unrequited.
setting: during the Two Towers, once Saruman has managed to gain control of Theoden's mind.
pairings: Gríma Wormtongue/Éowyn, Lady of Rohan. [very one-sided]
He haunts her steps beneath his eyelids, his slimy and unrelenting gaze trailing down her slender form and his hands, sometimes perfectly timed so that he manages to touch some of her alabaster skin, translucent and oh-so-fragile; the slightest pressure may cause her bruises, so he is careful to watch her closely, and take care that she does not hurt herself, intentionally or not. (there is nothing he likes less than a damaged toy, after all)
He will have his reward soon enough, he tells himself. Patience is always key, and time is something that he has far too much of.
He relishes the feeling of being king, the powerful rush of adrenaline that comes with ruling a small country, albeit he is being ruled by a power higher than he, and he himself is ruling through another puppet.
Which brings us to another source of his glee.
Theoden King, once formidable King of Rohan, now reduced to a former shell of his glory.
He cannot help but feel a savage, thrilling sort of glee in the undignified dethronement of the king. He was, after all, once punished by the king for stealing some bread. He has the scars on his back to prove it— all 30 lashes. Now it is he who holds sway over the King, and whispers all the commands in his ear.
But of course his fervent adoration of their White Lady is not overlooked, and whenever he enters her chambers, he feels her handmaidens move closer towards her, shielding and repelling him with the sheer force of their feminine loathing.
Even her brother, Éomer, notices. (Well, at least he is not all as blind as Grima had previously thought.)
So it does not exactly surprise him when Éomer takes him aside one day, and threatens him.
"You stay away from my sister, you foul worm, or I'll make sure you regret it." the horse lord says, grip tightening painfully on his shoulder.
But Grima does not say nor promise anything, and instead, he laughs, long and loudly, a malicious sort of cackle that warns Éomer that he may be the second in line to the throne, and part of their now defunct royal family, but he has absolutely no power to negotiate anything with the one who has the power to kill him with just a whisper in the king's ear.
Éomer stumbles away, as if burned, and as he walks away, Grima is proud to note that he has lost his previously confident swagger.
And for now, Grima is content to wait and watch from the shadows, until the day comes when he can rise, monstrous and terrible, and King of Rohan, with the White Lady— his new White Queen by his side.
A/N: I don't know. Just a weird little fic for your enjoyment. And because I am obsessed with anything Tolkien right now.