title: daydreams would darken
rating: PG for some obsessive violence
summary: Éomer and Gríma in the days before the banishment
author's notes: Written for Freedomfry, who requested movie'verse Éomer/Gríma, only not explicit, as she had no wish to flush her eyes repeatedly with bleach. I was more than grateful for that stipulation. (For those curious, I mixed a little book-canon into this – mainly concerning the details of Éomer and Théodred's usual postings.)
disclaimer: Title is from a quote by Logan Pearsall Smith – "How many of our daydreams would darken into nightmares if there seemed any danger of their coming true."
Éomer stormed from the hall, swearing aloud angrily and not caring who heard. Raids in the Westfold had been growing in number, growing bolder and more destructive in the past month, and then five days ago Théodred had sent word from the Hornburg that he was riding to the Isen to reinforce the border. There had been no message since.
He stomped up and down the stone platform outside the hall for good measure, the guards glancing sidelong at him as his swearing started getting really creative – and the name Gríma Wormtongue featured heavily in his curses. His uncle's advisor had blocked all access to the king for the last two days, bringing messages to and from his chamber but admitting no one.
"Théoden knows of your … concerns, son of Éomund." Gríma's smooth, unctuous voice had slid through the muttering voices in the hall. "But he does not doubt his son's abilities." The temperature had seemed to drop and Éomer had felt the pressure of sharpened gazes suddenly turned his way – he, the strong leader of many men and some years the elder of the King's only heir. Gríma's expression had turned smug, his eyes glittering brightly as he had dismissed Éomer, bade him in the King's name to return to Aldburg and the Eastfold in the morning. And that was the end of the matter.
Éomer spun about for another pass and nearly tripped over Éowyn, who planted herself in his path. "Will you really leave?" Her voice was low, but she spoke quickly, covering her worry with fierceness. Éomer took her hand and drew her to the far end of the platform, far from the guards.
"No," he answered with firm surety. He'd been unsure, troubled, but now plans formed in his mind as he spoke. "No, I can delay my departure until tomorrow, at least, and use the time to send messengers to Théodred. If he needs me – needs anything! – he must send to Aldburg."
He grasped Éowyn's shoulders, stray wisps of her hair tangling over his fingers. "Gríma is grabbing for power. I've no wish to think him utterly traitor to the Mark, but whatever messages, whatever news comes here you must pass on to me – I don't trust that Gríma will."
Some of the desperation faded from his voice, and his grip on Éowyn eased a little. "The king may be ill in truth, or there may be malice behind it, but I will not let ruin come to Rohan because of it. I don't want to leave you here in that snake's den, but…"
"Peace, brother," she said soothingly. "He makes my skin crawl, but I can manage my way around him, and you need someone close to Uncle you can trust." Éowyn clasped his hands between hers and rose on tiptoe to kiss his forehead; somewhat reassured, he left her then to make his preparations.
- - -
Éomer readied himself for sleep that night, though he doubted he would get very much of it. He slept uneasily of late, often waking in a sweat with the sensation of someone watching him. His dreams were twisted, vengeful things, or else nightmares of helplessness, of orcs feasting in a burnt-out Meduseld, and Gríma on Théoden's throne. He had not always hated Gríma so; once the man had been just one of his uncle's many advisors, and though they had not always been in agreement, they were cordial as befitted their relationship in the leadership of the Mark. Éomer didn't know when or how the other man had turned against him, but as it became increasingly clear that the threat to Rohan came not only from the East, he feared the answer was all too obvious.
- - -
He slept even more poorly that night than he had imagined. He woke several times in the night, plagued by dark fantasies of seeing Gríma bound and humiliated before the Hall. In some, he sat in a tall chair beside the king (who was proud and stern on his throne, as in former years), his sister on his lap, and they watched with cool dispassion as Wormtongue was made to writhe before them like his namesake. In others, he was the executioner, throwing Gríma to the stone floor in a swelling tide of blood-lust, beating until red gore dripped from his hands and Gríma's pale limbs were like trampled snakes. And then Éowyn would come to his side, stand over the twitching body and offer him the victory cup with one hand while she brushed his hair back from his face with the other.
What jolted him awake every time – the nagging detail that made his skin crawl even more than the intense pleasure his dream-self felt – was that no matter how Gríma howled and begged, his eyes always found Éomer's; no matter the wreckage the rest of his body had become, those strange, gleaming eyes stared unblinking out of the mass of blood and matted hair, watching him, following him. His fair sister was not the only one Gríma was obsessed with.
Goosebumps prickling up his arms and down his back, Éomer sat awake staring into the darkness. Some small sound broke the night's silence, and he felt again the sensation of watching eyes.
"Who's there?" he called. He heard no other sound, but the feeling of being watched remained. "Who's there, damn you?" He threw back the fur coverings and rose from the bed….but there was nothing. He stood and listened, but no sound came again, and the feeling of another presence faded. Long he stood, still as a stone, until his legs grew weary, and even when he finally lay back down, it was a long time before he returned to his uneasy sleep. In the morning, he will ride for Théodred.
- - -
It was one denial too many, one more smooth-tongued, blind-eyed excuse than Éomer could take, with Théodred's blood still stiff on his clothes and still crusted under his nails. Éomer lunged, dragging Wormtongue from the king's side and slamming him up against a column. He smelled Gríma's fetid breath hot against his face, felt his sloping shoulders thin and breakable under his hands.
"How long since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price, Gríma? When all the men are dead, you will take your share of the treasure?" The pale, darting eyes locked on his for one moment before skittering away to his sister, crossing the hall in her long strides, and Éomer thought he might just tear the man's throat out after all. As if she could feel the weight of that stare, Éowyn halted, looked to her brother, then moved boldly on, and Éomer knew she was going for his men, that they would finish this snake in the grass together.
But then Gríma moved with surprising strength, throwing Éomer off and brandishing the signed declaration of his banishment before him. Shock had already cut Éomer's legs out from under him before meaty hands closed on his shoulders, and heavy fists drove the air from his body. He staggered, shouting, but was over powered.
This was a nightmare, he thought, and willed himself to wake. Blows forced him backwards, to the floor, and Gríma's men began dragging him away to throw him from the hall, and Gríma's gleaming, triumphant gaze followed him, unblinking.
This was a nightmare; he could not escape those eyes. But he was forced from the hall, the king's signature was still wet on his doom, and Gríma had won. He could not wake.