MALTRIEL
Date: morning of 7 June 9 am
Locations: Edoras; then on the road to Dunharrow
The morning air is heavy, the brownish-black haze obscuring the light of the Sun. Few remain in Edoras but the King's household, for most of the civilians there had been evacuated to safe places in the mountains. Soon the city will be completely abandoned, for those remaining are leaving for the safety of Dunharrow. Covered wains hold many priceless tapestries and valuables from the Golden Hall.
Maltriel rides with the entourage, heavily guarded, of course. She sighs. So much for her plan of escape that she had devised earlier that morning. Now she was going to this strange place.... why couldn't they just have let her fall upon her sword, like she had wished? It would have been quick and honorable... often Mordor soldiers killed themselves rather than face defeat and capture.
She assumes a demeanor of icy silence. No one believes her story and some even refuse to talk to her, so why should she talk to them? She sits in her saddle, her body tense, bitter resentment coursing through her, but she keeps her head up high and proud.
The Rohirrim had wanted her to wear armor for protection on the journey. When she asked for her old clothing and mail, sable in the livery of Mordor, they informed her that all of it had been destroyed. Ignorant peasants, superstitious of clothing, thinking it held some great evil just because it came from Mordor! It was all that she could do to restrain her temper when they told her that her clothing had been destroyed, and keep from screaming out flagrant orcish curses in the Dark Tongue.
The Rohirrim offered to let her dress as one of them, but she refused to wear their livery. In the end, they did persuade her to wear a mail halberk over her tunic and leggings of dark, muted colors. She resembled the proud Dernhelm of old very little, and looked more like a poor soldier from some small village of the Mark. Her body begins to ache slightly from her withdrawal-illness, the weight of the halberk intensifying the ache. She bears it, not saying a word.
The cavalcade continues on the road. Soon the last covered wain comes down the hill through the gates of the city, and Edoras is deserted. Many of Maltriel's guards look back to the city with sadness in their eyes, but only the dark outline of the hill can be seen in the darkness. Maltriel, too, looks back, knowing that somewhere east of Edoras is the Mordor Army, and her beloved Angmar. The Army of Rohan is riding out to intercept them, to challenge them in battle.
How will the battle go? Who will be the victor, the forces of the East or those of the West? What will be Maltriel's fate, travelling with the entourage?
She keeps her neck rigid and her jaw set, fighting the feelings of helplessness that descend upon her.
BEARN
June 7 - 10 o'clock in the morning
Edoras
Bearn, counselor of the King, glances out of the corner of his eye at the rider beside him. He thinks, "Now we make a hasty retreat towards the northwest, and the King has entrusted the care of his mad sister to me. She rides beside me as silent as a tomb. She is in a churlish mood, pouting, probably, at the further indignity she says we have heaped upon her head. Once she was called the White Lady of Rohan. Now she has well earned the name, the Mad Lady."
The procession winds down the hill and goes through the gates of the city. He decides to try to break the silence by talking to her, but he finds he is talking more to himself than anything. As they go past the mounds on either side of the road, he says, "Lady Eowyn, this is the Barrowfield through which we pass. Though they are hard to see in this gloom, here are the barrows where rest the remains of our honored dead, their mounds covered by symbelmine. To your right the nine mounds of the kings of the first line, Eorl through Helm. On left, you will see the tombs of the kings of the second line, Frealof through Thengel." He looks towards her to see if his words will cause a reaction to any sort, but he sees her lips remain silent. Then his voice lowers, "But there will never be a mound here to Theoden King, who fell at Pelennor." An angry look comes over his face, as he thinks of the reasons why that is so.
He falls silent, and they cross the ford over the River Snowbourne. "There she sits, ever the ice maiden, but she was always proud and cold, so there is nothing unusual to that.
He looks back over his shoulder and sees the vague outlines of the oxen pulling the wains that bear any arms left behind at the armory and the family treasures and personal items which there was time enough to salvage before the procession started on its way. He had watched as the tapestry of Eorl the Young had been reverently folded and packed away, and he was satisfied that all would be safe, at least for now. A random thought hit him, "Does it really matter? Does anything really matter anymore?" but he knew that as long as life remained in him, he would fulfill his duties as counselor as well as he could, and if he was not to be king, well, then, what did it matter. The distinction of being the last King in Rohan was a dubious honor indeed.
In spite of himself, the words escape his lips, "Darkness has befallen Rohan and never shall the sun rise upon it again. Our doom is upon us!"
By Maltriel
June 7 - 10 o'clock in the morning
Leaving Edoras
"Lady Eowyn, this is the Barrowfield through which we pass. Though they are hard to see in this gloom, here are the barrows where rest the remains of our honored dead, their mounds covered by symbelmine. To your right the nine mounds of the kings of the first line, Eorl through Helm. On left, you will see the tombs of the kings of the second line, Frealof through Thengel."
