Disclaimer: Gríma and Éowyn are Tolkien's, not mine.
A/N: For the lovely SperryDee/Starbear, who has rocked my world over and over with her awesome Gríma/Éowyn fic. THANK YOU.
There were many things Éowyn hated about her nightmares. That she even had them was humiliation enough; that she woke up screaming after each made it even worse.
But by far the worst part was her inability to recognize her own scream for what it was. In her first moments of wakefulness, her body would leap to life beneath the furs, a rigid figure clutching at itself in terror. But inside, Éowyn's spirit was utterly detached. She observed with clinical curiosity the trembling shoulders, the wildly tangled hair, the open mouth and pale cheeks of a body she thought belonged to someone else. Then she would meet her own eyes, reflected back at her in a mirror. Suddnely Éowyn would come into herself, shut her mouth, and glare steely-eyed at her own face, shamed by her fear.
"We will not do this again," she said to herself, night after night. But every night the dream came, and every night she woke again to the terrified body and the aloof soul.
The dream never changed, and Éowyn never stopped hating herself for cowering so before the twisted workings of her imagination. Every night she rose from bed and, wrapped in a cloak, stormed through the silent halls of Meduseld to the Great Hall. There she would find a table and sit, staring forlornly at her uncle's throne. Hours she would remain, gazing into a world that wasn't there, turning the dream over and over in her head. Perhaps, she thought, if she considered the dream enough, if she chased its meaning, it would finally disappear.
She sat again in the darkness of the Great Hall that night, with a small candle flickering before her. The guards had passed on their patrol perhaps twenty minutes previous, but she had ignored them, and they in turn had not disturbed her. She stared blankly into the dark, a hand pressed to her mouth, eyebrows drawn into a sharp v.
Images of the nightmare lingered still, flashing across her vision when she most wished them to disappear – the flash of a blade, oppressing silence, a chamber with a locked door. She paused as each image came unbidden and considered it, trying to translate its form and meaning into something real, something to fear. But each remained only a shadowy ghost of some deeper, nameless terror whose depths Éowyn could not touch.
She wondered to herself whether her brother ever dreamt like this, or her uncle or cousin, men who had surely seen more horrors on the battlefield than she. Yet she had never seen them wandering the halls like this, had never known them to awaken once they had settled into sleep. Perhaps there was something wrong with her. Perhaps she was undeserving of the title of shield maiden.
She bowed her head and buried her face in her hands. She did not want to have these dreams, to experience this dread. In many ways it was this gut terror that she battled against whenever she lifted a sword – the darkness that coyly flirted with the corner of her every thought, the darkness that invaded her dreams and dragged her into its pit when she was most helpless. She swore every day that she would not surrender to that darkness – but every day saw no improvement, and every day her fear increased.
She had lost count of the hours, the rounds of the guards. She had no idea how long she had sat in the hall pondering her nightmare, but she knew that she was bone-weary, and that the servants would undoubtedly be rising soon. She should not continue to linger here, or they would talk. Many mornings already they must have found her here asleep, slumped over the table with her head nestled against her arms. It must seem strange to them, that their lady spent her nights thus. "What has she been doing?" she imagined they said. "What brings her to the hall in the dead of night?" Shaking their heads, they would summon trusty guards to carry her back to her chambers - for she never awoke in the hall, but always in her bed. Someone - her brother, perhaps, or Gamling - must bring her back each morning.
Sighing, she rose from her seat. Best not give them still another night to cluck their tongues over. She turned and started for her room, slipping into the darkened corridor.
Halfway to her chambers her candle sputtered out; it had burned too long. Cursing, Éowyn tried to get the spark to light once more; it remained stubbornly unlit. She cursed again, louder this time.
"Trouble with your candle, my Lady?"
She turned sharply. The corridor was covered in shadows here, the nearest torch several meters down. She could make out the form of a man, but could not identify his face. "Who – ?"
"Only your uncle's humble counsellor." He took a step closer, and Éowyn caught a tiny flash of his eyes in the dim light.
"Gríma." She straightened and attempted to look noble, disheveled as she was. "What are you doing awake at this hour?"
"I might ask you much the same question," Gríma said. She saw his head move in the darkness - a nod to the candle. "It seems you have been awake some time. Your candle appears to have burned down quite far."
Éowyn blushed. "I… had a troubling dream," she confessed. "It was silly, really."
"I should hardly think so," Gríma said. He had moved close enough now that she could make him out, swathed already in his heavy cloak and robes of state. "Nothing 'silly' would drive such a one as you from bed this long, and for this many nights."
Éowyn stiffened. "Have you been following me, counsellor?" she demanded.
He quirked what would have been a brow, if he had had any. "I have not," he said. "The servants talk."
"Oh." She rubbed her eyes, suddenly feeling quite exhausted. "Forgive my sharp tongue, my lord; as you say, it has been long since I have slept easy."
"This is a great ill," Gríma said, "But I understand. I too rarely sleep untroubled."
Éowyn looked up, a bit of hope lighting her eyes. "Oh?"
He nodded solemnly. "The same dream, night after night. Is it so for you, too?"
Éowyn hesitated. She had been frequently cautioned by her brother and cousin in recent days not to trust her uncle's counsellor. Yet his situation mirrored her own so well; and he seemed most eager to help. Perhaps he, more scholarly than the others at court, could help her discern the meaning of her nightmare.
