Of Dwarves and Men {Boromir/LOTR}

Chapter 15: When you mess with fire you get the burns

Chapter 15:

When you mess with fire, you get the burns

The ride from Fangorn to Edoras is far too long for my liking, taking note of the continual teasing of Ruelin and Frerin, largely in part of my position on the Palomino.  By the time we arrive to capture a view of the great and grainy human city, I've taken full comfort in both riding a horse and resting my back upon Boromir's chest.  Indeed, to any stranger, the two of us would look like a couple, and a perfect one at that, with my our hair whipping around in the Rohirrim wind.  It is much like a elvish romance novella, to be sure.

Upon a hillside, our horses patter in their hindered motions as we gaze upon the Rohan capital and home of Theoden, King of Rohan.  And though it looks as it did both ten and twenty years ago, fear lurks in my heart at the visions of toppling flags and black-worn citizens.  It is a day of mourning, to be sure, though for what reason I'll quickly find out.   

"Edoras and the Golden Hall of Meduseld.  There dwells Théoden, King of Rohan, whose mind is overthrown.  Saruman's hold over King Théoden is now very strong," Frerin remarks, looking to us from his position in front of Ruelin.  His words hold no comfort in our hearts, only heightened by Gandalf's next words.

"Be careful what you say. Do not look for welcome here," the wizard warns, galloping off with our forms following behind.  We make a quick progression across the short plain, trotting through the gates as the Rohirrim flag swirls across the grounds, mirroring the black-adorned men and women of Rohan.  Our forms are watched in wary silence, eyes digging into our every nerve as we move through them, sharing in their darkness.  The only light this place offers stands upon the Golden Hall's balcony, a woman of remarkable beauty yet the greatest darkness of this town.

"You'll find more cheer in a graveyard," Gimli remarks with a wariness to match these stranger's.  This dwarf has seemingly lost his dramatics, muttering to himself in exchange for an outright expression.
     "It may just be a graveyard," I whisper, though the close contact with the man of Gondor keeps me from privacy.  At my words, his left arm wraps tighter around my waist in what could be his comfort or my own.  But as our movement goes, we dismount a mere second later, tying our horses to the ramparts of the Hall and climbing the hill to meet armed guards of lurking betrayal.

"I cannot allow you before Théoden-King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame.  By order of Gríma Wormtongue," one of the soldiers says, knowing our wizard from his times of travels.  Rather than making a fuss over the traitor's rules, Gandalf simply nods at us to remove our weapons.  So as Boromir and Aragorn simply hand the guards their swords and daggers, Gimli doing the same with his axes, Legolas has to make a show of twirling his knives before relinquishing them.  Seeing as we are weapons of mass destruction in our natural form, we, the Phoenicians, just stand idly by, having the guards stare suspiciously at us.  Honestly, their suspicion is understandable, but I wipe that away with a strong glare at the men.

"Your staff," the guard of before, Hama I later recall, gestures to the old (yet new) wizard.  I scoff at the notion that Gandalf will ever break from his wizard weaponry, as he even cuddles with it at night.  To think he'll hand it over to this man is humorous.

"Hmm?" Gandalf questions before taking recognition of his staff.  "Oh. You would not part an old man from his walking stick?"  A look of pure innocence, much like a young dog, crosses the face of Gandalf, prompting Hama to stutter in response.  But as magic works, we are pushed into the hall from thence forth, Gandalf winking at Aragorn as Ruelin and Legolas "help" the "old" wizard walk.

"My lord, Gandalf the Grey is coming. He's a herald of woe," I hear Grima whisper into the ear of the visibly decaying king, spewing lies with his each breath.