Let your soul be your guide- chapter 4
When they reached the edge of Fangorn forest, Gandalf released from his mouth a sound stranger than anything they had ever heard. It somehow resembled a whistle, but one so out worldly that one could hardly call it that.
Chapter 4
When they reached the edge of Fangorn forest, Gandalf released from his mouth a sound stranger than anything they had ever heard. It somehow resembled a whistle, but one so out worldly that one could hardly call it that.
Confusion over the wizard’s actions lasted short as they saw three horses running towards them. One, as white as Caradhras snow peaks, one as grey as a winter’s dawn and one as black as a starless night.
“Shadowfax,” he greeted, patting the white horse’s mane, “a king amongst horses… and a friend through many travels.”
Shadowfax seemed happy to encounter the wizard as well, enthusiastically bobbing his head up and down, guessing that new adventures awaited them.
“It is one of the Mearas!” Aragorn whispered in awe.
Legolas whished he could gaze upon such beauty. Many times had he heard about these beings, but never before had he encountered one.
The grey stallion moved closer to the elf, sensing his sadness. Nuzzling his head against Legolas’ chest, the horse gently pushed him back. The archer couldn’t help but smile at the horse’s gesture, searching his nose and patting it gently when he found it.
“That is Arod,” Gandalf introduced them, “and the shy black one is Hasufel, two of the finest breed by the horse masters.”
Aragorn moved to pat the dark animal, but the animal was too nervous to allow the touch.
“He’s still young, but faithful… he will serve you well Aragorn.” the wizard assured him.
The ranger didn’t seem the slightest concerned. Whispering smoothing elvish words in to Hasufel ‘s ears, the horse quieted down and allowed Aragorn to climb to his back.
Legolas too was speaking to the horse that seemed to have picked him, quietly explaining that he would not be able to guide his path. Arod seemed to understand, much to Gimli’s dismay. For Dwarves, horses were usually more trouble than they were worth.
“Who will you ride with, Master Dwarf?” Gandalf asked.
Gimli grunted.
“I would prefer my own two feet, thank you very much,” he complained, “but as it is, I think I prefer a quiet beast rather than a itchy one.”
From the dark glare that both horses sent his way, Gimli could have sworn they had understood his words.
Of course, getting a dwarf on top of a horse was something easier said than done. Gimli humphed and grumphed, but in the end, with the help of a good rock and a bit of a push from Legolas, he was more or less well seated on top of the animal.
Feeling a bit awkward, Gimli grabbed Legolas’ thin waist and fought hard to forget that he was high up, on top of an irrational beast, led by a blind elf. Odds were, he was finally losing his mind.
~’’~
On horseback, the journey to Edoras wasn’t a long one and in the next day, the golden halls of Meduseld were in sight.
“Do not look for a warm welcome here.” Gandalf warned them.
As soon as they passed the citadel’s wooden gates, they all understood why.
The faces of the town’s people they rode pass, in the dirty streets, were gloomy to say the least. Mostly composed by old men, women and small children, the villagers seemed devoid of any life. Bleak, colourless imitations of real people.
A shudder ran through Aragorn’s back. He had met the Rohans before, having served under Thengel’s rule, in his earlier days as a ranger and, even though those had been hard times as well, the people had stood confident by their King’s side, refusing to let troubles and sorrow undermine their lives and existence. Now, it seemed as if hope and happiness had been sucked from this place, leaving the Rohans empty and resigned to their gloomy fates.
“You’d find more cheer in a graveyard.” Gimli mumbled, also touched by the place’s dark mood.
Legolas, in front of him, couldn’t agree more. Although he could not see the people’s faces, he could still feel the despair in their hearts, the death that lingered like a bad smell in the air.
Not too soon, they arrived at the steps of the King’s Hall, a majestic building that stood in the highest point of the hill, painted in golden tones that caught the rising sun rays and made it shine like a polished jewel.
Handing the horses to a pair of stable boys, the warriors and the wizard climbed the stone steps.
“Your weapons must be hand over!” a guard, with tired eyes and straw-coloured hair, stopped them at the top. “By order of Gríma Wormtongue.”
Gandalf exchanged a look with Aragorn. Much had changed since either had last been there.
Not wanting to be the cause of any trouble for as long as they could prevent it, the wizard signalled Aragorn and Gimli to comply.
Both had no will to part from their weapons, feeling the tension in the air and knowing they would soon come in handy. But, even so, Aragorn, trusting Gandalf’s wisdom and judgement, proceeded to remove the number of weapons he carried with him.
Gimli grimly pressed his large axe in to the guard’s hands and removed the smaller ones he carried in his belt. At his side, Legolas took the blades from the back scabbard and held them in his hand.
The guard, Háma, for the first time in his life seeing one of the First Born, noticed nothing wrong and extended his hand to receive the shinny weapons. He got nothing, as Legolas remained unmoving, in front of him.
