Theoden King
Frances' newfound enthusiasm was doused soon enough. Her senses tingled at discovering the foul mood that hanged in the air. Where she expected grand tapestries, carvings and light, only silence and gloom welcomed her. A quick look towards Aragorn indicated that it wasn't usual for the great hall to be cast in such heavy shadows. Gandalf, his face impenetrable, lead them between the highly decorated columns, his path straight. At the far end of the hall, a lone figure crouched upon the throne, his posture so defected that it seemed miraculous that he could even sit without falling. His eyes were veiled, totally devoid of any humanity, his beard unkempt and grey, and his body failing. Frances gasped, shocked by the appearance of King Theoden. For it was him. What could have happened to leave him in such a state of prostration?
At his feet, a sickly man sat on the steps of the dais. If the King did not bother greeting them, choosing to stay silent, it was the pale man who did in in his stead. And his words were as slimy as his figure. He took his time, wailing that Gandalf had, after passing through Edoras, chosen to leave with Shadowfax. Frances could not fathom how the choice of a steed was so important, but it seemed that the house of the King had taken great offence in seeing Gandalf leave with one of the Mearas.
Of course, the horse itself should not have accepted its rider for it was meant to bear the house of Eorl only. How lucky she had been to mount Shadowfax herself ! In the background, the slimy man went on and on, feeling bold enough to insult all of them as they came. Frances raised an eyebrow at his impolite harangue.
— "Do you bring men? Do you bring horses, swords, spears? But who are these that follow at your tail? Four ragged wanderers in grey, and you yourself the most beggar-like of the five."
— "The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden son of Thengel", Gandalf boomed.
And as he lectured the King and his counsellor over the mightiness of his unexpected guest, he opened his arms and suddenly cast his light into the great hall. A great brightness extended over the wall and the pillars which golden scales shone in turn. Frances took a quick glance around her, feigning to admire the beautiful decorations on the pillars that supported the wooden roof. In truth, she sensed the danger that lurked behind them. Several men had entered the hall, following the fellowship's members like shadows. All were armed and ready for battle; their faces said it all.
— "This can't be good," she muttered, forgetting about the keen hearing of the first born.
As a whiff of sweet pine scent passed, the quiet shuffling of leather gently sliding over linen confirmed the elf's presence by her side. His subtle move was meant for protection and reassurance. He stopped right behind her, covering the external side of the group. Frances could nearly feel his body against hers.
Legolas had to refrain himself laying his hand on the small of her back, just to signify that he was there, but he knew better. The slight shifting in her posture indicated that she knew that he covered another angle of the room. Furthermore, Frances was a tigress when fighting with her bare hands. Even unarmed, she could definitely hold her own in hand to hand combat; she did not need his protection. And yet, he could not help but feel uneasy about the situation and what settled his heart. Best to watch her back.
Wormtongue's voice was like a screech of nails sliding over a blackboard, and his semi-standing posture spoke of such submission and sneakiness that Frances was glad he had not noticed her before. His dark aura and trembling speech unnerved her, and now her weary eyes followed him. His wanderings were drawn in a very deceptive pattern, but in reality his moves followed the ones of a snake, stalling but ready to strike.
More men had appeared behind them, and the little group was neatly surrounded by regular guards, who eyed them with curiosity, and other men that looked a tad more vicious. She could only guess that some were part of the king's suite while the others might have been appointed by the slimy counsellor himself. As Grima finally came to face Gandalf, his head only reaching to his chin, he uttered the last words his king would ever take in consideration. There was only blame and lies in his words, and therefore the seemingly grey wizard lost patience.
— "The wise speak only of what they know, Grima son of Galmod. A witless worm you have become. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to brandy crooked words with a serving man," said Gandalf while pointing at him with the tip of his staff.
Surging backward, the counsellor shuddered in fear, his voice even more likely to a goat's than before.
— "Did I not counsel you, my lord, to forbid his staff?", he whined, retreating fast.
In this very moment, all hell broke lose. While Gandalf, oblivious, trusted his dear companions to clear the way for him, the rest of the fellowship launched themselves in the fight that Grima's men had eagerly started. Coming from behind and loud enough in their stomping, at least half a dozen men darted off to prevent the wizard from performing his magic. The first ones came from the sides, assaulting Legolas and Aragorn, but it did not take the time to blink an eye before they were on the ground, unconscious.
Smiling from their swift demise, Frances pushed back her cloak, revealing the fiery burning hair in a ray of light, and she took advantage of the third man's hesitation – he wasn't expecting a woman ! - to step aside and punch him hard in the face. A sickening crack was heard, and the young woman flinched from the blow as her knuckles accommodated the shock. Aware from the danger still, she rotated swiftly to catch one man that attempted to sweep past her to reach Gandalf. Her mad round kick sent him flying aside as her heel caught him in the ribs. A quick look behind her indicated that Legolas finished clearing the way with a skillful backward kick, helped by Gimli, who now had his right foot over the unfortunate counsellor. Grima, they had called him.
