Immortalitui // Faramir 🥀

Chapter Thirty-Two - Théoden

Word Count: 2,152 words. 

Warnings: None. 

"No weapons," the soldier told her as she approached the hall.

"I do not have any weapons," Arathiel had attempted, titling her head innocently.

The she-elf knew that her sword was in plain view and that anything else she used in defence were not hidden by her waist. She only wanted to jest.

He raised his spear, placing its sharpened peak against her neck. Arathiel did not flinch, but only let her lips fall into a frown.

"Is this how you treat guests?" she returned, looking down at the metal. It was blunted and rusting over. The poorly maintained weapon would do more damage than one clean.

"No weapons," he repeated and Arathiel did not challenge him again.

She took her swords and dagger, placing them atop the table by his side. The she-elf removed what protection she had collected over the years, but paid careful mind to leave a single blade in her boot. With the amount that she threw beside the young boy, she doubted he would ask her if there was more.

"May I enter now?" Arathiel posed, feeling naked without her vault of weapons. Lacking her heavy metals she felt both unburdened by the trials of war and yet unprepared for the reality of Middle Earth.

He relaxed, stepping aside and allowing her access to the Great Hall of Théodan. She entered calmly.

"Who dares disturb the King?" a shrill, unimportant voice echoed as the doors shut behind her. It was not the voice of Théodan.

The room was in darkness, the King's throne encased by a large shadow. In fact, an entire cloak rest over Rohan, and Arathiel knew that it was not the work of humanity. It was not a natural dark, like that which sunk over the kingdom at night, but a supernatural fold that encompassed it with only one thought in mind; to suffocate the light that threatens to emerge.

"A friend," Arathiel answered carefully, hands at her side so that whoever sat before her knew she meant no harm. She did not intend to hurt Théoden but that did not extend to the man she noticed at his side.

Grima was his name, but the she-elf was not to know that yet. What she did know was that he did not belong at the King's side nor did he belong in any city or town on this side of Mordor. The darkness infested within him was obvious to Arathiel, as much as it was tempting.

"The King does not have friends," he continued, stepping down with a sidewards motion. She could not see the King for his hair had fallen upon his face and his neck titled to the left. His hands were wrinkled and unrecognisable as ones that belonged to a man alive. "He only has subjects."

"Well I am not his subject," she countered, head high, "and so what am I to him?"

"An enemy," he snarled. "You are an enemy."

"I have not been an enemy of Rohan for its entire existence, why am I now?" she posed with a small smile, tucking back her hair to reveal her heritage.

"You are an elf," a woman spoke from the shadows, hurrying to view. She was not part of the darkness that surrounded the King nor was emitted by the man who walked towards the she-elf. Instead, Éowyn, as Arathiel would learn her name was, was held captive by it, resting on the outskirts. She could see the light and perhaps touch it, but her gaze always returned to the man at its centre – the King.

"I am Arathiel of Rivendell," she announced, returning her gaze to Grima, "and before that I was Arathiel of Lindon. I have known Rohan from its beginnings and I do not recognise it."