An Ode for Cruelty

Standing barely under the shaded safety of the trees of Fangorn, Gandalf turned to Faelwen, his voice deceptively happy, “I trust you do not need a horse, Faelwen-rin” (Queen).
Faelwen’s eyes turned to Legolas, scarcely managing to cover her fear, “Of course, Gandalf,” Her voice was harsh and taught, ebbing over with unseen tension, “Why would I ever need such a thing.”
The Wizard smiled broadly, turning his attention back toward the plains and loosing a long, low whistle.

A brilliant white horse seemed to burst forth from the distance, it’s hooves pounding at the ground and covering it with incredible speed. Trailing desperately behind were Hasufel and Arod, the two Rohirrim horses the four had thoughtlessly abandoned before entering the Forest.
All in the group, bar Faelwen seemed stunned by the magnificence of the white stallion. Legolas was the first ti speak again, his voice overflowing with awe, “That is one of the Mearas, unless my eyes are cheated by some spell.”
Gandalf nodded, seeming proud, “Shadowfax, he is the Lord of all Horses. He has been my friend through many dangers.”
Gandalf stroked the stallions head with a gentle hand as it drew close to him, before mounting him swiftly, looking back at the others to do the same. Aragorn, again mounted Hasufel; Legolas offered his hand to Gimli, who swiftly refused, instead, clamouring on in the least graceful way possible. The four men looked to Faelwen waiting.
“Well,” Gandalf said, expectance in his tone.
“I can run as I am, Curunir,” Faelwen sneered, the Wizards implied threat of exposure not fading from his eye.
Gandalf turned Shadowfax away from her and began to trot away, “Very well. Don’t fall behind.”

Legolas glanced back from his horse the entire way across the plain. He wouldn’t take in the beauty of the yellowed grass, nor the simple, delicate wildflowers that dotted themselves aimlessly across the ground. Instead, he saw only the pristine image of the pale and pink Elf-maiden. She pushed her body to it’s limits to keep up with the horses gallops, they could all tell, Legolas most of all. Her strides had turned into gazelle-like leaps and bounds, propelling her forward with impossible speed and grace. Legolas begged for her eyes to trail off in his direction, and see something in him that he saw in her. They never did.

As the walls of Edoras drew closer, the group slowed uner Gandalf’s lead.
“Edoras, amd the Golden Hall of Meduseld,” He spoke appreciatively, giving an introduction that none of the party particularly needed, “There dwells Theoden, King of Rohan, whose mind is overthrown. Saruman’s Hold over the King is now very strong.”
Faelwen leaned slightly against Hasufel, catching her breath. Gandalf looked at her and continued, “Be careful what you say. Do not look for welcome here.”
Faelwen picked herself up as Gandalf sped forward and, following the line of her eyes, sped toward the city. She looked up, not knowing why, her eyes had been trained forward for so long that perhaps it felt needed, Aragorn’s eye’s, too, caught the same shape as hers and the two slowed, keeping pace with each other as the watched Rohan’s flag fall to the ground. Aragorn turned, trying to see where it had fallen from; Faelwen stopped running, picking the expensive material from the brown and dying grass in the wall’s shadow.

The walk through the city was long. To the blonde Elf, it felt a hundred times longer than the tense trip through Fangorn, even. He was aware of the eyes trained upon them. Many of these people had probably never seen a Wizard, or a Dwarf, or an Elf; and he was incredibly aware of how many eyes were on Faelwen, of how many whispered and muttered words of her picturesque beauty spread through the crowd. And not just through the women, or the children, by through the men, and it made his blood boil.
He looked to Faelwen, hoping to find guidance. She walked beside his Horse, her hand close enough to the reins for him to touch if he wanted. Her head was held high, her pale pink eyes never leaving the path directly before her. It was only now, that he looked down, and noticed the dirtied flag in her hand; the fine and proud object, sullied by dirt and in the hand of an Elf. What on earth was she doing?

The guards at the entrance to the castle were no more welcoming than the peasants below them. The one in lead, at least, seemed to resent his position.
He walked forward, brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth down-turned, “I can not allow you before Theoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame,” his tone was as sullen as his face, when he continued, it was as if he had tasted something foul, “By order, of Grima Wormtongue.”
Gandalf nodded at his companions, Faelwen raised an eyebrow, tucking the flag into her belt as she withdrew her first two daggers. Gimli handed over his axe; Aragorn, his sword, a small quiver and a knife; Legolas, four long knives and his quiver. Even by then, Faelwen was still unloading weapons. Three guards stood in front of her, their arms overloaded with short swords, daggers, hunting knives and her quiver.
Legolas looked at her, nostalgia glancing his features as she sourly handed over her long sword, “Take care of this, Little Boy. Treat it as if it were worth more than your life,” He heard her mutter under her breath and tried desperately to contain his amusement, “Because it is.”
The ‘Captain of the Guard’, it seemed, turned to Gandalf, his expression even more forlorn, “Your staff.”
Gandalf feigned innocence, winking slyly at Aragorn as he finished speaking, “Oh, you would not part an old man from his walking stick.”
The Captain grimaced, nodding slowly as he turned, allowing them entrance to Theoden’s Hall. Legolas took the coy Wizard’s arm, and all five watched as the overloaded guards struggled with the heavy door.

The doors creaked open, and before them sat a skeleton of a man; a breathing corpse. His skin was tones of such ghostly white and deathly blue that anyone entering the room may have mistaken him as rotting. His eyes were yellowed and reddened with shots of blood all at once. His teeth had become misshapen, twisting in their place as if he had some terrible disease. Faelwen looked at the King before her, overthrown in mind by dark magic, more puppet than man. The intricate decoration of the hall, the hundred armed guards, they seemed irrelevant compared to this man; a barely living symbol of the suffering of his nation.
A greasy man, sickeningly pale and rat-like poised himself by the King’s arm, hissing into his ear words he thought that none of them could hear, “My Lord, Gandalf the Grey is coming. He is a Herald of woe.”
Gandalf spoke loudly, his words strong, “The courtesy of your Hall is somewhat lessened of late, Theoden King.”
The oily man, clad in black, hissed again, “He is not welcome.”
The King croaked out, rasping desperately for breath in between every word, “Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?”
The rat-like figure hissed again into the King’s ear, “A just question my liege,” He stood, carrying himself with an air of confidence that Faelwen could only attribute to the one giving out orders, Grima, “Late, is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lathspell I name him. Ill news is an ill guest.”
Gandalf drew himself up in front of the rat, strength still dominating his tone, “Be silent. Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I haven’t passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm.”
Gandalf raised his staff. Faelwen nearly laughed as Grima’s eyes widened and he scurried backward. Instead she turned, smiling at the nearest guard as they began to rush forward.
“The staff!” Grima whined, curling back in fear, “I told you to take the Wizard’s staff!”