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The quiet of the cell was deafening. The thick iron door closing behind him had blocked out all the clamor and howling of the celebrating Uruk-Hai as suddenly as if a candle had been snuffed out. In the light of the one torch burning and hissing on a wall the small cell appeared drenched in red fire, the dankness and grime adding to the image of a little piece of hell. Iron shackles bound the wrists of the single occupant of the cell, connecting to a chain coming down from the ceiling, drawn so taunt that the young man had to stand on tiptoe. He was stripped of his weapons, signs of rank, armor and most of his clothing, only thin breeches remaining. Dirt and blood streaked the muscular body and the tangled mane of blonde hair. Most of it black and orcish but some human red and his own. The cut running down his shoulder over his chest was not bone deep but it would fester and could quite possibly kill, if not tended to in the near future. Still his eyes were clear of the haze of pain or fever, only hatred made them burn with such unholy light. He stared at his visitor with unabashed rage, not noticing the tiny flinch, the recoil from so much hatred. All he saw was the despicable creature he blamed for everything that had gone wrong in the last couple of years. Everything that had led to the downfall and defeat of his people. The deaths of countless friends and comrades. Gríma did not enter more then a single pace into the cell, stopping in the shadow of the doorframe, hiding from view as he had always done. His eyes drawn to Éomer, former third marshal of the Riddermark, sister son of the slain king of Rohan, now a prisoner in the quickly renamed "Lair of Bones" - as the Uruk-Hai fondly called the Hornburg. How much he yearned to step out of the dark, to touch the beaten body of the man he had desired ever since he had come to Rohan. How much he wished to sooth the pain, to offer comfort for all the anguish he saw glimmering behind all that rage. But he knew that the best he could expect was a kick in the face for his troubles. The fight was far from gone from the proud Rohirrim and though it meant he would never receive the one thing he wished for most, Gríma would make sure it would remain. Reaping his reward after the victory of Saruman's forces had not been a difficult task. The wizard had been in a splendid mood, his razor sharp mind already turning away from Rohan and to Gondor, looking for new ways to please his master. He had only listened with half an ear to the pleas of his faithful snake, making him regent over Rohan with an offhandedness that showed clearly that this had been his intent from the start. With sly amusement he had congratulated Gríma on the fact that he would now finally be able to wed and bed his adored Éowyn. It still filled Gríma with slight disbelief that even wise Saruman had never guessed, that it was not the sister he dreamed about at night. He would marry her as it would make his rule much easier having the White Lady of Rohan displayed at his side. But his heart and soul longed for the touch of this man, who had never shown him anything but contempt and scorn. Truly I am a snake, Gríma thought grimly, crawling on my belly, begging for more punishment from this man, who hates me. Why do I hurt myself like this? Still the fact remained that he had begged Saruman for Éomer when he learned that the leader of Rohan's forces had been captured alive. Saruman had been reluctant to give him up, as he had planned to give him to the leaders of the Uruk-Hai to sate their thirst for cruelty and to publicly kill him at their leisure. Gríma had argued rightly that the beasts would enjoy this game much more if the wizard gave them a couple of the precious few elves that had been taken alive. Saruman wanted to keep them for further study, but Gríma had managed to sway him, explaining in minute detail, how much Éomer had tormented him in his time at court and how he desired revenge. In the end the wizard had agreed that Gríma deserved some fun as well and had granted him ownership over the human, who in his eyes was no more than a pawn, a slave. Looking at Éomer now Gríma realized again that he would never be able to see a slave in the warrior. The Rohirrim was everything Gríma had ever wished to be in the dark nights when his conscience stirred. There was no way it would ever happen. Too much blood had been on Gríma's hands, even when he had first laid eyes on Éomer. But still he dreamt. He must have been standing there for a long time already, staring at the prisoner, as íomer shifted uncomfortably, flinching slightly from the pain in his shoulder but unwilling to show it. "What do you want, Wormtongue?" he spat, putting all his contempt into the one word. "Gloating over me? Come a little closer and I will show you I am not defeated yet." Gríma sighed softly in pleasure. Yes. He was not defeated at all his courage and anger still burned just as bright. He would not drown in darkness as long as he kept Éomer alive to light his existence. He wrapped his cloak closer around him, shivering despite the stifling heat in the cell. From excitement as much as from fear. If Éomer ever broke free of his chains, Gríma would be a very dead snake. "I came to tell you the news," he said softly, his slightly nasal voice coming out as a hiss. "Your sister lives. I thought you would like to know that." His words had not the effect he had hoped for. Éomer looked like he had been slapped, not like he was happy about the fact that his sister had escaped the death that ruled supreme in Helm's Deep these days. For the first time his eyes turned away from Gríma, turning his head to the side, hiding inside the cocoon of his tangled hair for a moment. Gríma saw his body tense up and wondered why this news trouble the young man so much. Realization dawned as Éomer looked back at him, his eyes cold now. "I will kill you, snake." Éomer whispered, the hatred in his eyes having reached a new high. "I swear by my ancestors, if you lay a finger on her I will break free somehow and break every single bone in your worthless body before I kill you." Despite his desire for the young man Gríma felt anger rise in himself. A rare thing indeed. It seemed that these days only Éomer could inspire any emotion in him, be it good or bad. He drew up a little as he answered: "It would seem to me, that you, as well as your sister, are at my mercy. You would do better to beg than to threaten me." He cursed himself for his foolish pride as Éomer roared in fury and yanked on his chains violently to get at him, lost his precarious footing and then screamed in pain, as his wound was ripped open as he hung on his wrists by his full weight. Blood oozed down his chest and cold sweat ran down his brow, while he bit his lip to stifle another noise of pain, trying to get back on his feet. Gríma watched in silence as Éomer managed to stand again, closing his eyes for a brief moment, probably fighting nausea. "Your sister remains safe from the