In the night, Grima would gaze upon her soft face, leaning over her, so close that his heated breath was upon her fair face. She would not awake, and never did; he would place his chapped lips just barely above her own, plump and pink, oh-so tempting lips, hovering just above. With one swift movement he would sweep his lips across hers, and just that made him quiver in delight, wanting to go so further, but knowing he could not, he would draw back and caress her face into the night - one twitch of her beauty would send him diving for cover into the shadows, hidden.
She never knew. No one ever knew, but himself. He would trace her face obsessively, going so far as to once kiss her neck, but never again, knowing it was much too dangerous to do so. He knew he should not continue these nightly routines, but he could not stop. It was the only time his dear sweetling would allow him to touch her so closely. No other moments would he be able to kiss her, to trace her beautiful face without her spitting in his face and walking away, beautiful blonde locks flowing behind her.
Her voice was of an angel's, hair like silk and eyes of ice that he so wanted to break, for her, to let him in. . he loved her. And he would often dream that she too would love him, in return.
He crept along her room, holding her hand and pressing kisses against the pale, warm flesh until he had littered every inch of her flesh with small pecks, and then he would lean up and stroke her hair. In the morning, she would not remember; but each night, he would.
She cried above her cousin's bed; it almost makes him feel guilty, remorseful, for he was the one who had placed the pillow over Theodred's face. . but no. He mustn't feel guilt. He knows, a part of him knows it is wrong, and sinful, and unintelligent and he should feel guilt, he should feel remorse, he should not be a coward, but he is one, and there is no change.
He caresses her face, for once, in the open, while she is awake, wiping her tears away and folding his hand around her jaw and stroking it gently with long, pale, spidery fingers, wanting to kiss her. A drop - not water nor tear, but drool, and perhaps he would feel disgusted with himself if he were a different person - drips down his mouth, and she pulls away, tears running down her face ever faster.
"Your words are poison," she spits, and runs. His heart clenches as he stares after her, almost dumbfounded; she had let him touch her. . only for a moment. He places his handkerchief to his drooling mouth and presses it there. He will have her. He will have his precious, beautiful Eowyn - and she will feel grateful in the end. She will love him in the end, he swears.
Grima is blind.
This is simply some absolute sdlfkjsdf that spewed from my keyboard and mind onto Office where I then released it here. Otherwise known as: some worthless writing I came up with at 12:46 at night. I think, however creepy Grima is and however ... ehh, he is, that he really truly loves Eowyn, somewhere inside of him..somewhere. I don't know. And was it just me that noticed the drool in that 'bitter watches of the night, bower closing in about you, blahblah' scene? Yes? Well. I observe too much, I think. o: Review, my pretties.