(2)
re-edited/re-uploaded: 10/24/16
Three weeks had passed since the patchwork orcen creature was found slain in the hall, close to Éowyn's quarters, in frightening fact. The true master of the beast remained unknown, but not unquestioned.
Éomer and his Riders of Rohan kept station around the village's border; half of the guard remained there whilst the others stalked the halls of Meduseld, day and night.
Éowyn's emotions grew tumultuous when two knights began to constantly escort her about the Hall. She had been carefully watched since the orcen monster incident, members of the court council assuming that the princess was in danger of being assassinated. The steel-eyed blond blamed the Wormtongue for such superstition as her strength as a Shieldmaiden had never before been brought into question, or so she felt.
"The beast was ne'er but a foot from her chamber. I propose its intentions: to lie in wait within the shadows of her quarters, and to strike upon her entry," Éomer supplied when Théoden gathered his entire court together to discuss the infiltration of not only the kingdom of Rohan, but the king's very palace- the heart of the settlement itself.
'And now I cannot have a moment's peace,' she thought to herself, the bitterness she wore on her face strong but not enough to diminish her beauty. She quickened her pace down the hallway to put distance between herself and her undesired protection detail. Closing in on her target, her eyes swept the throne room briefly. With a faint smile, she spun the hem of her white and gold gown, but jumped in shock when she came to stand before Théoden.
To his left was Wormtongue, hunched on the ground next to the king's armrest, as he was usually found. Yet something irked the maiden.
'He has deviated sides. He normally advises from the right.' An incredulous expression jumped across her features. 'Do you fancy to observe such things of late?' she chastised herself, 'Have you no mind? ...Although he spared your life- No.' Her expression shifted to stone. 'He is still not to be trusted.'
"What undeserving beast or sorry cause has gripped the great Lorien's fairest daughter with such malcontent? And only just as we undeserving Men have received your beauty." The slimy, drawling voice belonged to no other.
Théoden glanced at his counselor, raising an eyebrow. It was not the usual mood for Gríma to ask so boldly of his niece. It was rare indeed for him to ask of her at all, especially of intimate matters such as personal feelings. When had his admittedly spineless, self-absorbed, serpentine adviser become so... so brazen? And so abruptly?
Éowyn's eyes darted to the counselman. She grimaced. "You speak as though you believe that I would truly reveal that to you of all creatures."
Théoden gave his sister-daughter a look of admonishment. What could he do? Yes, he was king, supreme ruler over the Riddermark, but over the mind of the fierce young woman his Éowyn had become, his influence was limited. Useless, even. He, however, must work as he could to keep the peace within his court. He chuckled, standing from his throne to personally approach his niece. He wrapped his arms around her in a mighty hug. Though she had grown nearly as tall as her uncle, she still felt so small in his embrace.
"Théoden King... You have risen," Éowyn muttered, seeming surprised.
"Must there be a grand occasion in order for a king to embrace his niece?" he asked of her.
Her smile was then brilliant as he took her by the small of her back, leading her towards the outer steps of Meduseld.
Gríma's piercing gaze drifted downward to the floor, hiding his pain at her words with the facade of falling into thought. He had noticed how she had been avoiding him in a more deliberate fashion since he had nearly risked his own, measly life to save hers. Out of instinct, she would brush past him quickly in the halls, tune out his voice and when she did acknowledge him, she made sure to make her every glance pointed and scathing. Of late, he had found her to choose completely different routes about the hallgrounds so that no contact was made. His words were interrupted as often as she could stand and her eyes were glued on anything but him, so that not even an acidic glare was tossed in at random. He had not received a moment's grace from those winter-grey eyes in nearly twenty days.
"I found it merely fitting to ask..." he answered under his breath, watching her talk animatedly with her uncle at the mouth of the hall. His eyes traveled up her body from her feet, resting for prolonged amounts of time on her hips and breasts before landing on her celestial face, where he stopped. He rose from his sitting position, stepping gingerly down to the base floor. He wrapped his heavy outer cloak around him, his fingers finding comfort in the soft, black fur that outlined it. He stalked closer to them, blinking against the blindingly beautiful effect of the setting sun against Éowyn's downy, golden waves of hair.
"...and I will not take any excuse from you, sister-daughter. I know that you may fight, and that you do, and do it well, but you will not be lost to the spoils of this war. I will not spend my days worrying if you are alive or dead. You will remain in Rohan with the other women and children. Your imploring words will fall on deaf ears, dear niece," the Golden King informed his kin, whose face fell when her heartfelt words were silenced before they were even spoken.