clawed paws of the Uruk-Hai." Gríma said, trying to put some measure of gentleness in his voice. It came out sounding like sarcastic glee. "She will not be harmed." Even that didn't sound sincere even though Gríma truly meant it. Éomer just looked at him with quiet fury, unable to vent his rage and equally unable to let it go. "I will find somebody to care for your wounds." Gríma announced and even that came out sounding like a threat. Silently Gríma cursed his voice that somehow never sounded like he wanted it to. A slight shiver ran through Éomer's body and Gríma could easily imagine what he was thinking. To have an Uruk-Hai tend his wounds was even less desirable then to die of them. Gríma made a mental note to find a human to see to the task. He desired nothing more than to stay, to watch the warrior before him some more, to look his fill. But there was pressing business to attend to and staying would only aggravate íomer more, if that were still possible. So he turned and knocked on the heavy door, the orc guard outside opening swiftly, bowing to the wizard's favorite servant with fervor, hoping for some tiny reward. "See that the prisoner is not disturbed by anybody unless I expressly order it." Gríma told the orc loud enough for íomer to hear. At least he could maybe give him some sense of security like that. However small it might be. --- The day had been long and arduous. Gríma's throat felt sore from yelling at Uruk-Hai and his neck hurt from constantly glaring up at them. He was quickly developing a serious dislike to the dirty, violent creatures. He just couldn't see how Saruman could prefer them to the company of humans. But then Saruman was a wizard teetering on the edge of madness, serving absolute evil. Of course their tastes would differ. With a sigh Gríma rearranged his robes, renewing his promise to himself that once things had quieted down a little, he would get himself human guards. At least for the halls of Meduseld. The thought of having the filthy creatures ruining the place made him gag. Maybe he could employ more Southrons. They were pretty reliable as long as you had some of them tortured regularly to show them misbehavior would not be tolerated. At least they didn't eat their fellows. Shuffling his feet nervously he tried to ease the kinks out of his neck, postponing the inevitable. The wooden door in front of him was still there and he couldn't put off the visit to the person locked up behind it any longer. It would just make matters worse to keep her waiting till the next day. Being kept in the dark about her future fate would certainly not improve her mood. At least he had made sure she was searched thoroughly. The last thing he needed now was a hidden dagger cutting open his belly. She would be furious. There had been nobody but some leering Southrons available to do the search. It was so difficult to get good personnel these days. Mentally he added 'find a human maid for Éowyn' to his list of tasks for the next day. She was a lady after all and would soon be queen of Rohan. She needed suitable servants, who were intelligent enough to spy on her and not bright enough to try to betray Gríma. The pains he went through to serve his crazy master... Rearranging his robes yet again he nodded to the Southron guarding the door. The smirk on the man's face was simply insolent. He was probably thinking it funny that Gríma had been standing in front of the door for almost five minutes, trying to gather his courage. In his mind Gríma marked him as one of next week's torture candidates. Then he turned his attention to the opening door, wondering if Éowyn would hide next to the door to whack him with a chair or another improvised weapon. He entered cautiously. He was almost disappointed when he found Éowyn close to the window in a high backed chair, staring outside at the fire filled night. Gríma was still working on getting the concept of not putting things on fire for fun across to the Uruk-Hai. If they continued at this rate very soon nothing but scorched stones would remain of the Hornburg. Or whatever the Uruk-Hai wanted to call it. He had decided that he would give the whole blasted thing to them as a lair and depart with his prisoners soon. He needed to get back to Edoras to put some kind of order into the affairs he had so carefully muddled as Thíoden's adviser. And he needed to make sure every single Rohirrim warrior was hunted down and either forced to submit or killed. Rebellion had to be rooted out as quickly as possible. Saruman would take the main host of his Uruk-Hai to Gondor soon. Gríma would have to work quickly to use them as long as they remained in numbers. At least Saruman had promised to make new and improved ones as soon as he had studied the elves and figured out how to incorporate them into his breeding program. Maybe that would make less stinking Uruk-Hai. The door was closed behind Gríma and still Éowyn had not moved. Gríma had made sure to have her imprisoned in a room where she could not throw herself from the much too small window. But sudden fear stirred in him that she might have found another way of killing herself and that he was looking at a corpse. "My lady?" he said questioningly, moving closer slowly. She did not turn but her hands clenched in her lap, reassuring Gríma. Her dress was dirty and a little ripped, showing skin where it was not decent, some bloody scratches as well. Nothing major though. Apart from her pride she was unhurt. "I apologize for the lack of comfort." Gríma tried to make a pleasant opening to the conversation but it came out sounding like pure malice. This time Éowyn did turn to glare at him, her eyes reminding Gríma very much of those of her brother who had looked at him with equal hatred. In her anger she was a very beautiful woman. She did not deign to speak though and Gríma nervously stroked the soft cloth of his cloak, trying to glance at her sideways to avoid her glare. "We will return to Edoras soon," he tried to reassure her and this time even the hiss in his voice didn't manage to make it sound unpleasant. With sudden dread Gríma realized, that he would not be able to take Éomer with him right away. He did not want íowyn to know her brother was still alive, that would just lead to more bad blood. He would have to have Éomer brought to Edoras at a later date and lock him up in the dungeons without his sister knowing he was there. Now he just had to hope that the Uruk-Hai he had to charge with guarding his precious Rohirrim would not take any liberties that would damage Éomer permanently. He rubbed his brow tiredly wondering why he couldn't just be in love with Éowyn like everybody thought he was. That would make matters so much easier. He returned his attention to Éowyn, who was still glaring at him. Better to make this as quick and painless as possible. "My lady, as you have probably guessed I intend to wed you as soon as it can be arranged." Her face grew even stormier at this announcement but still she remained seated. Gríma wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. He