"Grima"
Part 2
by Beryll
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 where 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 Théoden’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.
Éomer’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?!"
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Beryll
go to PART 3