," Gandalf breaks in with the need to take action.  "All the more potent for he is driven now by fear of Sauron.  Ride out and meet him head on.  Draw him away from your women and children.  You must fight."

"You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak.  Éomer is loyal to you.  His men will return and fight for their king," Aragorn adds in, informing me of the rider's name upon today's meeting.  However, Theoden looks far from willing to unleash his armies at this time, wary feelings coating his facial features.

"They will be three hundred leagues from here by now. Éomer cannot help us. I know what it is that you want of me. But I will not bring further death to my people. I will not risk open war," Theoden exerts from his elevated position on his throne.

"Open war is upon you. Whether you would risk it or not," Frerin warns him, and rightly so, given our inability to be wrong.  It isn't so much an inability but the fact that we have never been wrong.

"When last I looked, Théoden, not Aragorn nor Frerin, was king of Rohan," Theoden responds with a bitterness that I cannot help but growl at.  This gets the attention of the whole room as I place Freda upon the bench, stand to my feet, and pace towards Rohan's king.

"Do not take your fear out on my brother, Theoden, son of Thengel.  This is due cause of war, and we are here for your aid...do not treat us as such, for you will surely regret it," I warn, lighting my palm on fire and tossing around a ball of flame.  Theoden looks like a child caught stealing as I grin maliciously at him.  If it wasn't evident before, I'm an enemy you don't want to have.

"Then what is the king's decision?" Gandalf asks, breaking the tension with the fabric of his voice.  Theoden takes a minute to carefully consider his options though I am quite sure that he will make the decision to flee.  If anything, it'll get him in more trouble.

"To Helm's Deep, we will travel.  Take up arms, we leave in the morning," he decides.  And that is that, setting up a natural progression of events that leads to a larger battle than ever before.  Many lives will be lost to the grace of Sauron, and the will of man will simply break.

But before that, I must tell you of greater revelations....of greater hopes...and of greater love.

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Hey guys! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! First off, I want to thank you all for the continued support on this story as well as my others. You're truly the best readers a girl could ask for.

Secondly, if you haven't checked out my book of one-shots, please do. Requests are open and happily accepted.

Last, but most certainly not least, the