It was obviously not easy for Théoden to refuse his adopted daughter her passion of swordplay but, this was not a dance she had ever performed before, no. This was to be a war between the light and dark, a place barren of swordmaidens and forgiveness should a strike fall stray. This was soon to be the world of the King, along with his faithful village Men and his valiant guard.
"And you will take my brother, whose swordsmanship is rivaled by none other than mine? You will take my last family to war with you and you shall lie to me here! Saying that you would not worry any less about Éomer than you would of me would be as such; a lie. You will not focus on him because he is a Man. You would doubt me because I am a woman, and that war is no place for women. Do not soften your true intentions with your gilded words. ...I am hurt that you- you, Uncle!- would attempt to speak to me as your fork-tongued adviser does." Éowyn's eyes threatened tears of anger, but she managed her composure a moment longer.
"I care for you, Uncle, as much as I would my own father. I am a Shieldmaiden, and I shall continue to practice at the base of the sword, with or without the summons of war." Her concluding words were venomous, but they were diluted with her tears. She stared at her uncle a second longer before taking her leave.
Gríma managed to make half a second's eye contact with his goddess before she gathered the hem of her gold-threaded dress and made her escape to the East Hall. He drew himself close to the King, his hunched shoulders giving him a meek appearance.
"She is not pleased, my King," he muttered, glancing over his shoulder once again in the direction Éowyn went.
Théoden stood proudly before his city, hands clasped behind his back. His hair, lightened by the Sun as it rivaled with silver, was tussled by the playful wind. His clear, blue eyes were crinkled at the edges thanks to a lifetime of laughter and standing nobly to face the sunrise. He was wise in the ways of the world, and growing wiser still in the ways of the hearts of Shieldmaidens.
"Éowyn is a proud girl. Her heart is as robust as the sword she carries. Keeping her sword from the call of challenge is telling the wolf to abstain from the night. Hers is a justified, righteous anger. She will come to reason with time that battle is never the best place to find oneself," he explained with a patriarchal tone. He allowed a gentle smile.
Never had Gríma heard Théoden speak of his niece in such a way. For so long he made a point to deny Éowyn her place among her fellow hot-blooded Rohir, and for almost as long, she obeyed. Each day she practiced her swordsmanship regardless of her uncle's permission. Gríma knew better than any other, or so he felt, that the art of sword and shield made up the majority of the budding young woman's purpose in her life. It was expected that Théoden King knew the same, and so Gríma was left doubting whether or not he truly had his niece's best interests at heart.
'No,' mused Gríma, 'his knowledge is far deeper than he himself realizes. Yet, I cannot stop myself from questioning him; why does he continue to attempt to deny her?' The dark man did not grace himself to dwell on it. He slunk away towards the East Hall, hoping to find a trace of his Éowyn that might lead him to her. He did not have to pray for much.
The Shieldmaiden's chamber door was left ajar, gifting him with the ability to gaze freely inside without having to ask and be denied entry. He was able to see, without seeming conspicuous, that she was not inside.
Puzzling for a second against the cold stone structure of the passageway, he came to have a hunch- and took it. He stole away toward the balcony, the old ivory pillars granting him the perfect amount of shadow until he was able to fortify his assumption. He was right.
Éowyn sat on the grassy knoll but ten feet from the base of the castle, her form curled into a ball of disappointment. Her hair was over her shoulder, being worked on swiftly by her nimble fingers. In the finished, thick braid, she added dandelions absentmindedly.
Though he could not see her face, Gríma could feel her sadness, her frustrated, dejected aura flowing through him. He pursed his thin, grey lips. His thigh pulsated; the old wound had formed a thick reddened scab, and ever since Éowyn's lips had cradled his aggravated, poisoned flesh, the gash seemed linked to her. It throbbed when she was nearby, and even more painfully so when her mood was poor, as it was then. Gríma grasped at his upper leg, attempting to quell the pain. He limped forward.
"My lady, I am sure that you are feeling most discouraged. Please do not allow such a restriction to hamper your train of thought," he cooed, coming to stand three feet behind her. He flinched when she whirled around, her braid whipping against her back. His eyes softened when her angry, reddened eyes landed on him.
"Do not speak to me, you vile, simpering man! Your words are not and shall never be welcomed to my ears!" she shrieked, yet her eyes remained attached to him.
Never had he been scorned in such a way. He had gained her graces at long last, but not in the way he had longed for. He had to use all of his bodily strength to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. He brushed his greasy hair from his face with a trembling hand.
"Of... Of course, my lady." The words were spoken in a voice that was defeated, and that cracked in the middle of the sentence.