just continued. "The people of Rohan will be greatly reassured by the fact that their white lady is still alive. To see you rule by my side will help them settle into the new order of things." Finally Éowyn spoke and her voice was dripping with acid contempt. "And what makes you think I will consent to this, snake?" Her eyes where glittering dangerously and Gríma didn't think it beyond her to attack him with her hands and teeth so he withdrew a few paces. What madman could fall in love with such a violent woman, he wondered? One could just as well have loved a wild beast. "My lady, you should reconsider your abundant hatred.," he said, his own voice dripping with unintended sarcasm. "You must realize that your gentle hand is all that will protect the human population of Rohan from their new neighbors, the Uruk-Hai. Don't you want to keep your people safe?" She snorted in disgust. "I should have known you would resort to blackmail, Wormtongue. What do you expect of me? To be a loving wife to the man who has murdered all my kin?" Gríma stared at her quietly, considering a hundred spiteful replies. Finally he just sighed deeply. "No, milady," he answered, "I expect you to act reasonable despite all the bad blood between us and act for the good of Rohan, disregarding your own feelings. Think on your options well." He drew his robes closer around himself, chilled by her icy glare. "We will speak more of this once we are wed and you have had time to realize your situation." He turned to leave but was stopped by her next words. "You will not escape my revenge, snake. It may take years but you will die from my very hands, paying in kind for all the blood on your hands. This I swear by my honor and that of my ancestors." For a long moment Gríma stood frozen, the words seeping into his heart and settling there beside all the other oaths of the same kind he had heard in his life. Yet another icy thorn in his side. No matter, as long as he had Éomer's fury to keep him warm he would endure the cold hatred of the sister as well. Without answering her threat he left, his mind already turning to other matters, gladly fleeing her presence.
Edoras was preparing for the wedding. One would have expected bright colors, people in a joyful mood, making ready for festivities. But the only signs of an approaching celebration Gríma could see from his vantage point outside the large doors of the hall of Meduseld were the countless fires outside the town lit by the Uruk-Hai who had been sent by Saruman to guard the regent. They were in a splendid mood, eating all the provisions Gríma had gathered in order to fulfill his masters orders. He needed them for the march on Gondor. Gríma fingered his expensive new cloak nervously. If the Uruk-Hai kept up at this rate there would be nothing left to deliver to Isengard. Saruman would not be pleased and doubtlessly blame Gríma. He counted himself lucky, that he had secreted about half of the supplies away before the Uruk-Hai had arrived. His plan had been to keep them to help out the people of Rohan in the approaching winter. Most of their crops had been burned and spoiled by the orcish troops still marauding mostly unchecked. For once Gríma wished that the remaining Rohirrim would just submit to his rule so he could gather them and send them out to hunt orcs, just like they used to do. He doubted Saruman would miss those he managed to remove. But they were hiding somewhere in the opens plains, refusing to be found, instead creating more havoc. It seemed to Gríma that every single person in Rohan - be it human, orc, Uruk-Hai or wizard - was hell bent on razing the country to the ground. For two months now he had tried to put some semblance of order back into the affairs of Rohan, facing opposition from all conceivable parties involved. Saruman demanded more supplies, more slaves, more of everything and RIGHT NOW, the Uruk-Hai demanded more battles, the humans refused to even talk to him unless threatened at sword point and then they were lying so blatantly that it was just insulting. Granted - no more insulting than being spit at, cursed and scorned constantly. Gríma wondered what he had done to deserve this. He was actually trying to help - even though he could hardly believe it himself. He was truly trying to return things to normal, to help people survive. But now he would be forced to send the supplies he had been planning to keep to Saruman to fulfill his quota. And that meant a great many people would die of starvation this winter. And of course they would all blame him. With a deep sigh he turned around and went back inside, drawing his robes around himself in an impotent gesture of defiance against the world in general and the cold in particular. He had never wanted to rule a land. He wondered if Saruman had known this and made him regent of Rohan in a gesture of casual cruelty. This evening he would marry lady Éowyn. And already he was growing sick and tired of all the jealous glances and crude jokes, made by the Southrons guarding the hall now. Some of them were actually genuinely trying to amuse him. He just felt bile rise in his throat when he thought of the fact that he would be expected to spend the night with her. And that there would be many ears listening to hear her cry and scream. The urge he felt to touch her was about as strong as the urge to nurse a viper at his breast. Really he just wanted to be left alone. Or better still - spend the night down in the dungeons, hidden in the shadows, watching his beloved Éomer. He had been put in the most comfortable cell Gríma had been able to find. Two Southrons were constantly guarding him, never allowing him a minute alone. No matter what, he must not escape. That was what Gríma had told them and he paid them well for their loyalty. Gríma loved to watch him pace his cell like a caged animal, uselessly pulling on the chain securing his ankle to a sturdy bolt in a wall. He had not shown himself, since Éomer had arrived in Edoras. It had been a moonless night, the lady Éowyn long asleep and unsuspecting that her brother - still alive - was being brought back to both their home. Gríma had watched the Uruk-Hai bring him. They had made him walk the long way from Helm's Deep to Edoras and Éomer's mood had been accordingly foul. He had been too tired to curse Gríma aloud, but his eyes had burned with seething rage. At least his wound had been tended to and was healing. It would leave an ugly scar but Gríma thought that just made him look manlier. By now he was completely healed, his health restored by good food and sufficient care. More and more, when Gríma visited the dungeons, Éomer would sit in a corner of his cell, chin resting on his raised knees, staring off into nothing. And Gríma worried that Éomer was losing his rage, his will to endure, his passion for the fight and revenge. Maybe it was time to show himself again, to taunt him back into life. Gríma turned into his own quarters, firmly closing the door behind himself, then leaning against it exhausted and dispirited. And maybe he should just do what his heart urged him to: free him. It would mean a Rohirrim spear piercing his heart in the not too distant future but at least that would end his suffering. Cursing himself for a fool Gríma shook his head. Why should he give up what he had wanted to own for such a long time? Once things had settled down, everything would improve. Once Mordor had won over Gondor there would be peace. 