"I dream that I am trapped in a dark chamber," Éowyn said slowly. "I stumble blindly through it, only to find that the door is barred. I call for someone to open it, but no one answers. Everything around me is silent, and as I sit inside the room it seems that the silence swallows my voice, so that I cannot make a sound." She began to pick at the candle's wax in agitation, staring blankly over Gríma's shoulder. "I begin to try to find my way around the room, but there is almost nothing there except for me and a table. On the table I find a sharp knife – I feel it with my hand, and it cuts me open. Though it is dark, I can see the blood spilling from my hand, but my dream self is unafraid. I lift the knife by its hilt and hold it up to my eyes, though I still cannot see it in the dark." She paused, still picking at the candle wax. "Then, though in my heart I am screaming at myself to stop, I always take the knife and cut my own throat. And though I cannot see my own hand or the dagger I used to do the deed, I can always see my blood." She shivered a little, then came to herself again. She forced a wan smile and looked into Gríma's face. "And your dream, my lord?"
He studied her with a curious gaze, a mixture of pity and something Éowyn could not quite discern. She shrank away from his pity, but the other something was so keen and warm and bright that she was drawn to it. She almost wanted to lean into him for comfort; but she recognized the desire immediately as preposterous and cast it forcefully aside.
Finally he spoke, his voice soft and velvety and low. "I dream that I stand in the middle of a frozen lake. On the banks someone watches me, wrapped in a cloak so that I cannot see her face."
"It is a woman?" Éowyn interrupted.
"Yes," Gríma said. He frowned a little. "I… could not say how I know, but I do." He shrugged. "I take a step towards her, but the ice cracks under my feet and I fall beneath the surface. The breath is knocked from me and I sink slowly. As the light grows thinner, I can feel… things reaching for me from the depths. I don't even see them; I simply know they're there, and that when I reach a certain depth they will snatch me and devour me. Yet I do not kick or struggle; I sink right into their embrace, as though frozen and helpless."
As he spoke his eyes went curiously blank, his face expressionless. Hidden away, Éowyn was sure, some part of him was cowering, drawing back from the images just as she had drawn back from hers. She wondered if her face had looked just as calm, just as still as his as she had spoken.
"It is a bleak dream," she said softly, reaching out to take his hand.
He looked down at their fingers, startled. "Yours too," he said. He looked up at her again, meeting her eyes. "Do you ever wonder, 'Why this dream?'"
She felt relief swell within her. He understood exactly. "All the time," she said, smiling despite herself. "Every night. For hours."
He smiled in return. She realized then that she had never really seen him smile before; in court his smile was thin and perhaps a little devious, a forced show of servility. His smile now was fuller, a flicker of teeth and a half-shy glance downwards. "It is a wonder either of us can remain awake in court at all," he said. "We should spend less time pondering dreams and more time sleeping."
"If the dreams would stop, I would sleep," Éowyn said. All her happiness melted away, and she let go of his hand, turning away. "I try, night after night, to find the meaning in my dream, but it eludes me."
Gríma hesitated. "I am awake nearly every night, my lady," he said, "Nearly the same time that you are. Perhaps… we might discuss the dreams then? It would, at least, be better than wandering these drafty corridors alone."
Éowyn could imagine the precise expression on the faces of her ladies-in-waiting and etiquette masters should she mention this proposal to them. "Alone?" they would gasp, "With him? At night?" The impropriety was astounding. She knew she should refuse him at once. Who could say what his real intentions might be? Éomer and Théodred certainly didn't trust him.
Yet she found herself unable to refuse.
"I… would like that," she said finally, turning to look at him again.
He smiled. "The Great Hall?" he said.
She wondered how he knew of her spot, then dismissed the thought as irrational. He had already told her that the servants talked. "Yes," she said. They both hesitated, an awkward silence ensuing. "I… suppose I ought to at least attempt to sleep."
Gríma nodded slowly. "Of course," he murmured. "You should get what rest you can. Good night, my lady. I wish you better dreams."
"Thank you," Éowyn said. "I wish you the same."
She slipped away down the hall, exhaustion settling in her bones. She crept into he room and collapsed onto her bed, too weary now to think on her encounter with her uncle's counsellor.
*
Outside in the corridor, Gríma stood alone, the hand that had held Éowyn's clutched to his chest.
He had of course known of Éowyn's late night vigils. Rumors of her visits to the Great Hall in the dead of night had caught his interest; he had then begun to observe her more closely, studying her movements in court, her swordplay and her horseback riding and her relationships with her servants. As he had watched he had begun to see her beauty, too. He had realized from these whispers that somewhere beneath that perfect golden exterior, he and Éowyn shared their darkness. She too fled bleak dreams in the dead of night; she too could not find the answers to the nightmares that plagued her.
He had taken to watching her sometimes, when his inquiry into his own nightmare was going nowhere. She had never seen him observing her before, nor had he dared to speak to her; he had simply watched, and she had brooded unaware of him. Eventually she would fall asleep, her head drooping and then falling onto her arms. When he was certainly she slept deeply, he would delicately lift Éowyn from her seat and carry her back to her chambers, where he would lay her out in bed to sleep until the servants woke her. Those moments, when he cradled her in his arms, were the happiest of his night; as he lifted her, she would wrap an arm around his neck and nuzzle his chest, a lover happy to be returned to the arms of her husband. He understood that it was all an illusion, that Éowyn was not yet his lover and that he had no right, really, to cradle her like this. But now that he had done it, he could not stop himself.
Though these late-night talks, he feared, would rob him of this moment of closeness, he hoped to build a greater closeness between them. Then he would drive away her nightmares – and his – in the warmth of his own bed. Then, he would carry her back to chambers that they shared, and know that the sweet warmth he felt from her was no illusion.
For now the moment, and the illusion, would suffice.