The Allure of the Dark Angel

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

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Chapter Two - A pearl of exceeding beauty

They came for me at dawn, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves on the well-trod ground in front of my door. I had just placed three loaves of bread to cool on my table, and was giving instructions to my initiate, Sunniva, on how to brew a tea of saxifrage, when I heard the thunder of horsemen. I barely had time to open the door before a strong, hale voice called out, "Lo, the house! We seek Maeve, widow of Ceolwulf, son of Eafa."

The sight that greeted me brought forth old memories of the first days when I met my husband. Rohirrim, a company of eight, dressed in riding leathers and mail, wreathed my hut in a swirl of dust and the pungent scent of horse sweat. After the many years of living among them, and being married to one of them, I remained impressed with their bearing. Even the lowliest soldier attained a certain regal presence when seated on the back of his favorite horse.

The foremost horse knight, a stately warrior with the pale hair and carved cheekbones typical of Eorl's descendents, alighted from his mount and came to stand before me, helmet tucked under his arm. His cool gray eyes were curious and narrowed with speculation as he perused me. I felt Sunniva's presence , nervous and tense, as she watched the riders from behind the scant protection of my shoulder.

"I am Swidhelm, commander of this company. We journey from Edoras, seeking a healer called Maeve, once the initiate of Blind Udela of Gondor."

Behind me, Sunniva gasped in surprise and awe, and my own brows rose. Why would King Theoden send house warriors to the rim of the Mark in search of a lowly village medicine woman?

"I am Maeve. What news from Edoras?"

There was no mistaking the look of relief that passed through Swidhelm's eyes, or the easing of stance in his soldiers. I was used to such a reaction. I lived among a warlike people in a time of strife. The injured and the dying were often more numerous than the healthy and the living. The arrival of a healer was always welcomed and looked upon as good fortune. Still, this was strange, as there were numerous physicians who dedicated their lives and skills to the health of the royal household.

Swidhelm scraped a stray lock of hair away from his features and the gray eyes had turned from speculative to disquieted. "The Third Marshal has been ill, brought low by a cursed sickness that refuses to loosen its hold upon him. The royal physicians have been unsuccessful in healing him."

His chiseled face sharpened with frustrated anger as he continued. "Those idiot leeches know nothing! They chant and pour tea down his throat, bleed him until he's nearly a corpse and then say he will improve."

I frowned. Udela never held with bleeding and passed that philosophy on to me. What sense was there in sucking the life essence out of a sick man to heal him, when the loss of blood from an injury would kill a healthy warrior?

The commander continued with his explanation. "It has reached the ears of the king that you have successfully dealt with this type of sickness. And Udela's fame did not die with her. We have been ordered to bring you to Edoras."

And so it was that I found myself frantically packing a satchel with my essentials and some of my herbals. I sent Sunniva to her father with the message that I would be traveling to Edoras with no idea of when I would return. Sunniva, who was young and soon to marry, was welcome to my home during my absence if she tended my garden and took care of my horses.

Swidhelm stood within the doorway of my house and watched as I tossed small leather bags of dried herbs into my sack, along with tiny pots of aromatic oils. There was no doubt that the royal physicians had their own stores, but I am particular with my ingredients and exacting with my skill, often to Sunniva's chagrin. I trusted my own stores more than anyone else's.

I threw the watchful soldier a glance as I gently cradled a small grimoire to my breast before wrapping it carefully in my only other shift and placing it into the satchel. "Tell me his symptoms so I may know what to expect when we arrive."

"Pain in the chest and labored breathing, as if he's run the Gap without stopping. He coughs up vile yellow fluid and tires easily with the fever."

I was regrettably familiar with the illness. Lung Heat. It had killed many here in the redoubt, mostly the weak, the elderly and the very young. It was a debilitating, wasting sickness that tended to linger, resurrecting itself with every day of damp, cool weather. Both Sunniva and I had worked hard to control and conquer it. The cauldron that hung in my hearth contained the saxifrage tea that Sunniva had brewed, a relief for old Acha who still suffered with the hacking cough.

I was soon ready, my wool cloak tossed over my shoulders, my satchel in hand. Swidhelm, on my request, had ordered one of his men to saddle my favorite mare, Cynwise, for the journey and she waited patiently with the other horses. I embraced a teary-eyed Sunniva briefly and mounted my mare. I did not look back. My house was simply that, a house. Home is where the heart resides. And mine still wandered.