'And then?' the nagging little voice in Gríma's head asked. 'What then? He will still hate you, won't he?' -- A few hours later this thought returned to him, as he looked into the icy eyes of Éowyn standing next to him, tall and forbidding and as gentle as a raging warg. He had not seen her much since their return to Edoras. He had been busy and he had kept her busy as well. Why should he do all the work when he had a woman at his disposal who was well versed in the politics of Rohan, quite able to get what she wanted and - most importantly - well loved by all. Had she been just a tiny bit less hateful he might have actually enjoyed working with her. As things were he dreaded each new confrontation, when she came to him bearing the complaints of the people, blaming him for all their grief. She truly was blinded by her own hatred where it came to him. Saruman had promised to come and do the wedding ceremony. He had sent word that he would not be able to make it only this afternoon and Gríma was endlessly grateful. The wizard's voice might have made this much more binding and permanent than he wished it to be. Now the vows were spoken by some Southron barely able to master the complicated phrases in the old tongue of the Rohirrim. Gríma winced inwardly at his mistakes in pronunciation. Silently he wondered when he had started to see the language of Rohan as his own. Maybe it would have been wiser to flee this place as soon as his assignment as Théoden's advisor in Saruman's pay had been over. But of course there had been no way of escape open to him. Like everybody else here just did what he had to. Éowyn was first to repeat the vows and her eyes were glimmering with a fury barely held in check. She had consented to this wedding. Gríma had been right about that. As soon as she had witnessed the suffering of her people she had agreed. Of course she thought that Gríma had only orchestrated that suffering to make her comply with his wishes. She would be very annoyed once she learned that it was not Gríma's doing at all and that it was only partly in his power to remedy the situation. But he would deal with that when the need arouse. There were more pressing problems to deal with. Then Gríma spoke his vows and they sounded just as insincere as Éowyn's. At least to his ears they did. Nobody seemed to notice, though. The gathered Uruk-Hai and Southrons cheered, not really caring for the occasion as long as they were permitted to party. Gríma had sworn to himself that he would have each and every single one of them beheaded, should they put fire to Edoras in their exuberant mood. There was a grand dinner served, the Rohan native servants watching the usurpers with the same hatred that their lady held for her new husband. Gríma saw each and every one of them give the lady apologetic looks and gestures as if they all thought it was their fault, what the white lady had to endure. Silly creatures. Finally the hour grew late and the moment came that Gríma had dreaded since the moment Saruman had given him Éowyn. The time to withdraw to their chambers to consummate their wedding. Éowyn rose stiffly when Gríma did and walked ahead of him, completely ignoring the catcalls from the 'wedding guests'. Gríma huddled in his robes, following her slowly feeling like he was being led to his own execution. Come to think of it... maybe it was his execution. If the lady lost her temper Gríma would be very dead very soon. They reached Gríma's chambers and again he just opened the door for her and let her walk ahead, not wanting her claws in his unprotected back. She stopped only a few paces into the room to turn and look at him; her eyes filled with a mixture of burning hatred and carefully maintained cold detachedness. Quietly Gríma wondered if somewhere in her frozen heart she actually feared him. He had thought she did now and then. But that had been before the battle of Helm's Deep. Since then her mask of icy contempt had been firmly in place. She waited for him to make a move. Gríma closed the door behind him and looked at her in the low, warm light of the candles for a long time. She was beautiful in all her anger; there was no arguing that fact. Her hair shone the like molten gold, her eyes glittered proudly, her lips - though pressed together to a thin line - still were full a grace, her posture that of a true queen. How could a man not want her? Still the fact remained that he didn't. He could imagine a hundred places he would have rather been. Still he was expected by all to make this woman his own. Nervously he stroked the cloth of his robes, trying to gather his courage, his eyes scanning the room for anything to capture his attention away from the woman in front of him. She did not make things easier for him, standing there as unmovable as a glacier. When his eyes returned to her he drew a deep breath. Pulling together all the courage and strength he might have possessed at some point in his life he walked right past her to the armchair before the fireplace, settling in it with a sigh, huddling in his cloak. He did not look at her when he spoke. "I will remain here, milady. Please feel free to use the bed. Have a pleasant night." It was utter madness of course. It would bring up all sorts of trouble. Beginning with the questions he would now have to answer and ending in the fact that he would not be able to explain to his minions why he had not used his beautiful wife like he should. For a long time there was silence and Gríma almost hoped she would for once be a good girl and just quietly slip into bed. Of course it was not to be. He heard the rustling of her expensive white gown as she came closer. "What new deviltry is this, snake?" she asked. Before she could launch into a spiteful tirade he interrupted her. "Believe it or not but I do not desire you at all, milady. Our wedding is purely political, just as I have told you right from the start. I do not wish to share a bed with you; you do not wish to share mine. So why should we bother each other with useless unpleasantries?" There was a tiny hint of insecurity in her voice when she spoke again. "You expect me to believe that?" Gríma sighed deeply. "No," he said tiredly. "In fact I do not expect you to believe me. Should I tell you the sky is blue you would not believe that either. It does not matter what my intentions are, as you will always expect the worst." He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "If you will now excuse me, milady? It has been a long day and I am tired. I wish to rest." "You wish to rest?" She sounded so incredulous it was almost funny. Would have been