“Your weapons, Master Elf.” he asked, with a note of reverence and embarrassment in his voice.
Legolas complied, blades safely turned into each other.
The sound of metal hitting stone followed, as he missed the guard’s hands and let his weapons fall to the floor.
The guard tried hard not to gasp. It would be too rude, for he had finally realized that the apparent distant and regal look the elf held had nothing to do with his race or personality, but rather a sign of his lack of sight. Too often had he seen the same look and gestures in many of the villagers affected by blindness. He hadn’t, however, expected to see such human disability in one of the Eldar.
The elf made a slight movement to search for his weapons on the ground, but Háma saved him the embarrassment by picking them up himself. He grasped the beautifully crafted weapons with the same care as he had taken his first child when he was born, and stepped away.
“Your staff.” Háma heard one of his subordinates demand of the wizard, apparently taking Gríma’s words to the letter.
“Hum? Oh… surely you wouldn’t part an old man from his walking stick?” the wizard asked in an innocent voice.
The younger guard looked at his superior, in search of guidance. Háma wasn’t fooled by the Istar’s act, but neither was he pleased with Gríma’s commandeering of him and his men. His loyalty lay with his King, and Wormtongue’s orders could go to hell, with him in front, preferably.
“Let them keep the staffs.” he said to the guard. Deep within, he was curious to see if those staffs would be well put to use.
Gandalf smiled as they crossed the wooden doors. He knew an ally when he was blessed with one.
~’’~
If the atmosphere was grim outside, inside the King’s Halls it was as gloomy as a tomb.
A fire was burning in a pit in the centre of the large stone room, but its warmth failed to spread around. Tall columns of engraved wood circled the central passage, with richly decorated banners hanging from their high stands, occasionally dancing in the wind when one of the side doors opened. Dark faces prowled the sideways, unfriendly looks hidden by the shadows, watching their every move as the newcomers entered their hunting grounds.
And at the end of the hall, in a throne flanked by beautiful tapestries, sat Théoden. Or what was left of him.
The king of Rohan looked like an empty shell, withered and crumpled. A premature corpse left behind by a soul that no longer possessed the strength to bear it.
Beside him, seated on the steps that led to the throne, was a man that could only be described as a human crow. Gríma Wormtongue.
“The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King!” Gandalf called out, as he got nearer.
The greasy man seated next to the king whispered something in to the his ear.
“Why should I welcome you here, Gandalf Stormcrow?” a feeble voice sounded in the halls, the sound coming from Théoden’s mouth, but the words hollow and lacking of any conviction.
Gríma took his cue from the King and moved boldly towards the strangers.
“A just question, my liege. Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lath spell I name him. Ill news is an ill guest."
Gandalf had had enough.
“I didn’t come here to exchange words with a witless worm… keep your forked tongue behind your teeth and be gone from my sight!” he blared in a powerful voice, bringing his staff forward in a circular movement.
Wormtongue’s white face palled even further.
“His staff… I told you to take all of their weapons!” he gasped, searching for Háma with feverish eyes.
When he found the captain of the King’s guards, he knew this betrayal had a name. He snarled. Háma would pay for this!
He had others that were faithful to him, others that knew who really ruled these Halls, to whom they owned their allegiance.
The attack, something that Aragorn had expected since they had enter those dark Halls, came swift.
Keeping a safe path so that Gandalf could reach the King, the ranger took to himself the task of protecting the wizard from those charging from his side, trusting his companions to do the same with the rest.
Men that covert for power crumbs and spent their days drinking ale and feeding conspiracies made poor fighters. Not really a challenge for an experienced ranger, even one without any other weapon but his bare hands.
As soon as he was able to, Aragorn stole a glance towards his companions to see how they fare.
Gimli, as expected, was also finding their attackers lacking in fighting skills, not challenging enough to exercise his warrior’s muscles. To anyone observing, the stout creature seemed to be having fun, his strong fists smashing noses and sending men twice his size sprawling in the floor with ease.
Legolas, on the other hand, was not doing so well. For their attackers, most of whom had never seen an Elf before, or the way their kindred fought, Legolas wide swings of his staff might have seemed powerful and accurate, but Aragorn knew better. He had witnessed on countless times the grace and deadliness of the elven fighting style, with or without weapons. And from what he could see now, his friend was in trouble.
Legolas was barely keeping his attackers at bay, his moves mostly defensive and… desperate.
So far, by sheer luck, Aragorn guessed, and partly because the Rohan men were slightly afraid of him, Legolas had been lucky and none of the strikes had hit him. But luck, as lies, was something that always ran on short legs.
As if his thoughts had come from the mouth of doom itself, Aragorn saw one of the larger men, a bolder one it seemed, sneaking around Legolas’ unprotected backside, a blade ready for the kill.
“Legolas!” the ranger shouted “Behind!”
