I can't get enough of Gríma/Éowyn fanfics right now!

Although, when I do my own, they always end up silly or dramatic in an odd way. Oh well.

As always, I must remind everyone that J.R.R. Tolkien is the proud owner of all the characters and locations - minus one or two, maybe! And I reckon I should also give credit to Brad Dourif and Miranda Otto for bringing the two characters to life in such a wonderful way!

Enjoy!

The weather in Rohan was clear and calm. What a shame, because inside, within the walls of the Golden Hall, bitterness and disappointment rained down upon the flagstone floors. Everyone was tripping up, sliding down and drowning in the puddles of misery left behind. And it was all down to one particular person.

Gríma Wormtongue sat to the side of King Théoden, watching over the Rohirrim people to-ing and fro-ing within the main hall, with a satisfied smile upon his face and his hands neatly clasped upon his lap. Every so often, King Théoden grunted or groaned, to which Gríma replied with a smirk or nod.

There was unrest within Rohan, since rumours had been circulating amongst the nobility that the young Théodred was upon his death bed, waiting to be carried away to the Great Golden Hall In The Sky. It was unfortunate that the last person to hear the news was the fair Éowyn; she had over heard Gamling and Hama discussing the news, and "what to do with the body". Needless to say, she was gravely saddened.

When all was quiet within the hall, she snuck away from her quarters, abandoning her embroidery work on the tapestry of the 'The Rohirrim defeating the Uruk-Hai', and fled to find her cousin.

She had just missed him. Only just. Éowyn knelt by the bed, resting her head on her folded hands and looked upon his body as it rested beneath the linen and fur. He could have been asleep, but he lay too still, too grey. Tears leaked from her eyes before she could stop them.

Little did she know, as she sobbed softly, a mangled shadow had been following not too far behind. And now he had finally caught up.

Yet again, Gríma Wormtongue had made himself an unwanted part of the furniture. He watched Éowyn, unblinking for a moment, with a simpering expression on his face. But she was seemingly unaware of his presence for the moment, as she remained kneeling by Théodred's side. Finally, Gríma made his presence known.

"Oh, he … he must have died … some time in the night," he said silkily, his eyes still boring into the back of Éowyn. When she did not turn to acknowledge him, he stepped closer. "What a tragedy for the King to lose his only son and heir."

He paused, and sat on the edge of the bed. At this point, Éowyn had no choice but to look up at him, undecided on what she should be looking for in those piercing eyes.

"I understand, his parting is hard to accept, especially now that your …" he paused again, as if searching for the best turn of phrase, and let his hand trail across to her shoulder, "… brother has … deserted you."

Éowyn snapped. "Leave me alone, snake!" she cried, darting back from the bedside so quickly she nearly stumbled. She caught her breath, and was taken off guard when she saw that his oily manner had dropped. He had a curious smile on his face, and his voice hardened.

"But you are alone." He started to stand up. "Who knows what you've spoken to the darkness … in the bitter watches of the night … when all you life seems to shrink …" He was now circling Éowyn like a vulture rounding on its prey. "… The walls of your bower closing in about you …. A hutch to trammel some wild thing in it."

Whether any of what Gríma had said made any sense of not, it appeared to have put Éowyn under some kind of trance. She watched him with a vague, far away look in her eyes. He tilted his head to the side as he surveyed her.

"So fair, so cold," he continued, softening his voice again. He reached out a hand and cupped it around her cheek. She shuddered, and felt her eyes shut - possibly as a natural reflex to cut out the image of Gríma coming closer, or maybe because he finally had the hold over her he had wanted for so long. "Like a morning of pale spring still clinging to winter's chill."

Her eyes took a moment to flutter open. He was still staring longingly at her, his mouth parting open slightly, his thumb moving down her neck.

Maybe she should have run there and then. Maybe she should have pushed him away. Maybe she should never have let him come close in the first place.

All Éowyn knew, was that what could only be described as a clammy wet fish suckling for air had latched itself to her neck, slimy and cold. In a state of shock and panic, she yelped and gave Gríma a fierce push.

