The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Maiden from the Fires

As the Fellowship approached Edoras, a gust of wind stirred the flag of Rohan atop Meduseld, sending it fluttering down toward the ground. Aragorn's eyes followed its descent, landing gently near his feet. He bent to retrieve it, his brow furrowing as he stared at the city that seemed to be in mourning. Edoras was somber, dressed in black, and the silence was heavy with sorrow. As they walked up the hill toward the Golden Hall, Aragorn glanced upward, his keen eyes catching sight of a woman standing on the steps, her white dress almost ghostly against the grey sky. For a brief moment, her gaze met his, before she vanished into the hall.

Gimli, ever observant, let out a low grumble. "You'll find more cheer in a graveyard."

The Fellowship climbed the worn steps toward Meduseld, and Visenya, who had been walking quietly beside Aragorn, felt a chill crawl up her spine. She pulled the makeshift cloak tied dress tighter around her body, more aware now that she had more skin on display than normally appropriate.

Visenya had not been to Edoras before, but something about the land resonated deeply with her—a sense of ancient power, buried beneath layers of grief and betrayal. Her silver hair, braided tightly back, gleamed in the overcast light, and her sharp eyes scanned the city, sensing a tension in the air, one that wasn't just the result of the king's illness.

At the entrance to the hall, they were stopped by guards, led by Háma.

"I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed," Háma said, his voice respectful but firm. "By order of Gríma Wormtongue."

Visenya's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Gríma, a name she had heard before—though the details had always been shrouded in whispers. She glanced at Gandalf, waiting for his response.

"Ah, of course," Gandalf replied with a knowing smile. "We wouldn't want to break the king's laws."

One by one, they handed over their weapons. Aragorn relinquished his sword and knives, and Legolas spun his twin blades with a flourish before surrendering them to the guards. Gimli hesitated, his fingers tightening on his beloved axes, but eventually, he handed them over with a grumble. Visenya handed over her long sword and scabbard to the guard who looked her over with a look of disdain, which she was sure if it was directed toward the fact that she was an armed woman or the fact she looked not much different from a woman of the night or a consort. When it was Gandalf's turn, Háma gestured to the wizard's staff.

"Your staff, too," he said cautiously.

Gandalf tilted his head, giving Háma a kindly look. "Surely you wouldn't part an old man from his walking stick?"

Háma hesitated, then relented. Gandalf winked at Aragorn, who stifled a grin, and they were led into the hall.

The atmosphere inside Meduseld was stifling. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and decay, and the once-grand hall felt oppressive. As they entered, Gríma Wormtongue, pale and sickly looking, leaned in close to Théoden, who sat slumped on his throne, his eyes clouded and vacant. Visenya's heart clenched at the sight of the king, once a mighty warrior, now a mere shell of a man.

Gríma whispered something venomous into Théoden's ear, his voice a soft hiss that carried across the hall. "My lord, Gandalf the Grey is coming. He's a herald of woe."

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King," Gandalf said as he approached, his tone cutting through the gloom.

As Gandalf moved closer to Théoden, Visenya felt the tension in the room rise. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli stood back, surveying the hall. A group of hostile guards began to close in on them, suspicion etched into their faces. Visenya's hand subconsciously itched for her sword, but she had been forced to leave it behind. Still, her instincts were sharp, and she knew a confrontation was coming.