The Rohirrim had not grown soft during the short time of peace that had followed the war. Gríma Wormtongue had been made painfully aware of this as he had allowed himself to get captured by a scouting party of riders. Not that he could in any way have avoided getting caught, but he still considered it this way. He had, after all, chosen to return to Rohan all by himself.

Get brought to the King, that was the plan. Pray that he is still willing to show mercy. Pray that he will believe you when you tell him that you want to make amends. Pray that he will let you speak before he reaches for his sword. Non too gently pushed by sneering guards he would stumble up the stairs of Meduseld, far too busy keeping track of his own feet to notice much else. Hands bound on his back, he hardly had a chance to regain his balance as the guards shoved him towards the throne. Falling hard on his knees, he clenched his teeth around the pain. As he caught his breath, he dared not lift his eyes to face the King. To plan, to hope, to fancy what this meeting might be like proved very different from actually being here and he was terrified, convinced all of the sudden that he had been mistaken, that he should have turned and run the other way once he found himself at the border of Rohan. But it was too late. The King was coming down the few steps leading up to the throne, and stopped just in front of Gríma.

"And just what is this that you've found for me?" a hateful voice, or perhaps it was amused? Gríma hardly payed it any mind, and he didn't hear anything else the King said, or what the riders answered. He was transfixed by the sight of the King's feet. They were all wrong.

The last time he had seen Théoden, the King had been old and bent, his health and age affected by dark spells and by the treacherous whispers of one Gríma Wormtongue. His hand could not grip his sword, not until the now-white wizard Gandalf came and freed him from the spell. Hardly anyone had come to seek the King's audience in those days, and few who did would have noticed the small comforts an ageing man hid beneath his royal robes, such as tired and swollen feet wrapped in soft rags. Not unless they knew. Naturally, Gríma had not expected to find his former King still in sickbed and with an old man's comforts. No, for he had seen the King transformed by the power of magic, and had felt the King's strength return first hand, as Théoden himself had forcefully thrown him out of the Golden Hall. Yet, the man now standing before him was not that King. Théoden, while not under a spell, was still old. He wouldn't have the spring in the step of this man, who seemed to have a bit more life force than his body could rightly contain as he was constantly walking while speaking, moving in and out of sight with an energetic bounce in each step. Those were not the feet of a man who had ever been old. Those were not the feet of Théoden King. Realizing this, Gríma Wormtongue whimpered. He had bet all he had on one card, only to learn that particular card was out of play.

Théoden King died at the Pelennor fields while holding up Rohan's end of the bargain with Gondor. A hero's death, but a death nonetheless. Théoden King has no mercy to give anymore, for he no longer walks among us. The one to inherit the Kingdom of Rohan was Théoden's nephew and heir, since his only son had died in an orc raid. Éomer had been third Marshal of the Riddermark, and had never dreamed of wearing the crown himself. Yet now, here he was, and afore him was a delicate problem. No, the King is no longer Théoden but Éomer son of Éomund, who've never thought to offer mercy to the Wormtongued former Counsellor, nor has he ever thought to see him again, alive.

Gríma's mind was working hard. Cold logic had always been his gift, and he knew before long who stood in front of him. Trembling slightly, he made an effort to look up at the familiar sight he knew would greet him. Repent, if not in life, then… he could not finish the thought. He realized he had put too much hope into his scheme. He did not wish to die, yet what else remained for him now? The tiny window of hope in Gríma's soul slam shut and he closed his eyes, unable to face his King.

