Summary: One day he'll melt her down and remake her in the image he wishes.
Universe: Books
Author's Note: This could fit into either universe, really. Also, twisted? Yes, I know. It's Gríma, for Christ's sake; of course it's twisted.
Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.
She says nothing and behaves as though he is smoke or air, invisible to her eyes or simply beneath her notice. If her pale, steely gray eyes—like winter ice at twilight or the surface of a lake with clouds overhead—ever do have occasion to light on him, her contempt and utter dismissal of him is palpable, impossible to ignore.
If nothing else, Gríma Wormtongue is an old hand at persisting where he knows he is not wanted.
Really, he can not help himself, or at least that's what he says to the darkness when night has fallen over Edoras and he can finally say with certainty that he's alone.
But he's not alone; he's never alone. The white lady's always there, gnawing away at something inside of him. Éowyn is always there, skin hard as diamond, fingers like blades and eyes like steel and body like an arrow or a slim dagger—so enticing and so dangerous at the same time—sneering at his helpless desire.
Gríma is awake to this and he knows Éowyn is too the way a predator knows its prey is ready to flee.
She's had her warning. She's felt the awakening in the dark of the night.
The girl's coldness only strengthens her allure and her steel only lends beauty.
One day, he will melt her down and remake her in the image he wishes. Until then, he's content to keep her awake at night, and make all that steel, all that winter cool glitter with a newfound appreciation of darkness and the shadow that falls over Rohan.
She's always looked so beautiful like that.