1. By Appointment of the King.
"See, Théoden, here is a snake! To slay it would be just. But it was not always as it is now. Once it was a man, and it did you service in its fashion." — The Two Towers.
Disclaimer: I do not own Middle-Earth, LOTR or the characters found therein.
A/N: There's little to say. I'm a long-standing Tolkien fan and have done a lot of thinking about his world and characters, particularly his portrayal of the nature of evil, and the possibility of redemption. This story will be mainly canon-compliant according to the BOOK, not the movie (though I see that I have erred already on the matter of Wormtongue's skin colour, as I remembered wrongly when I was writing). It is the backstory of Éowyn most particularly, and will continue until her marriage to Faramir, but as such it is also the story of Edoras during the troubled years before the war, and of Gríma Wormtongue, the loyal servant turned treacherous counsellor, and his desire for Éowyn. I realise the tone of this opening chapter may make readers uneasy, but I will say no more at present — if you have thoughts, questions or concerns, please leave a review and I will endeavour to respond to your satisfaction in my next Author's Note! Please don't expect regular updates, but I'll do my best.
I hope you enjoy :)
The autumn of Éowyn's fourteenth year rose up bleak and cold over an insufficient summer. The winds that blew from the East bit like ice, and stirred up eddy after eddy of brown leaves and stinging dirt that blew into the great hall of Edoras whenever the gates were opened, even if only for a moment. And soon enough there came a day when the great gates opened and a gust of disquiet blew in that set even the rich tapestries of the King's council-chamber to flapping like a washerwoman's sheets.
The sorry tale was this. A small band of men had slunk over the border by night — Southrons, none quite knew how many — with garrottes and a poisoned knife; and when morning broke, Galmod, the King's counsellor, lay in his death-throes, with his wife and children strangled where they lay. His son Gríma, riding in from a hunting trip soon after daybreak, came only in time to close his father's eyes.
The news reached Théoden and his household by noon, and by evening, Gríma was kneeling in the Great Hall, offering up his sword in service to the King amid a hush of shock and pity. There was some muttering of vengeance, but all who were present knew well enough its impotence. This was not a deed of political moment, but the settling of an old feud, bitter ending as it might be — the pursuit of vengeance would merely cost more lives, and perhaps lead to war, as Gríma himself said a little bitterly. No, the only thing to do was to let the matter lie, and give the slain honourable burial. And Gríma himself would take his father's place as the King's third counsellor.
Éowyn, watching from three paces behind her uncle's chair, thought him touched with a certain desperate grace as he knelt, his hands on Théoden's knees, to take the oath of fealty — swarthy-skinned like his Southron father, tall like his Rohirric mother, dark-haired like his father, blue-eyed like his mother. Yet his gaze, when he raised it, was imbued with a pale fire that had not been set there by his recent griefs alone. And when he met her eyes for a brief moment, as she waited behind the King's chair, his glance was keen — hardly that of a man numbed by shock — and stirred a disquiet within her that she could not name.
Once the oath was sworn, they feasted as was customary, though gloom lay on all of them. The repast itself was modest — already they were conserving their resources against the bite of winter. Only once or twice did any laughter ring out; and it was swiftly quelled. Even the hounds of the hall lay quiet, not scuffling or wandering, but motionless and alert, close by their masters' legs.
Éowyn served as cupbearer, as was her wont; and after the meal, she bore the cup to Gríma. Very straight he sat, his mouth set firm as a sword-blade — remote and resolute. Yet she saw with a sudden stab, of pity perhaps, that his hands shook on the cup, and there were shadows beneath his keen eyes, hooded like those of a mountain-eagle. And small wonder, after the day's events.
Gríma raised the cup and drank deep, then looked up at her.
"Thank you, Lady of Rohan," he said. His voice was very clear, but quiet, and somehow unutterably weary. Éowyn smiled wryly.
"Lady, you say? Most in this hall deem me still a child, although I have seen fourteen summers." But she was immediately ashamed of her rancour, which had not been directed at him.
An unreadable look veiled his blue eyes. "Many would have said the same of me before today, and I have seen twenty-four." His voice was too gentle, and once again, she felt that she reddened with shame.
"I ask your pardon, my lord," she said, averting her gaze.
"Pardon for what?" he said lightly. It was not really a question. Then — "But I should take my leave. I have much to attend to before I can rest tonight."
"Of course," said Éowyn, still abashed, stepping back as he extricated himself from his place at the mead-bench. Then, remembering her duties as cup-bearer, she moved to offer the cup to Háma, a young King's guardsman, barely bearded, sitting one place along on the bench. Yet even as she moved along the row of men, offering and receiving the cup with practiced hands, her eyes followed Gríma as he left the hall, pausing to make his apologies to the King. Tall and proud — and lonely, she thought, with again that strange stirring of disquiet. And as he passed from the brightness of the lanterns to the shadows around the entrance of the hall, he seemed to slump and be diminished, as though it had been only the scrutiny of many eyes that kept him upright.
A/N: Thoughts? Please leave a review! Or if you'd rather, tell me who is your favourite LOTR character, and why. Thanks for reading!