We traveled hard for three days, stopping only to rest the horses and sleep in short intervals. We ate while riding; hard bread and cheese that kept the belly from growling but did nothing to pleasure the tongue. By the time I caught my second glimpse of Edoras rising majestically on its wind- blasted plateau, I was sore and stiff from too many hours spent in the saddle and longing for a hot meal.

We were greeted with enthusiasm, Swidhelm and his men welcomed with offers of warm ale and warmer women by their comrades in arms. They nodded respectfully to me, obviously aware of who I was and the reason for my presence.

I was escorted by the commander into the Great Hall, with its elaborate carvings and great hearth. A woman, as fair and lovely as a spring morning, came forth to greet us. Dressed in the rich, elaborate garments befitting a member of the royal family, she was the epitome of queenly bearing, despite her obvious youth. I guessed her at no more than a handspan of years younger than I, but that proud carriage lent her a more mature air. The blood of kings obviously ran in this maid's veins and I knew I gazed at Eowyn, daughter of Eomund of Eastfold and sister to the very ill Eomer.

I bowed , as did Swidhelm, and was taken aback when the Lady of Rohan grasped my hands with heartfelt gratitude.

"You will never know how relieved we are to see you, Maeve of Gondor. My uncle is with Eomer now. Will you come to his chambers and see him? I will have rooms prepared for you at that time."

Maeve of Gondor. I had resided in the Riddermark for nearly as long as I lived in the White City. I had married one of its citizens and now took care of one of its villages. Yet, I would always be of Gondor in the eyes of the Rohirrim. Such were the ways of a singular people. Tribal and closed, no matter their nobility.

I squeezed her fingers in reassurance, seeing the same look of concern and fright that I have seen on the face of every parent, child and sibling with a sick loved one. "Be at ease, my lady. I've seen this illness many times before. It is treatable." I refused to say it was not always curable.

She smiled and released my hands, releasing Swidhelm from his escort duty to return to his men for that promised ale and female company. Eowyn beckoned me to follow her and we crossed the main room of the Great Hall, walking towards another set of heavily carved doors near the empty throne.

I am neither a tracker, nor a hunter, nor a fighter, but I know when I'm being watched. The fine hairs at my nape rose in warning and I paused a moment to look around me. Shadows of firelight played along the walls and across the planked floor of the dimly lit hall. One of those shadows detached itself from the others, moving with purpose to stand independent of its mates.

I slowed to a complete halt, both captivated and revolted by the man who watched us. Draped in rich, but filthy dark furs and Haradrim silk, he tracked our progress with pale, milky eyes. I had never seen such a creature, especially among the long-boned, blonde beauty of the Rohirrim.

This man was small in stature, eye-level to me at first glance, and I did not possess the elegant height that graced women such as Eowyn. Oily black hair fell in disarrayed tangles around a waxen face that bore deep lines of contempt and malice around the mouth and across the forehead. There was a feral, haunted look to him, as if he were a rat caught in room full of starving cats. And he looked ill, as if plagued with a liver blood disease.

He stared at me for a moment with a kind of resentful curiosity before settling his gaze on the king's niece. For a moment, those light, sunken eyes flickered briefly and I caught the expression in them. I had seen it before, that avaricious, hungry look. My husband used to wear it when, deprived of ale or sweet wine for long stretches, he would near worship a goblet or tankard at the village mead hall. This creature watched Eowyn in such a manner.

The Lady of Rohan stopped, noticing the turn of my gaze, and a hard shudder wracked her stiffening frame, even as her fine features twisted with disgust. "Pay him no mind, Maeve of Gondor. That is my uncle's counselor, Grima, son of Galmod. Also known as Wormtongue."

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Chapter title is taken from The Pearl by Kahlil Gibran - Said one oyster to a neighboring oyster, "I have a very great pain within me. It is heavy and round and I am in distress." And the other oyster replied with haughty complacence, "Praise be to the heavens and to the sea, I have no pain within me. I am well and whole both within and without." At that moment a crab was passing by and heard the two oysters, and he said to the one who was well and whole both within and without, "Yes, you are well and whole; but the pain that your neighbor bears is a pearl of exceeding beauty."

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - www.s-gabriel.org 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.20000-names.com

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - www.glyphweb.com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - www.happyherbalist.com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal.demon.co.uk