Maltriel looks at the barrows on either side of the road through the darkened haze, but says nothing and barely moves her head. Rohan is a country rich in lore, and the people are kind and almost treat her as one of their own. She even allows them to call her "Eowyn" now and sometimes even forgets to protest when her real name is not used.
"But there will never be a mound here to Theoden King, who fell at Pelennor."
It always hurts when they are kind, when your enemy expresses sadness... when they become a face and a personality, and not just a nameless presence upon a field... when they speak of their fallen.
She had heard of King Theoden before... Eomer had told her about him. He had been his uncle... and Eowyn's as well. He had taken them in when their parents had died... Eomer was 11 at the time, Eowyn 7. Even though Maltriel believed all that she had been told by Angmar, she couldn't help but marvel how similar Eowyn's life had been to her own.... Maltriel, too, had an uncle and a brother... she remembered nothing of her parents and had been told nothing of their fates, so she assumed they had died when she was young. Her uncle, like Theoden, had fallen on the field of Pelennor, but he had been loyal to Mordor and had a high rank in their armies. But her brother had also perished upon the battlefield. Maltriel wondered what to make of it all.... two stories, she has been told. She misses Lugburz and her old room.... riding with the army of Mordor and being with her beloved Angmar... back when life seemed so simple.
Yet she still remains silent.
"Darkness has befallen Rohan and never shall the sun rise upon it again. Our doom is upon us!"
Oh, and it hurts.... the feelings of guilt, her own confusion and pain. That her own people war against these proud, simple Rohirrim. The withdrawal-illness chips away at her resolve and the mastery upon her emotions. She feels a sense of melancoly descend upon her, crushing her spirit with its heavy weight. She doesn't want to move, she doesn't want to breathe.... she just wants to sleep, sleep forever, embrace the darkness and despair that suffocates all her hopes and not wake up.
Her halberk seems to have gained several pounds, and her body aches more. She slips forward, but stops herself with a little cry, grasping the pommel and the horse's reins tightly. She quickly sits back up, fighting her weakness with all the strength she can muster, determined not to seem like too frail a flower in her enemies' eyes.
She decides to break the silence and get her mind off her misery, ignoring what just happened to her.
"Perhaps, Lord Bearn,"she begins softly, " your king should surrender to Mordor. Your people would be treated well and with kindness...." she looks to him, a considerate look upon her face.
She realizes that probably that was not the best thing to say, though her words were civil and said in all courtesy. The man riding beside her would probably fly off into a rage at her words. Let him be angry! She cared not.
BEARN
June 7 - On the way to Dunharrow
Riders in front and to the sides hold burning torches aloft to light the way for the refugee carivan. The light tries to reach out feebly and cut through the brownish darkness, but fails to conquer the gloom that seems to make the very air hard to breathe.
Bearn rides beside Eowyn as they head the procession traveling on the road to Dunharrow. He had given up his attempts at conversation with her, and now he rides silently. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eowyn suddenly slip forward and hears her gasp as she tries to right herself in the saddle. He thinks to himself, "Another one of her fits must have come upon her."
Then she speaks. "Perhaps, Lord Bearn," she begins softly, " your king should surrender to Mordor. Your people would be treated well and with kindness...." she looks to him, a considerate look upon her face.
He pulls his horse to the side of the road and motions for her to follow him. The procession passes them by. "My lady, do not say such words! You speak treason! What has come into your mind to make you say such things?" His face is red with anger, and he sees a red mist come before his eyes. He would strike her down right there, but she is still the shell of the White Lady of Rohan. He fights to regain control over his anger. "She is fey, she is fey! The Enemy drove her mad, and she has come back to Rohan as nothing but a madwoman."
What should he say to her? Humor her? No, he should not do that. He will try to remember her as she once was, and whatever she said in her fits, he should still try to honor her for what she once was, and he would not lie to her.
"My lady, I spoke hastily, but your words grieve me." He thinks to himself, "I have too many years behind me to see this thing come upon Rohan, but now I must use the wisdom of those years to deal with her."
"You may have been deceived into thinking that you are other than what you are, but I know you to be the niece of King Theoden who died at Pelennor. While yet still barely alive, he was beheaded by the Black Captain, and your king, your UNCLE.." his voice starts to rise, "will never lie in a mound with the honored dead, for that monstrosity that the Black Captain rides devoured your uncle like carrion!" He struggles once again to regain control as he waits to see what will be the effect of his words upon her.
He is met with silence, and thinks, "The insane sister of an incompetent king! There is no hope in Rohan!"
He says out loud, "Let us ride to the head of the entourage again." He wonders if she will follow or ride wildly off into the darkness, where awaits who knows unseen enemies. He finds that instead Eowyn seems meek and follows him willingly, and once again they are again riding at the head of the column.