"You have done nothing but haunt my steps. You... You undress me with your eyes and attempt to snare me with your speech but I shall inform you now that it is impossible for you to take me. You may be able to bend the mind of Théoden King, but I am not he! I am a Shieldmaiden; a woman of great power and surely more will than you could ever, ever hope to muster." Her voice shook with adrenaline. How she had long desired to speak these words to him. She stood, squaring herself into a haughty pose.
"You will never hold power over me. Not even as I am held in your..." She paused, struggling for a moment. "...As I am held in your debt, not even then will you seduce me with your word-weaving. Never."
"Then why do you give such excuses, my lady? Why announce this as I already know it to be true? Surely your mind is far too determined, too focused to allow my persuasion to ascent yet you feel it is necessary to speak it? Perhaps it is because you feel that you must assure yourself that this is not so?" Gríma questioned, shifting on his feet. He knew better not to talk back to his lady, but he was no longer in control of his own lips. He suddenly felt emboldened at his own audacity. His chest puffed beneath his heavy cloak, and a look of smugness could be seen in his eye past his defeated expression.
Éowyn opened her mouth to retort, but found that her rebuttal had been deflected. She should have known better than to challenge a wordsmith at his own game, but the overwhelming desire to lash out at her long-time nemesis was worth the humiliation of her silence. She lifted her head high, collecting the hem of her dress. She looked down upon Gríma from beneath her eyelids, attempting to degrade him with her scathing gaze.
"I need not assure myself of something that is untrue."
Her final sentence as she skirted past him released a shiver that avalanched down his curved spine. His posture straightened when he was sure that she could not see him; he made himself seem pitiful merely because such an image was what gave rise out of her, making it excusable to create some form of conversation between them, whether the words were kind or otherwise. He smirked at her parting words. 'Do you loathe weakness so, my Éowyn? Is it simply because you are viewed as such due to your fairness alone?' he wondered of her, raising a naked eyebrow.
'Know that not all women are thought to be weak. You, my lady, have made that more than well known.' His smirk deepened. 'I do not doubt your vigor in other areas, either, Lady. Such a... strong leg and hand could be useful outside of combat.' His perverse mind would have brought him death if Éowyn was bestowed the Elisha gift of Wordless Speech*. He scowled inwardly at himself, suddenly admonishing himself for thinking so carnally of the one he desired. He gathered his clothing, darting towards Meduseld to escape the night chills, along with the soon-to-be patrolling Guard.
The dinner feast was fairly limited; Théoden, of course, Éomer and his underlings, Éowyn and soon Wormtongue as well inhabited the open doors of Meduseld. Candle lights made shadows dance upon the food laden table, the silver dinnerware glimmering softly in the amber light. Heavier torches fought back the darkness of even the most acute corner, and the valiant green banner embroidered with the majestic white steed dressed each wall surrounding.
Such festivities were held once every few months for one reason or another, yet anyone in the near area could tell that this was no ordinary party. The entirety of Edoras was raving with activity, even as the dusk kissed the light from the sky. War was on the cusp for the Eorlingas; in the morning, all men of Rohan would ride and meet with the men of Gondor, the callers for aid of whom they were the answer. This war was to be the impact of their Age, and so the men brought merriment to their lives for what could be the final time for many- too many, of them.
The feast stretched from the open hall of the King down into the streets of Edoras, and in some spots of surrounding Rohan. Families could be seen rejoicing, drinking, saying their goodbyes, their 'I love you's and speeches of endearment.
Théoden leaned his back against a cool pillar, his posture proud. He smiled in a peaceful way, lifting his golden goblet to sample some of his red mead.
'To be the leader of such a land as this is a gift that few other Men have known, and they before my time. There could be nothing greater to a king than to see his people, the lifeblood of his land, preparing themselves for what could be their final sunset yet with laughs in their bellies and grins on their lips,' Théoden King thought to himself, his golden hair mussed gently by a stray wind.
The weight of his responsibilities as king, as a leader to a victory that he himself preordained, felt light that night. Possibly light enough, he thought, that they seemed to have vanished completely. He knew that he was allowing the peace of the night before war to settle too deeply into his mind.
"Théoden King." The voice so strong, yet as smooth as Elven silk belonged to no other than his Éowyn.
"Please, Éowyn. I am not your king this night; I am your uncle. Such formalities make dull the mood of the evening." He allowed a chuckle after his statement, turning over his shoulder to glance at his niece. Had she always been a young woman? When was the last time that he had looked her way and seen a feisty little girl?
'Too many years ago,' he sighed, smiling lightly.
Éowyn stepped closer, standing next to her father-brother. "Uncle," she said slowly, tasting the word, "I pray that you obtain your greatest victory. Not for yourself alone, but for all Men. I wish nothing more than to see the end of the strain that this feud places on our world."
