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"I dreamed about you last night," he tells her, and she feigns a smile and inches away, face taut like a bowstring, and he wonders why in dreams it never matters that she is golden-beautiful and he is cold and pale as the midnight moon. "We were out on the plains of Edoras, in the old days," he says, slick-shimmer irises curiously translucent in the dawn-light, and she laughs a little, a laugh that is brief and cold. And oh, she is polite, for even shield maidens must be courteous if they do not wish to shame the noble blood of their forefathers, but she does not even attempt to hide the distaste that is evident in her eyes, in her very poise. "You were chasing me," he tells her, edging up behind her so that flyaway strands of her yellow-bright hair brush his face as she shivers, and he wants nothing more than to bury his face in the soft-spun gold. "Eowyn," he whispers, and waits, breath sharp and rasping against the back of her neck, tracing the path of the sound as it travels down her spine to reveal itself in a sudden sinuous shiver. "You kissed me," he says, ruthless now, one thin hand reaching to grasp her arm, and she does not pull away; only her head tilts away from him so that her unbound hair tumbles forward over her shoulder to shield her face. And, oh, her face is beautiful, but her hair is lovelier still; he cannot look at it without wanting to touch it, wanting to twine his fingers in it and feel it against his cold lips. Grima has heard that gold drives men mad, and he supposes that it must be true. "Eowyn," he says again, loving the taste of her name slow and golden on his lips, thinking all the while that it tastes like her, strong and bright and beautiful and yet cold as the steel of her blade. Cold as the brass of her jewellery. Cold as the gold of her hair. "Did I?" she whispers, and as she turns to look at him he knows all at once that there is a heart in his breast because now it has stopped, and the grey half-light slants across her face and catches in her eyes so that he cannot quite see what colour they are. He raises a hand, tentatively, slowly, as if the movement was beyond his control, and then her hand moves to meet his, her fingers warm and living in his palm. "I did," she says, a soft smile curving her lips, and for once he has nothing to say. There is a passion in her eyes, an anger, and so darkly does it simmer that he cannot tell, does not want to be told, whether it is the anger of love or of hatred. Perhaps it is something of each; something of power. "My uncle will be needing you," she tells him, her voice smooth and gentle as her hand as it brushes his cheek, and he marvels at the fluidity of her steps as she leaves the room, wondering how it is that she can shorten his breaths and quicken his pulse with a word, a glance. But then, he thinks, she is his gold; strong and bright and beautiful, cold and unattainable. A man will do anything for his treasure, they say, and Eowyn is his, wherever that may lead. |