Not expecting such a sharp blow to the shoulders, Gríma wobbled backwards, his mouth being prized away from her neck. She still felt it cold after he moved away. Not wanting to risk the same thing happening again, she hitched up the skirt of her ivory dress and ran.

Wheezing and clutching his chest, Gríma rushed to the door and looked both ways down the stone corridor. He heard the patting of her feet echoing from the left, so he followed.

Hearing him coming up behind, Éowyn took a sharp right and flung herself inside an armour cupboard. She only hoped the clanging of swords and shields would not attract attention. She heard footsteps outside the cupboard and froze. There was no thick wooden door, like with her bedroom, it was only a heavy embroidered curtain.

Éowyn listened hard, and was disgusted to hear heavy breathing sounding from behind the curtain. The light coming through the curtain diminished as a deformed shadow appeared. Four pale fingers clutched the edge of the curtain, and Éowyn braced herself.

Slowly, the curtain was pulled back, and Gríma revealed himself, a strange look upon his face. Like before, he did not blink, he simply stared and stared at her, utterly awestruck. Éowyn lost further impatience.

"Stop looking at me like that! Leave me alone," she gasped through gritted teeth. He let his head fall to the side.

"But how can I stop, when you are so …" he reached out in his mind for the right word, "… enchanting?"

"Should your lechery flatter me?" she barked back. Gríma did not answer at once.

"I should think any maiden would be honoured to be the object of a man's affection," he eventually replied. "You are, after all, a precious bloom amongst all the straw and thorns. Soft and smooth against the rough and weathered."

Éowyn straightened up from leaning against a giant circular shield and stepped forward. "Kindly let me pass. I want to be alone."

Gríma smiled. "My dearest Éowyn, as I have already told you, you already are." He shuffled forward. "We are both alone … together." His smile faded again and his eyes widened.

Éowyn felt further tears fill her eyes, blurring her vision of the man in front of her. She furiously wiped them away; by now they were a combination of the loss and sudden frustration.

"I do not want to be with you," she replied in a quiet but commanding voice. "Not now, not ever. Leave me be and let me grieve."

He did not leave. The sad, simpering look returned to his face as he gazed at the shield maiden before him.

"What if I told you," he began, slowly, "that I could take all your suffering away? What if I could rip the grief gripping hold of you away, and leave you with a happy, nourished, fulfilled life?"

She blinked. "There would be a price. There would always be a price with you, and a steep one at that, considering what you offer."

"Not this time." He looked hard at Éowyn, his eyes now wide with an unknown determination. "Everything I am offering would come from the heart."

She scoffed. "You have no heart."

"Oh, I do have a heart," he paused, "it has simply never had the chance to be opened. You have seen to that."

Éowyn blinked at Gríma, irritated at his accusatory tone. "Wretch! Your misery is your own doing."

He dropped his gaze for a moment. "I admit, maybe I have been unwelcoming to friendship, or love, from anyone I know. All except … one person."

He was looking at her again. Right into her. Stripping away all the layers of protection and defence she had learned during all those years of being niece of the King. She felt completely uncomfortable and vulnerable.

"Éowyn," he stammered desperately. He stepped right up close. Too close. Far too close.

Éowyn braced herself, waiting for the feeling of a dying fish against her, making her skin crawl. She prepared herself to push him away again.

Oh no, get away from me! she wanted to scream. But there was definitely not enough room to run past now, maybe not even enough to breathe. She stepped back as far as the fallen shields and armours would allow her until Gríma's held out hand finally met her neck with his fingertips.

She shut her eyes tight and gritted her teeth. Oh no …!

With just a split second's hesitation, he moved his head to lay his lips on her neck.

It was different from the first time. It was not wet and clammy. It was cold, ice cold, but lighter and silkier. Completely taken off guard, Éowyn lost her balance for a moment and crash further against the shields.

She steadied herself by grabbing the handle of a sword lodged firmly between two more shields, but she needn't have worried - there was nowhere to fall forward, since Gríma was all there was in front of her.