funny, if she had not hated him so much. "I... well then... rest," she concluded rather lamely and Gríma was endlessly thankful when she moved away towards the bed. He listened to her sit down on the bed. It was a long time till he actually heard her lie down. A longer time still till her breathing evened out as sleep overtook her. Gríma waited yet a while longer before he rose from his place by the fireside. He spared only a fleeting glance at his wife, stretched out on the bed fully clothed, asleep. Then he slipped out of the room quietly to go where his heart called him. Down to the dungeons, to his Éomer. He could hear howling and shouting from the great wall, which was a sure sign that the Uruk-Hai were having a good time. He ducked deeper into the shadows just like he had done when he was still Thíoden's adviser. Silently he wondered if he would ever feel anything like a ruler in this place. He would probably remain the creeping snake till somebody finally murdered him. The dungeon was cold and quiet as a grave, torches only burning at junctions of the corridors, the stretches in between cloaked in choking darkness. It had been a comfort to Gríma before but now he felt it crawl under his skin when he remembered that he kept Éomer prisoner down here. Proud Éomer, whose eyes sparkled in sunlight, whose hair shone like gold when he came home in the late afternoon to greet his uncle and king, who lived for his horse and for the open plains. It was only a matter of time till he would go mad down here. Either that or he would despair. Maybe Gríma had picked the worst possible torture in simply imprisoning the man down here. He shuddered at the thought, impatiently pulling on his cloak. No. He would not give in! He would not give Éomer up! The deepest dungeons where his precious slave was kept were just as quiet as the rest, a single torch illuminating the small table where the two Southron guards were sitting, contemplating what fate had banned them to the dungeons when all their friends were allowed to party. They looked up when Gríma came into the guard's room. If they were surprised at seeing him they did not show it. Maybe they thought he wanted to take the brother now, as he must just have had the sister. Maybe they refrained from thinking at all. When Gríma silently motioned them to leave, they just got up and walked out. Gríma waited, till they had left for good. Only then did he move closer to the bars of the cell for once not bothering to hide. Éomer was sitting in his corner, brow resting on his raised knees, maybe asleep, maybe just dozing. The grime of the dungeons was clinging to his golden hair even though Gríma had made sure he received water to wash regularly. There was just no way to truly escape the ever-present dirt of centuries. Gríma leaned his brow against the cold bars, watching Éomer under half lowered lids. Looking at those strong arms, the naked feet black with sod and maybe even ashes carried here from Helm's Deep. He pained him beyond words to see his beloved warrior brought so low. Here was his greatest weakness and the reason why he still dealt with life at all. He flinched away from the bars when he suddenly heard his prisoner's voice cut the silence, rough from lack of use. "So you have come yet again, snake." The fire had gone from the voice but the hatred was still as intense. Or was it? Gríma trembled with sudden confusion. He had thought himself careful and well hidden. He had been so sure Éomer had not noticed his regular visits. "What do you want, I ask you again. Why do you come to watch me? If you wanted to see me suffer, I am sure you could devise more effective means. Or are you weak of stomach?" Éomer slowly raised his head and in the weak firelight Gríma could only make out a glimmer of his eyes under his tangled mane of hair. "Why do you come tonight, Wormtongue? To tell me about my sister? I know you wed her this night. Do you want to know what I will do to you, if ever I lay my hands on you?" Now the hatred was back and his voice grew gradually louder. "Do you wish to taunt me?" For a long moment they just stared at one another, Gríma frozen to his spot. Èomer's voice was soft when he spoke again. And thoughtful, which frightened Gríma. What if this man ever guessed why Gríma truly kept him prisoner? What then? Gríma's mind recoiled from the thought, pushing it far away. "No... you stand there in silence staring at me for hours. I wonder what slithers in your sick mind." Gríma did not know how to answer that. Certainly the truth was out of the question. "I have not touched your sister," he finally choked out, sounding defeated which was not that far away from his actual emotion. "She remains an unharmed maiden." Of course Éomer would not believe a single word. Why should he? "Why do you tell me this? It does not serve any purpose but to lighten my heart. That can not be your intent." Éomer's observations were just too accurate for Gríma's tastes. Obviously the warrior had too much time to think on his hands and had put it to good use. Maybe his mind was just as bright and sharp as his spear. What an utterly frightening thought. And thrilling at the same time. "You must hate me much." Éomer continued, now more to himself than to Gríma. "I thwarted all your master's plans with shaking the king out of his stupor. Did not help one bit in the end, but to see you banished from court... that is a memory to treasure..." Gríma recalled well the day Éomer had returned to court with dying Théodred in his arms and endless anguish in his eyes. It had pierced Gríma's heart as surely as the orc arrow, which had pierced Théodred's. When Éomer had spoken against the orcs in court, when he had roused the king from his madness with his rage and true fire it had been beyond Gríma to interfere. He had watched mutely, as Théoden shook of Saruman's spell. And then he had run for his life, returning to his master quickly to report his failure, rejoicing Éomer's victory somewhere deep in his heart at the same time. How Saruman had pitied him in his strange affection. How Gríma had prayed that by some divine intervention the Rohirrim would win the hopeless fight against Saruman's Uruk-Hai. "Why do you keep me alive, Wormtongue? Answer me! Why do you keep me here?" Again there was anger in that strong voice but this time it was more directed at Éomer's own helplessness than against Gríma himself. Gríma had no answer for his prisoner. None he dared to voice. So he turned and left as quickly as possible, ignoring the shout behind him. "WHY?!"
