"Grima"
Epilogue
by Beryll

 

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 Éomer 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, his blood pounding in his ears.

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."

 

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