She opened her eyes, but it was suddenly very dark within the cupboard. Much darker than before. It seemed the remaining daylight had betrayed her, just like everything else. A fleeting feeling of panic rushed through her.

Sensing her pain, Gríma kissed her again, just as gentle. His hand snaked steathily around to the back of her neck. Éowyn felt her eyes flutter open and closed. This was something she had never experienced before!

She felt his other hand rush upwards over her and rest to massage her shoulder. His mouth had trailed around her neck and moved down. This was completely bizarre. There was something serene and soothing, yet cooling and tantalising about him kissing her. Mind-blowing, in fact.

As he continuously kissed and dabbed his lips over her skin, Éowyn's senses suddenly went into over-drive. This was all getting a bit much. The hand she had holding the shield involuntarily rose and grabbed his arm. Taking this as a signal to continue, his mouth deepened into her flesh. She could feel his teeth glide over her neck, across her collar bone, along her shoulder, moving her sleeve down.

His icy touch over her skin made her gasp. Suddenly very much short of breath, she felt her other hand struggle from being squashed by Gríma and find its way to his head. She sighed, moaning ever so softly. She had completely lost track of where she was, who she was with, and what on Middle-Earth was going on!

Gríma laughed ever so softly into her neck, before opening his mouth wide and sinking his teeth into her neck.

Alarm horns rang in Éowyn's head. She gasped out loud. But Gríma's teeth were lodged into her flesh, piercing right through her pale skin. He had drawn blood.

"No! Stop!" she cried, breathlessly, her chest heaving. She felt all her consciousness leaking out of her along with her blood. Where was it going? Why wasn't it dripping all over her ivory dress? Was Gríma drinking it?!

Clearly he was, and enjoying himself immensely. Éowyn was torn. Part of her wanted to draw up all of her remaining strength, push him away and run for her deteriorating life. The other half of her wanted to cave in, slump against the shields and armour behind her, and let Gríma pull her into him and divulge in her snowy white flesh and completely consume her.

The latter won. She let her eyelids fall, and felt the last of her mortal life leave her and escape through to Gríma, passing his lips and soaking into him. She felt as icy and cold as Gríma. Finally, her consciousness gave way, and she fell forwards into him. Gríma pulled his mouth from her neck and held her close to him.

"Wake up, Éowyn," he whispered softly, her blood staining the rim of his blue mouth. "Wake up, my love." He stroked her hair and smiled to himself. She merely sank further into his plush robes. Barely moments later, her lids flickered open once more. She stood up and looked at Gríma.

"Gríma," she hissed, only there was a teasing smile playing about her face. Her green eyes had turned an icy shade of lavender, and her face was white as a sheet. Where Gríma's teeth had been sunk into her flesh, the skin had healed. She seemed to be glowing. Gríma grinned at her.

"Éowyn," he laughed. "Now you know what it feels like to be just like me. Now you have no need to feel pain, or sorrow, or suffering …." He cackled. "I suppose I never told you, but now you can guess for yourself. I am a vampire."

"And now … so am I," Éowyn breathed. She moved her hands down her torso; her new, vampire body. He nodded at her.

"Now we can be together … forever," he replied softly. Éowyn smiled back at him.

"I should be angry. But … why am I not angry?" she queried.

"You have no need for such uncivilised, primitive emotion," he replied silkily. "Now you only have need for perfection, power … passion."

He brought himself right up close to her, and kissed her, full on on the lips. The old Éowyn would have screamed the Golden Hall down had Gríma dared to come at her in such a manner. But the new vampire Éowyn wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into her, gnawing at him feverishly and smacking and smothering her mouth over his.

Noise from outside the little cupboard suddenly broke them apart. It was Gamling, looking flustered. They looked back at him as if butter wouldn't melt.

"My Lady, my Lord, four visitors have arrived on horse back. What should we do?" he asked, looking flustered as his red hair flapped around his face.

Gríma and Éowyn looked at each other, and their faces lit up.

Fresh blood!

"Leave it to us," Gríma replied, his voice coated with silkiness.

"Yes," added Éowyn, "I believe we already have planned the perfect greeting …"

The End … ?