These Lovely Scars (Lord of the Rings Fanfic)

A Storm in Edoras

I don't know what I expected Edoras to look like, but certainly not like this. It's a small (but not too small) village set upon a hill, surrounded by grassy plains and rolling hills as far as the eye can see. Well, the human eye, I suppose. Legolas and his heightened elf senses can probably see the Lonely Mountain from here. Just kidding, but still.

"Behold the city of Edoras and the Golden Hall. Here dwells Théoden, King of Rohan, who's mind is overthrown. Saruman's hold over the King has grown too strong," says Gandalf as we ride towards the village. Ominous rainclouds loom overhead in the distance, and I can almost see the heaviness in the air. Gandalf is right - a sickness does lie upon this village. Poison hangs in the air.

As we ride closer, the wind picks up a little bit. Something - a Rohan flag - is ripped from its pole and tumbles through the air, landing weakly on the ground in front of us. I grimace; the city's dying strength is displayed right before our eyes. "Be careful what you say," Gandalf advises us. "Do not look for welcome here." Aragorn and I share a grim look before entering through the wooden gates.

Inside the gates is even more dreary than outside. Everything seems to be a dead, grayish colour, and the villagers look like walking corpses. Their faces are sallow, with sunken in cheeks and hollow eyes. Several people stare at us blankly as we pass through the rows of homes. "You'll find more cheer in a graveyard." Gimli mutters. I couldn't agree more. The villagers seem to hover around us like pale ghosts, leaderless and all hope forsaken.

We continue on our path up the hill towards the Golden Hall. Briefly, I catch a glimpse of long, pale hair blowing limply in the breeze, but only for a second. The sight is gone as quickly as it came.

Once we reach the staircase leading up to the entrance of the Golden Hall, we dismount the horses, and a guard takes them to the stables. Several guards approach us as we climb the dusty stairs. The guard without a helmet steps forwards. "I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame, by order of Gríma Wormtongue." He says.

"How does he know Gandalf?" I whisper to Aragorn, who shushes me.

Gandalf nods at us in signal, and we oblige, unarming ourselfves and handing our weapons over to the guards. Legolas and Aragorn are loaded with weapons; they take a considerably longer time than the Gandalf, Gimli, and I. Sadly, I only have my sword to give up, as I lost all my other weapons in the time behind us since we departed from Rivendell. Reluctantly, I hand over my only weapon: my sword which I've had for countless years. I do hate to be parted from it.

Once we've all finished de-arming ourselves, Gandalf steps froward. But the guard who stopped us earlier stops us again. "Your staff." He observes pointedly.

I flick my gaze to Gandalf, who struggles for a response. Spontaneously, I jump to his aid. "You would not dare to part an old man from his walking stick?" My heart beats quickly. Aragorn glances at me sideways.

The guard thinks for a moment, and then nods slightly to me. "No, I wouldn't. You may pass." I wink at Gandalf, who smiles back humourously. Ah, the pleasure of victory!

"Come, Adrianne. Help an old man walk." Gandalf says, beckoning me over. We conceal our laughter as I hold my arm out for Gandalf, who pretends that walking is a struggle for him.

We enter the hall with a surprisingly powerful prescence. Everything here is just so bleak, that a company of a man, a girl, an elf, a dwarf, and a wizard is the most colourful thing in the entire village. At the end of the room lies a throne with an elderly man sitting on it. Elderly is not the right word, not even close. This man looks like he could be ten thousand years old, with a decaying body and scraggly and unkempt beard. His eyes are glassy and distant like a dead man's eyes would be, and on top of his head sits a tarnished golden crown that doesn't seem to shine like it should. This is Théoden King? Things must be worse than Gandalf anticipated...