~’’~
The elven warrior was edgy. One of the first, and most pressing, rules his fighting masters had taught him early on had been about the importance of always remaining calm and alert through a battle, no matter the circumstances. For a nervous and rash mind often fell in to mistake.
Legolas had learned to respect that precious rule throughout his life, but he couldn’t bring himself to follow it now.
When they had entered those halls, he had felt confident that, if battle were at hand, he would be able to stand his ground.
Tuning his senses to a level far beyond human ability, the elf was aware of every shuffle of feet, of the quickening in the men’s breath, of the heart’s, racing inside their chests, of the heat, escaping from their sweaty bodies, as they readied themselves to attack.
But, as all hell broke loose, the elven warrior found that there were too many running feet, shouts of battle and anger, rustling of clothes, gasps of fear, surprise and wonder, weapons unshielded, Gandalf’ s powerful voice in the back ground, calling to the ill King…
Legolas was left confused and lost. With out his sight and with such roar overwhelming his senses, he couldn’t locate his attackers until they stood too near for comfort.
The feeling of being cornered in a dark place took hold of him. Uneasiness grew and with it, the experienced warrior’s movements became more and more clumsy and desperate. Edgy.
As it was, Legolas was thankful for the staff in his hands, using it as a broad weapon that he swiped left and right, trying to hit his foes.
What a disgrace to all of his teachers he felt then, whipping around a piece of wood as if he was nothing but a mere elfling with no skills at all. The shame that would bring to his father…
Aragorn’s warning shout reached his ears easily enough, for it had been spoken in the grey tongue. Legolas reacted on instinct, swirling around, staff between his hands, aiming high and hoping that that would prove to be the right move.
The impact of a blade near his left hand told him he had been lucky again.
By the amount of swearing his opponent was mouthing, Legolas guessed that his blade had got stuck on the wooden staff so, taking advantage of the speed that all Elves were graced with, he forced the staff forward, wood and steel hitting the man’s face. The unmistakable sound of bone breaking and of a heavy body hitting the ground was his reward.
Legolas sighed in relief. From what he could hear, the battle was over.
“Here!” Gimli’s voice came from near him, “Take care of this slimy one.” he grumphed, pressing a smaller body against the elf’s chest.
Legolas, heart still racing from the fight he had almost lost, instinctively grabbed the arms of his prisoner.
“Release me!” a voice snarled. Gríma.
~’’~
Gandalf had put to good use the path his companions had cleared for him.
As he had feared, Saruman had succeeded in overthrowing the King’s mind, clouding his judgement to a point in which Théoden was no more.
As the sounds of struggle continued throughout the Halls, Gandalf revealed himself to his enemy. The whiteness of his robe seemed to possess a light of its own, flooding in to the dim lit room like a wave of sunny spring.
To everyone seeing the wizard’s interaction with Théoden, it would look like little was going on except for some exchanged words. But nothing could be farther away from the truth, for Gandalf was looking at Théoden no more, but at the wizard that controlled him, Saruman. And between the two white wizards, the new and the old, the good and the corrupted, a battle as ferocious as the ones raging the King’s Halls, was being fought.
In the end, the powers of the reborn Istar proved to be too much for Saruman and, to the wonder and surprise of all, the decaying figure that had been Théoden, changed in front of their eyes. In a matter of seconds, as a layer of painting being washed away, the decay was gone and in its place stood the handsome face of the King of Rohan, as all remembered him from before.
With stunned looks upon their faces, the rebellious men stopped their struggles. Saruman’s hold over them was lifted. Gríma’s short reign was over.
“Breathe the free air, my friend!” Gandalf whispered when he could see the life returning to Théoden‘s eyes.
A young woman, with wavy blond hair, ran to the restored King.
“Uncle!”
The King blinked, as if awoken from a long sleep. All around him, he could see faces of friends, his warriors… Gandalf, more often than not a bearer of ill news, but always a strong support through difficult times. And in his arms...
“Éowyn” he whispered with affection when he recognized the face of his sister’s daughter.
As thoughts began to organize themselves inside the King’s mind, his gaze fell upon the one he could now see as the source of all of his late dark dreams.
Wormtongue squirmed in the elf’s hands.
A Théoden under Saruman’s spell was something he could handle well, even manipulate at his own will, but a Théoden lord and master of his own thoughts and whim, an angered King with a sword in his hands, was something that a cowardly being such as Wormtongue trembled just to gaze at.
Public was his humiliation, as public would have been his execution had not Aragorn stopped the King’s hand.
Seizing his chance, Wormtongue fled Edoras on a stolen horse, running to his real master, Saruman.
No one tried to stop him, no one gave chase to the fugitive, for other things were more pressing at the moment.
”Théodred,” the King said when his anger subsided, looking around, “where is my son?”
When no one answered and all eyes refused to meet his, Théoden knew.
~’’~