The mental shriek of his master echoed through his mind, ringing in his ears, making his eyes water with the pain Gríma was not able to block out. He clutched his head, fighting to regain control of his senses that had suddenly been drawn into the whirling madness that was his master's mind these days. Whatever had just happened, it had hurt the wizard badly, pushing a white-hot spear of pain into his consciousness. "What is it, snake?" An icy voice broke through the red haze glimmering before his eyes, jerking him back to the present. "Does your conscience pain you?" Gríma blinked at lady Éowyn through tears of pain, for once grateful for her cold spite. Nothing better to ground a man than this stony gaze. She was sitting opposite of him at the small table next to the fireplace in his room, a mug of steaming tea in her elegant hand, looking at him with the curiosity awarded an especially ugly insect. Spread on the table before them were the remains of their breakfast. What had started as a necessity to assure the servants that they did actually sleep together had turned into a useful habit. Their breakfasts were the time when they could discuss their appointments of the day and the future of Rohan. No matter how much they may hate each other's guts, they now both knew they had to work together to put the shattered pieces of Rohan together again. And Éowyn had grudgingly admitted that this truly was Gríma's purpose, no matter what her personal thoughts on him may be. Gríma had been more than surprised when she had kept quiet about their 'wedding night'. She had neither complained about him nor told anybody that her husband had not touched her. Gríma still suspected that she was just waiting for the right opportunity to reveal it, but he was grateful for the time he had been granted. He was sore from sleeping in the armchair but it was better than getting important parts bitten off by a lady as poisonous as any viper. And he did feel respect for her, for she was working as hard as he was and at least on a professional basis they were getting along remarkably well, her keen mind and in depth knowledge of the people they were dealing with invaluable. He had wondered more than once why Théoden had never made use of her intelligence and strong hand in his governing. But then again - he had been an old fool. How else could Gríma have corrupted him that easily? "Well?" Éowyn interrupted his thoughts and Gríma could have sworn there was a tiny bit of worry in her voice. Gríma rubbed his watering eyes. "Just... nothing... I'll be fine," he tried to explain, fumbling for his own mug of tea to get the taste of bile and acrid smoke out of his mouth that had come with the touch of Saruman's mind. Something had gone wrong. Really, majorly wrong. He was sure of it. He was surprised yet again when Éowyn leaned forward to put the mug into his searching hand. Slowly he raised the mug in his trembling hands, drinking the hot spicy liquid and swirling it in his mouth to cleanse away the taste of decay. When his vision had cleared enough to look at his 'wife' she had leaned back in her armchair, her mug resting in her hands in her lap, gazing at him, her eyes full of questions she knew he wouldn't answer. The hatred had receded, giving way to her intense intellect seeking to satisfy her curiosity. Still she didn't ask and that almost compelled Gríma to tell her what he had felt from the wizard. But in the end he kept his quiet, silently vowing to find out more before he burdened her with what might mean more trouble for all of Rohan or might mean trouble only for himself. -- Two days later a winged messenger arrived from Orthanc. Gríma wondered what had taken it so long. He had pretty much expected to receive notice the same day. Either Saruman had been hit harder than Gríma had guessed or he had been so preoccupied that he simply had not bothered to send the information on to his groveling minion. Gríma eyed the large black bird with the same distrust that he saw shining in the red eyes of the creature. It was a thing of evil. Gríma had watched how the wizard made them from ordinary birds and the vile concoctions he brewed in his cauldrons. He was careful when he took the small message vessel from the bird's leg and was not disappointed when it hacked at his fingers, missing them by a hair's breadth. His fingers were trembling when he opened the carriage, still glaring at the monstrous bird that was still sitting on his window sill, trained to fly again only when it had received Grima's reply. The message was written in the tense, clipped script of the wizard. But were Gríma was used to structure here the words tumbled over each other. He read the message twice, then slowly sat down in the chair at his desk, trying to comprehend the enormity of what had transpired in Mordor and Gondor. What Saruman had believed entirely impossible had come to pass. Leaning his head back against the chair, Gríma closed his eyes with a deep sigh. To his own surprise the only thing he felt was immense relief. It was over. The war was over and against all odds good had triumphed over the darkness of Mordor. While Saruman had hedged his little plans for world dominion, the real story had slipped by him, thwarting all his plans in an effort that still was not entirely clear to the wizard. At least it seemed so to Gríma from his jumbled words. Essentially the message was an order for Gríma to send all Uruk-Hai remaining in Edoras to Isengard and to prepare his Southron forces for battle. Gondor was coming to Rohan, to honor old alliances, to free their neighbors from the rule of evil as well. And they were bringing all their wondrous heroes that had fought and prevailed against Mordor. The new steward of Gondor, Boromir, his younger brother Faramir, who was said to have faced a Nazgúl all on his own, the wizard Gandalf, whom Saruman had thought defeated by the darkness of Mordor. And the king. Gondor bathed in the shining light of King Elessar and his elven allies and there was no doubt whatsoever in Grima's mind that they would brush aside all forces Saruman might be able to muster. Very soon his own rule over Rohan would be over and he could not help but feel grateful. An end to the hatred and fear. An end to the suffering he himself had caused just as much as Saruman had. And last but certainly not least, an end to his servitude to Saruman. Gríma did not intend to wait till war came to Rohan. He would be well away, when defeat came calling in Isengard. He was a professional traitor after all. How could Saruman expect him to stay? There were just a couple of things he wanted to take care of before he left, before he slipped into darkness and anonymity again, a few loose ends to tie. He crumpled the message in his hand, then held it to the flame of the candle on his desk. Next he wrote a short note for his master on a slip of paper, then tied it to the bird's leg and sent it off again. 