The riders in the rear guard hear the hoofbeats of a horse approaching from behind from somewhere in the darkness. Instinctively, they reach across and puts their on the hilts of their swords. When they recognize the great horse Shadowfax, they allow him to go by.
At the approach of the steed, Bearn recognizes him, the horse that once belonged to Theoden. The rider is small. Bearn thinks, "Another halfling like the brave Merry?" Bearn signals for the procession to halt, and he waits to see what strange thing this might portend.
PIPPIN
Pippin feels that since he bid farewell to Bergil, he has been swept up in a whirlwind. He has ridden on Shadowfax so long, even sleeping propped up against Gandalf, that standing on solid ground feels unfamiliar now. Their rest stops have been infrequent, and food has been scarce. Pippin is tired, hungry, and fearful, and he wants Merry desperately. But when his thoughts grow too dark, he turns his attention to Shadowfax, the breathtaking lord of horses. Whenever Shadowfax feels the hobbit drop a few tears on his coat, he shakes his mane and gives an encouraging whinny.
The past days have been so eventful that Pippin has trouble sorting out the confusion in his mind. First, after a long blur of a journey, they rode to the great tower of Saruman. Pippin marvelled at Gandalf's strength and was even a little intimidated. But when Gandalf spoke to him, Pippin saw that he still had the same affection for hobbits as when he created fireworks for Bilbo's party. After the confrontation with Saruman, Gandalf put Pippin on Shadowfax and sent him off alone.
Now Pippin buries his face in Shadowfax's mane and trusts himself wholly to the horse's wisdom. He hopes Shadowfax knows the way to Meduseld, where Gandalf told him to go, because he certainly doesn't. Pippin quickly had enough of gazing at the sad refugees struggling through the mountains; there is too much darkness here for his lighthearted spirit. He tries to think encouraging thoughts of the warm halls of Rohan's great hall, where he will soon be safe.
Suddenly Shadowfax stops and paws at the ground nervously. Thinking they must have arrived, Pippin looks up. They are still far from Edoras, but it is visible in the distance--swarming with tents bearing the colors of Mordor! A great fell beast stands outside Meduseld, and Pippin can hear its roar even from so far away. Terror overwhelms him. He pats the horse's side and says timidly, "Shadowfax...we can't go that way. What will we do now? Please save me, for Gandalf's sake if not mine...he would not want me to die!" Shadowfax turns and gallops away from Edoras. Pippin is relieved, but he hopes Shadowfax knows where to go. The fell beast roars again, and Pippin starts to panic. What was it Frodo once said to Glorfindel's horse? "Noro lim, Shadowfax! Noro lim!"
Shadowfax is heading for a group of refugees
Pippin has not seen before. He spots some familar faces among
them and urges Shadowfax onward. In the center of the group is
the White Lady of Rohan! But now she wears dark colors, she is
very thin and pale, and she
seems ill. The closer they come, the more Pippin senses a great
tumult in her soul. There is something very wrong here, and it
sends chills down the hobbit's spine. Eowyn stares coldly at him
as though she had never seen him before. Shadowfax comes to a
halt and snorts. Pippin tilts his head and meets Eowyn's eyes
with great concern. After a long, awkward pause, he ventures,
"My lady?"
MALTRIEL
June 7, shortly after 10 am.
Bearn pulls his horse to the side of the road and motions for Maltriel to follow him. Reluctantly she does so. She glances back and watches for a moment as the entourage slowly passes by through the darkness.
"My lady, do not say such words! You speak treason! What has come into your mind to make you say such things?"
Treason? Treason? She turns her head back to him. Treason would be to support Rohan and all the West stood for. If she spoke against Mordor, it would be treason, not the other way around. He treats her like a misbehaving child. Maltriel starts to protest, but notices through the dim light that he looks angry, so she holds her tongue, and remains silent.
"My lady, I spoke hastily, but your words grieve me."
She sighs softly. more pronouncements of doom and judgment upon her head, when she had done nothing to incur this punishment. Her captors treated her fairly but would stop at nothing until she became just like them. Was the West so pathetic that it had to stoop to recruiting its allies from the opposing forces?
Finally, she speaks. "I know not why," she says softly. "I am not the lady of which you speak, though many of your people call me by her name." Then, almost in a whisper: "I believe you know where my loyalties lie... with the land which you call Dark and Nameless."
"You may have been deceived into thinking that you are other than what you are......"
"They seek to poison my mind and rob me of myself," she thinks. "I weary of this argument, these endless words that vex my every waking moment." Maltriel feels weak and exhausted from her withdrawal-illness, too tired to bandy words about her identity. The confusion she feels is maddening... tormenting both mind and body. She lowers her head slightly and concentrates on the reins in her hands. She tightens them around her fingers until her skin is white and red, then relaxes her grip.
