How did it come to this?
Loyal to her family, her lands and her people, Théadain, the illegitimate daughter of Théoden, King of Rohan, has little concern for the world that lies beyond her familiar grasslands. When all that she loves is threatened...
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Chapter 11
A trembling breath, little short of a sob escaped Théadain's lips once she had paced a safe distance from Elrond's door. Her heart hammered in her ears and her mind thrashed like an animal in a snare.
'Sauron has returned. His spirit endured.'
Lord Elrond's words repeated over and over inside her head as she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stop another sound of despair escaping her lips.
How could this have happened again? How could the world make the same mistakes that had allowed a dark power to rise once before?
Would the free world survive it a second time?
How did it come to this?
She squeezed her eyes shut to force back her traitorous tears of fright, drawing in an unsteady breath in an attempt to settle herself. The news had shocked her, to the very core of her being, but she knew she must not let herself succumb to it. She was a leader, a daughter of Rohan, Third Marshal of the Mark and the blood of kings ran in her veins; she would not bow to this crushing tide of fear.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she began to pace; up and down the shadowed walkway too many times to count. The sun had long since sank below the valley walls, leaving Rivendell bathed in the silver light of the autumn moon. Walking was all she could manage as she tried to place her thoughts in order. The desire to run to the stables now, to saddle Folca and race with all speed to Rohan was nearly overwhelming. Not only did she need to warn her family and people, but in that moment all she needed was the comfort of her home. She needed Théodred to wrap her in his arms and crush her to his chest. She needed Éowyn to hold her hands and for Éomer to ruffle her hair and tell her that everything would be all right, that she could handle this. She needed her father.
Her father that she had failed to help. She had come all this way, left everything she knew and loved in the search of answers, and now she would return with nothing?
The clatter of metal on stone jerked her from her tangle of thoughts, and she shrank back into the shadow of an alcove at the sound of footsteps, not wanting anyone to see her in her tormented state.
She needn't have worried, further up the corridor, she saw the figure of Boromir stride from a doorway, his shoulders tense as he descended a flight of steps out into the evening. Without consciously choosing to, her feet led her to the doorway he had passed though, wrapping her arms around herself as she remembered the airy chamber that lay within.
She had been frightened of that room once. She remembered being furious with herself on her first visit when she had discovered it. It was a childish, irrational fear, not becoming of one training to be a soldier. She had forced herself to spend hours overcoming it.
It was the painting. She knew it was irrational to fear an image, conjured by an artist in oil on wood, but she had never before seen the figure of Sauron, laid out on the wall for all to see. Whilst the menacing figure looming over the heroic form of Isildur had unsettled her when she was first confronted with it, it had taken her some time to realise that it was also the shattered sword that faced the painting which frightened her. The actual object reflected in the portrait was confirmation. Assurance that the stories she had been told were true. The blade had touched Sauron; defeated him, stripped him of his power. She recognised that it was displayed in celebration, an artefact of victory, but she had also recognised it as a warning. All that had come to pass was real, and the sword was ready should it be needed again.