'Uruk-Hai on their way,' was all it said. -- It was the same evening that he went down to the dungeons one last time. He had sent the Uruk-Hai to Isengard, just as his master had demanded. Apart from that he had not taken any preparations for defense. He did not want to make the retaking of Edoras more difficult than absolutely necessary. He knew there were rumors flying already, but nothing definite enough to cause real worry among the Southrons. That would change once he had disappeared. The cell lay as quiet as ever, the two guards slipping away when Gríma walked in. He had stayed away for almost two weeks after the night of the wedding. Then his longing had drawn him back. Éomer had not spoken again. Sometimes he did not acknowledge Gríma was there, simply remaining in his corner unmoving. Sometimes he would look at Gríma through the soiled curtain of his golden hair, his eyes glittering in the fire of the torch. More than once Gríma had wished he were able to explain, but his tongue had always been heavy as if made of lead. How was he to tell this man what was in his heart? But tonight his will was firm. Before he left for good he would for once speak the truth. His hands were trembling at the thought and they clenched in his cloak involuntarily, as he stepped closer to the bars. His heart was fluttering like a wounded bird. Still he bit his lip hard till he felt the coppery taste of blood, gathering all the courage a snake may have. Éomer must have sensed there was some difference in him tonight, for he raised his head higher than he normally did, his eyes reflecting fire. "I... I have come to tell you the news..." Gríma began before his last bits of self-control could flee him. His voice was shaking, showing his emotional turmoil clearly. Strange that now that he wished it to be smooth and deceiving, it reflected his heart more truly than it had ever before. "I have come to tell you that your time of imprisonment will soon be over. Gondor has defeated Mordor. Troops are on their way to Rohan to free it. It is a matter of weeks, maybe even days, till they will be here. They will defeat Saruman. The wizard Mithrandir is with them." He did not give the man in the cell time to truly comprehend what he had just said but just continued with haste. "You have asked me, why you have been kept alive and I have come to answer your question before I flee Rohan and betray Saruman just as I have betrayed Théoden." He swallowed, drawing up as straight as he could, trying to not hide in the dark or his cloak like every fiber of his being called to do. "I have kept you alive because it was never your sister I desired. My eyes have ever been on you and I was willing to pay any price to see you alive and well. As well as possible." Shrinking in on himself again, he drew his robes closer, tears prickling in his eyes for he knew full well that his feelings would never be returned. "If I could not have your love, I was willing to settle for your burning hatred instead. Anything at all as long as I could see you live." He turned away from the cell. "Now I will lose even that for I am not willing anymore to watch you suffer. You will be freed soon. And never will I lay eyes on you again. I would beg forgiveness for all the harm done to you and your kin but there can be none, so I will slither away like the snake I am. Farewell, Éomer." Then he hurried outside, not willing to listen to any reply Éomer might have. --- The next morning was quiet and peaceful. No howling Uruk-Hai outside of Edoras to wake them in the earliest hours of morning for the first time since they had come back here. So it was not very surprising that Gríma slept longer than he had intended to. He was awakened by his loving wife who prodded him with her delicate little foot. "Wake up, snake, the sun is up already, breakfast is waiting and so is work. And I will not deal with it on my own." Gríma opened his eyes with a groan. He had wandered the dark corridors of Meduseld for many hours, contemplating his unfortunate fate, before he had finally retired to his quarters close to morning. He felt like he had been dragged behind a horse and the prospect that this had been the last night under a roof that he would enjoy for a long time did nothing to cheer him. He blinked up at Éowyn, who was standing next to the armchair, frowning down at him. "You look terrible," she said without pity. "But then, you always do, so I shouldn't worry." She sat down opposite him and poured both of them tea. Somebody had brought in their breakfast and not even that had managed to wake him. He was growing lax in his watchfulness. He would have to improve once he was on the road again. Gríma watched as Éowyn ate some bread and cold meat. He felt his own stomach grumble but it was more a lingering sickness than hunger. When he made no move to touch the food, Éowyn handed him a piece of bread and cut some cheese, putting it on his plate. "Eat." she ordered. "You will not starve yourself to death and leave me with this mess. Where did the monsters go?" Nibbling on the bread Gríma eyed her distrustfully. Did she suspect anything? It did not matter anyway. He intended to tell her. After breakfast. He rubbed his brow. Maybe better now. The sooner he got this over with the sooner he would be away from this place that had brought him nothing but heartache and grief. "They have gone back to Isengard," he answered. "Preparing for war?" Éowyn asked, probably thinking of the attack on Gondor, that Saruman had been planning in minute detail. "No," Gríma said, his voice reflecting all the malice he felt at the fact that his master faced defeat, "preparing to die. Gondor has won the war against Mordor, the dark tower lies in ruins. And very soon the new king will come knocking on Orthanc's door. Saruman wants to be prepared for that. He does not stand a chance of course." Éowyn just stared at him, a piece of bread hanging in her hand before her open mouth forgotten. "What?" she finally managed to utter, her eyes round and unbelieving. "You think I am joking? Why should I? Very soon you will be free of my wretched presence." Gríma tiredly rubbed his brow. "In fact I plan to leave after I have forced down this piece of bread. Rohan will be yours, dear lady. Your traitorous husband sneaks away to save his miserable life." "But... but don't you want to serve your master? Don't you want to help Saruman?" she asked, putting down the bread, her hands slightly trembling. "What has the evil wizard of Isengard ever done to deserve my loyalty?" Gríma asked back, huddling deeper into his robes. "And how can you expect any loyalty from one like me? No, he can fend for himself and lose all on his own. I want nothing to do with his looming doom though I certainly deserve it as much as he does." A strange emotion was glittering in Éowyn's eyes that he could not quite identify. She just stared at him quietly. Gríma sighed, putting down his own bread. "I think I am not hungry, milady. There is one more thing I need to tell you before I depart and you will only see my head again on a Rohirrim spear, should they manage to catch me." He drew a deep breath and did not look at her when he continued. "Your brother lives. He is imprisoned in the dungeons beneath the hall. In one of the cells furthest back. There are two Southrons guarding him, but I am sure they will be no match to your fury. You should free him and leave as quickly as possible to join the approaching forces of Gondor. I am sure they will bid you welcome." He reached under his robes and took out the key he had been wearing ever since Éomer had been locked up. "This key will open the cell as well as the chains on your brother." He put the chain with the key on the table between their two plates. Then he finally looked up at her, recoiling from the tears he saw swimming in her eyes. Tears and an emotion that was so alien to him he just refused to recognize it. "Take good care of your brother," he said at last. "For he is the only thing close to my heart. The one thing that might have changed me." He stood up abruptly. "If you will excuse me now, I have to run away. I wish you the best of luck." He did not get away quickly enough this time. "Gríma, wait." Éowyn spoke behind him, her voice choked with tears. Gríma shook his head without turning, taking another step. "Gríma, please. I..." "Don't, milady. Whatever pleasant thing you want to say now will quickly flee your tongue once you remember all the hurt I have caused you. The only boon I ask is that you give me a head start." Then he was at the door and left before she could say more.