"So many words, like the ceaseless buzzing of insects...." she slips into daydreams, ignoring what Bearn is saying. her mind explores the vague and shallow depths of what she can recall of her past.... She remembers the orcs who used to stand outside her cell back in Lugburz... though she thought of them as servants, and not as guards. Their talk was simple and courteous (as well as orcs can be), -and- they called her by her true name, Maltriel. She wonders what they are doing now, if they are still in Lugburz, or if they were sent off to fight in the War.
Oh, and Angmar.... dear beloved Angmar.... he had no doubts to who she really was... though he neglected to tell her the names of her family members, he told her of her name, and she loved to hear the sound of it as it came from his lips. Oh, she remembered the first time he said it, in his gentle voice full of compassion and kindness.... she had come out of a deep slumber and dreams of grinding ice and raging snow to a world strange and new. Her first memory, though all seems vague and hazy now and clouded by a great darkness, was of Angmar giving her his hand and helping her rise to her feet. Even before she had known that they were to be wed, she had promised honor and loyalty to him until the end of her days.
His absence fills her heart and she aches with longing to see him once more, if only for a brief moment. Ah, but these thoughts are too morose, too sentimental.... and she fears she may become too weary to restrain her tears if she continues exploring her dim memories. Vaguely she notices Bearn speaking again, and his voice seems to be rising....
"...your king, your UNCLE.... will never lie in a mound with the honored dead, for that monstrosity that the Black Captain rides devoured your uncle like carrion!"
She bites the inside of her cheek and grips her reins tightly as she feels anger blaze up inside her. The continual railing of her Beloved! they call him evil names such as the "Black Captain." But she is too tired, both physically and emotionally, to start an argument with Bearn. Her withdrawal-illness lies heavy upon her still. Maltriel remains silent, staring straight ahead, a look of cold indifference upon her face.
"Let us ride to the head of the entourage again."
She obediently follows Bearn as he heads back to the head of the column. Her thoughts are few and vague, the apathy that sets in masking the pain and confusion she feels inside. She longs to escape, but she is trapped.... surrounded by skilled fighters with weapons who would quickly subdue her if she tried to escape. At least she is in the open, and isn't locked up this time... in the open and on the move, not in a cage, the bars of which seem to close in about her.
The sound of the hoofbeats of a new horse shakes her from her empty thoughts and idle daydreams. The rider, whom she thinks is a child, maneuvers his horse beside hers and stops. The horse is beautiful, light in color.... not until her capture had she ever seen horses of lighter colors before. Bearn signals for the procession to halt.
The child looks at Maltriel, as if expecting her to know him, but she cannot recognize him. one of the refugee children, probably. She says nothing, waiting for Bearn to speak to him first... she, being only a captive, usually keeps her silence. But the child speaks before Bearn gets a chance.
"My lady?"
Maltriel gives a small smile. "Good morning," she tells him.
BEARN
At the approach of Shadowfax, Bearn recognizes him, the horse that once belonged to Theoden. The rider is small. Bearn thinks, "Another halfling like the brave Merry?" Bearn signals for the procession to halt, and he waits to see what strange thing this might portend.
Shadowfax comes to a halt and snorts. Pippin
tilts his head and meets Eowyn's eyes
with great concern. After a long, awkward pause, he ventures,
"My lady?"
Maltriel gives a small smile. "Good morning," she tells him.
Bearn rubs a hand across his eyes. The darkness had been so deep that for a brief moment, he thought he was seeing the ghost of Merry, King Theoden's esquire for a while. By the sound of his voice and his build, Bearn knows that this is not the spectre of Merry.
"Greetings! I am Bearn, counselor to Eomer King. Riding beside me is the Lady Eowyn, sister to Eomer."
Bearn thinks to himself, "At least she gives him a civil greeting and does not stay in her usual silence. Perhaps he reminds her of Merry," and he thinks of the manner of Merry's death, and to why Eowyn is as she is now.
"You are a strange messenger indeed, but a welcome one. Shadowfax seems to bring comfort to our mounts, and they greet him with joy, but why do you ride the Wizard's steed? Where is Gandalf? Do you bring news from him?" he asks the halfling. "Tell us as we journey." He motions for Pippin to join the procession and to ride beside the Lady Eowyn. The entourage resumes its journey. "We ride to Dunharrow to seek refuge from the foul host of..... Mordor. We are hard pressed to escape them." He glances at Eowyn as he says this, and a furrow crosses his brow.
Bearn blinks and he rides in silence, almost hypnotized by the flickering torches ahead and to the side that guide them in the darkness. He begins to see forms in the darkness, and they surround the party in vaporous forms. "Am I going mad?" he wonders. "Then I will be in a large company, for it seems the whole world has gone mad. The King is incompetent and his sister is insane. Perhaps madness is the better way to face this, for soon no hope shall remain."