The guards, however, stood behind them, and Frances spotted that Hama, the man they had met at the door, had restrained his companion from rushing to the King's help. Their eyes met, and she could not help but bow swiftly at his intelligence. Turning back to Gandalf, Frances frowned. The deep lines of sorrow still marked Théoden's face, and the glassy eyes seemed to be seeing things that were not real. Was there even a soul left his this bod?
A thick silence greeted one of Gandalf's last lines, and for a moment all the companions had hoped that the King would be released from Saruman's hold, but it was not so. Rising in the silence came an unnatural sound, rolling back and forth like angry waves upon unbreakable rock, and the young woman felt like she had opened the very gates of hell. Théoden King, looking like a rotting corpse, was laughing like a mad man. His wide glassy eyes wandered upon the room as he did so, and Frances' knees trembled as his gaze came upon her. Hastily pulling her cloak back over her head, the young lady released a breath of relief once the King's attention came back to Gandalf.
The King laugh was bone chilling, but before long he explained the reason for his hilarity.
— "You hold no power here, Gandalf the grey," he said.
And then Gandalf brandished his staff high before him, and the cloaked opened as if blown up by the wind, revealing the blinding light of his white garments as well as the extend of his new power. Coming close up to the throne, the white wizard bent over the King as this one snivelled and wiggled, attempting to flee. A shuffle of white dress suddenly caught Frances' attention, but before she could react Aragorn had his hands securely fastened around the waist of a very fair lady, her young face distraught at the torments of the king, but not fighting Estel's arms.
Suddenly the King cried, and all his strength went into a last attempt at skinning Gandalf alive as he leapt forward. One last word of command resonated through the hall of Meduseld, the wizard's voice strong and true, and Théoden was flung backward, slumping on his throne. It was the moment the lady chose to release herself from Aragorn's grasp, and she barely caught the King before he fell to the floor. Pushing him back onto the throne, Eowyn, for that was her name, witnessed the revival of her dear uncle as the light suddenly fell on him, and all his white hair turned back to blond, his deep lines removed and his eyes became clear again under the light of the sun. Shedding tears of joy, the young lady marvelled as her renewed sovereign, and so did the guards that had trusted the strangers for their king to be cured.
Truth be told, Frances also marvelled at the sight, having witnessed many magical and mystical things, but never before the new birth of such a strong man as the king of Rohan. She would not have imagined either the anger that was contained in his chest as he threw his counsellor down the stairs of the hall, brandishing his old sword. Wincing at the pain that might have brought the fall, Frances refused to witness the violence that had been stored in the king body for so many years. But the act of execution was called back by Aragorn himself, who had dared interject in favour of no more blood loss.
Exchanging a quick look with the elf, the young lady was once more bewildered by the deepness of his ageless eyes, but past this she could also find hesitation. He knew not whether Aragorn's gesture would bring doom on them or not. Frances frowned; something heavy weighted upon her chest. She also knew that imprisonment was not possible in times of war; it would have taken too many resources to even think about it as a solution. She was no executioner, and would always refuse to be turned into one. But still…
A warm hand landed on her shoulder; an elven caress amongst brute strikes. It was time to get cleaned up and feel like a human being again, and the lady in her couldn't help but sigh in contentment at this thought. On earth she had never really been the type of girl to apply some make-up in the morning or care so much about her appearance. She was quite seen as a barbarian, totally oblivious of how you could arrange one's hair to look good or anything. Now that she had met real barbarians, Frances realised how attached she was to her own little washing habits. Never had she longed so much for a shower or a bath.
When a room was set at her disposal with a steaming bath tub, her heart danced with joy. At last she would be able to untangle the mess that was her hair into a more appropriate form ! A simple gown was lying on the bed for her to wear. The rough worn out velvet seemed so different than the soft silken fabric she had been granted in Rivendell, but nevertheless it would do fine. Its colors she liked; it was a dark blue deeper than the sea. Several layers of the skirt would keep her warm for it was very chilly in the golden hall. There wasn't even any need of help since the lacings were placed on the sides of the bodice.
The Rohirrim were nothing but practical.
Her hair, though, was another issue. Brushing it took eternity given the amount of knots it contained, but finally she managed to make something out of it. Choosing one of the silver pins the lady of the wood had given her, she pulled the upper half behind and made a small braid out of it, fastening it with the pin. The other part would dry out on its own, eventually.