The evening was quiet and the fire crackling in the fireplace was trying to lull Éomer to sleep. Still he had to remain awake a little longer to deal with at the very least some of the matters that had collected on his desk while he had been away. For a whole week he had toured the villages close to Edoras, listening to the various grievances of the people of Rohan, coordinating missions for his riders, hunting orcs, Uruk-Hai, Southron and all the other minions of Saruman who roamed the plains now Isengard lay in ruins. It was still hard to comprehend, when they knelt in front of him, calling him 'Sire' or 'King'. He had never expected or wished to be king. Serving Théoden had been his lifeblood and he had fully intended to serve Théodred just the same. But Théodred had been slain even before his father. Now rulership rested on his own young shoulders and quite often he felt simply inadequate for the task. Too little did he know of politics. Without the help of his sister he might have been completely lost and useless. King Elessar had promised to send skilled help from Minas Tirith to at least deal with the day-to-day issues. But he had to sort out his own rule as High King first. And even then part of Éomer balked at the thought of accepting help in his rule, even if it might have been wiser. He was not wise. He was a warrior who loved to fight and to ride. What he would have given for this burden to be lifted from his shoulders. He rubbed his burning eyes, reading a missive for the third time without really comprehending what it was about. Something about crops burned by the Uruk-Hai. What in the name of the Valar was he supposed to do about that? But obviously it was his responsibility or Éowyn wouldn't have left it on his desk. Sometimes he caught her looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and pity. She knew full well how much all this unnerved him and at the same time her own patience was limited. In her veins the same hot blood ran that made Éomer despise being king. He was very grateful when a knock on the door interrupted his musings. "Come in," he called. Another thing he had had to learn. The days when people would just walk in and tell him what they wanted were over as well. A servant entered, bowing deeply. "A patrol has returned from the borders, bringing a prisoner," he announced. "They say your highness has given express order to bring him to you no matter what time of day..." The servant clearly did not approve of his king being disturbed this late but Éomer didn't mind at all. He did not remember giving any orders like that but he had done so much lately he could hardly be expected to recall each detail. And any diversion from the papers on his desk was more than welcome. "Bring them in then," he told the servant, getting up from his chair to pour himself a goblet of wine while he waited, pondering whatever prisoner this might be. Just when memory dawned on him, did another knock on the door cut his thinking short. This time the door was just opened and two tall Rohirrim pushed in the quarry. A quarry that íomer had ordered hunted and brought to his presence as one of his first actions after the defeat of Saruman. They had not treated him gently. His robes were torn and sullied, his lip was split, the blood dried on his pale skin, his wrists were tied by heavy chains. Just like Éomer's had been when they last met. He was trying hard to duck into the shadows, hiding in his robes, his face turned away and hidden in his limb black hair, appearing more like a hunted animal than anything human. But it was Gríma. "Leave us." Éomer told the two guards. Yes, he had ordered the snake captured. But he had not really believed that his riders would succeed in this nearly impossible task. He briefly wondered how many rocks they had turned till they had found Gríma underneath one of them. He set down the goblet and slowly walked closer. Or tried to, as Gríma withdrew step for step until he stood in the furthest corner of the room, his back pressed to the wall with nowhere to go. Éomer stopped right in front of him. Below his curtain of hair Gríma tried to look anywhere but at the man in front of him. Éomer could smell his fear. He reached out and grabbed the collar of the man who was blamed by everybody for his uncle's death, drawing him closer and into the light till Gríma could only cast down his eyes to escape Éomer's searing gaze. "You have a debt to pay, snake," he whispered and felt Gríma shudder in his grasp. Éomer felt a smile tug at his lip and he knew it would have reassured Gríma greatly had he dared to look up. He could hardly believe it himself, but the fury in him had died. The only thing he felt right now was dry amusement and a peculiar kind of curiosity that left a strange tingling in his blood. "By your hand, Rohan is in ruins. I think the very least I can expect is that you help repair the damage you have wrought." he said, not wanting to let the man suffer his fear any longer. Grima's eyes shot up, searching for mocking in Éomer's face and finding none whatsoever. And what was more important, no hatred in his clear eyes. "My sister has told me how well the two of you have worked together." Éomer continued, "The new king of Rohan has need of you. Will you serve?" For a long moment they stared at each other, utter disbelieve in Grima's eyes. But finally he nodded jerkily. Éomer could feel his heart beat as quickly as that of a small bird where he still held him. Very slowly, deliberately he drew Gríma closer still till they were nearly nose-to-nose. "I want you by my side, consider that my revenge." He felt the man shiver and finally he understood some of what made his own blood run hot, even if he could not comprehend how it could possibly be so. "Do not think I fancy you, snake," he whispered, "but if we wash you, drag you into the light and teach you to walk upright..." A smile now lit Éomer's face and he saw endless wonder in Grima's face that made him see beauty suddenly where before there had only been a vile creature, "if we manage all that... I might renegotiate." |