Éomer, who was now King, held no love for Gríma. He had seen the former Counsellor's dirty work and the effects of it first hand, as he and his family had been reduced to pawns, moved around in the filthy game of Rohan run by the Counsellor and the former wizard of Orthanc, Saruman. Just seeing Gríma made Éomer's blood boil, but he steadied himself. He was King now, and kings, the thought, must keep their composure. He had recognized the traitor the moment he set foot in the Golden Hall. Stumbling and dressed in rags he might be, but to Éomer's eye, Gríma Wormtongue still carried himself with such utter arrogance, as if he were the captor and the guards just scum. This was the man who had haunted Éomer's past and youth, always in the shadow of every doorway, ever at the end of every conspiracy. The man who had brought Rohan to its knees. The man who had estranged his beloved uncle. The man he had hated for most of his adult life. The man who was kneeling before him, Éomer son of Éomund, just become ruler of Rohan.

The Hall fell silent. Éomer had dismissed his riders after learning all he could from them. The man best known to him as Wormtongue remained right as he had been left, a kneeling heap of rags afore the throne. Éomer went over to him, trying to keep his posture just as confident as he knew it wasn't. He thought the man had made a noise, but he wasn't sure.

"Wormtongue," he said, putting as much venom into the word as he knew how. The other man remained motionless. "My riders say they found you well within our borders. Yet you were exiled. You were free to go anywhere but here. Why have you come?"

"My Lord," Gríma finally managed, glancing up at long last. "My King," he hastily added upon seeing the face of the agitated young man. "I… I came to…," he trailed off, uncertainly. How to go on? With Théoden, he would have pleaded. With Éomer, he wasn't sure. Presumably, his every word was only prolonging a swift death. How to make the new King see? He opted, finally, for the truth. "I have come to atone for my crimes" he ventured, bracing himself for the roar of laughter sure to follow such a statement, from him; to Éomer, King of Rohan.

But no laughter came. Éomer simply regarded the former Counsellor from every angle, as if trying to detect any hidden weapon upon his body. There were none, the riders had seen too that. Eventually, he spoke: "Did you come here looking for death then, traitor as you are?"

Gríma swallowed. "Execution for treason is within the laws, true. But I came here in the hopes of honouring an offer of mercy, one given to me by Théoden King".

Éomer snorted. "I remember well that offer, and the answer you gave it. The offer you speak of is expended. But you knew that," he added, giving Gríma a quizzical look. "Why are you really here?"

Gríma shuddered. But no, he told himself. I've come this far. I'll be damned if I quiver before this whelp, better to face my faith directly. Better stick to the truth, Gríma Wormtongue, not to entangle yourself in sweet lies. You have done that before; it doesn't end well. And so he said: "The truth, Éomer King? I came for repentance. For the chance of turning wrongs to rights. Even if…," he paused to swallow, the echo of his own voice haunting him within the Golden Hall. Éomer frowned, and Gríma hastened to continue: "Even if it means I'll pay for my crimes by death. But please, my Lord," he carried on, breathlessly, "my King! Please, consider that I can be resourceful. I'll serve you well, if only you'll have mercy!"

Éomer looked down. The traitor was still kneeling at his feet, a pleading look in his eyes. He would have liked nothing better than to bury his sword to the hilt in the chest of the man called Wormtongue. Six months ago he would have done so without hesitating and with no sense of remorse. But he was become King, and a man was on his knees before him, begging. It may not be wise, he'd been taught, to begin one's regime with blood and hangings. As King, one is meant to be superior, to offer compassion above what normal men can manage. A King must not kill in cold blood. As King, you are meant to be just and, when the situation calls for it, merciful. How, Éomer King, would you like your regime to start? Will you be the cold, vengeful ruler, determined to hunt down every shadow of old? Or will you be the kind of righteous King you always looked up to, the kind of leader you considered your uncle to be? Éomer King, what will your rule look like in the eyes of your subjects?

Nodding to himself, Éomer reached a decision. "You wish to repent, Wormtongue? Well then, repent you shall. Just how," he hastened to continue upon noticing the relieved glint in Gríma's eyes, "remains to be seen. Perhaps I shall bring you to full court. In that case, the voices of Rohan will decide your fate. You may live or you may die, but rest assured that you will pay for your crimes. Such is the law, and I say it is just."