Her eyes, so cold, so light, gazed out beyond the city walls to the mountains that separated their corner of land from the enemy. Her mind, it seemed, traveled ever farther.
Théoden wondered how far from the war-fevered grounds his kin's thought flew. He worried for her when her face crumpled for split second, suggesting that a thought of dejection crossed her mind. He reached, touching her shoulder. He hugged her, one arm around her slim shoulders, her warmth radiating through his thick robe. He had not embraced her so since she was a girl.
"Fear not for the war and what may come of it. What will be, will be, my child. We cannot change what is preordained through the will of the gods, but we may alter the path that takes us to our victory."
Éowyn leaned on her uncle for a spare moment. She allowed her lashes to kiss her cheekbones, her rose petal lips to quiver at the edges, but she spoke not. After what seemed so little time, she gently pushed herself away; she did not want to remember that feeling of her father figure's touch over her shoulder, just in case she should lose it forever after.
'In case I should lose both you, uncle, and my beloved brother to the unjust sword of our enemy, I shall barricade myself from your presence. I will not linger on such trivial things; I will remember you in your glory, not for your sentiments.' Her thoughts were cruel, yet she knew that it was the best thing for herself at such a time. Knowing the chance of her losing the remaining supports of her family's house could crush her, she kept her mind lofty and away from the tender moments.
"Come, Uncle. I wish to propose a toast to you and to Éomer before your ride to battle on the morning sunrise," she murmured, her dress sweeping around her ankles as she turned, looking to her uncle, her father-brother, with a wistful smile.
He nodded wordlessly, obliging her. He took her arm, striding with her to the head of the Hall where Éomer waited, dressed in his armors. Her silver goblet was filled with the King's royal, crimson mead, which she raised above her head. All the company went silent, gazing upon her like she had turned into a falling star.
"I raise my glass this night in the honor of our men, in the honor of Rohan, and in the honor of her King." Her eyes swept the hall before she continued.
"We shall ride to war as the sun's kiss lights the Heavens. Our swords shall be soiled with the blood of our enemies, our shields shall be splintered as they ply between us and our victory, but our virtues shall remain untouched. I, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, give my loyalty," her voice and expression matched in sudden softness as she spoke her next words, "and my blessings to all of you who stand to give your lives for ours. I give the prayer of the Valar."
She lowered her glass, her eyes locking onto the royal crest hanging on the wall at the mouth of the hall. The white horse seemed to stare back. She allowed her eyelids to droop while she melted into peace, reciting the prayer of the gods, her uncle, brother, and soldiers murmuring in unison.
The grounds below the immense stature of the Tower of Isengard churned with the waving figures of his armies. It almost resembled a black sea at the base; the orcs' quivering bodies that shook with anticipation of blood and rotting man-flesh forming the illusion of slowly rippling waters. Their cries in orc tongue of battle long awaited molded into a single chant that pounded in one's ears to the monotonous beat of their war drums.
Stenches of melting metals, industrial smoke, body odor and burning wood wafted through the air in a heavy black wave that melded into the dark heavens.
Normally such an ominous success would be able to summon a smile despite the White Wizard's most grisly mood. Not today. Not even the promise of blood could lighten the pounding headache that threatened to overwhelm him.
'I wonder, have you taken your avarice to a new dimension? Along with power of unmentionable proportions over those you wish to quell, Éomer kneeling at your feet like a tamed beast and the strong, pure heart of Théoden's sister-daughter, I see that you now harbor a desperate lust to have your faithfulness renewed.'
Saruman wandered away from the balcony that overlooked his immense ranks, stroking his white beard. Beneath his still dark eyebrows and within his deep brown, unreadable eyes, a plan of revenge stirred in his mind. He chuckled darkly, taking a seat with his staff.
'I will break you yet,' he muttered to himself of his traitorous henchman. From the low-hanging hem of his white robe's sleeve, his bony digits emerged to sweep over the dull crystal atop his scepter His eyes glittered deviously as it flickered to life.
'You doubt my ability, Worm,' he spoke out into the abyss that was his mind. 'You have witnessed too little of my power, and so it is now that in your time of betrayal, you shall meet your long-planned comeuppance.
'I shall take what is distracting you, my slimy underling, as you have so easily taken what miniscule grain of trust I lay in you and dissolved it. Mayhap I would forgive you once your ill mind is cleared and you crawl, swiftly, back to my feet.'
His bearded lips twisted into a malicious grin, his hand cupping the large stone on his staff similarly to a black cloud blocking out the sun. He closed his eyes to assume a more serious air. His aura deepened in density, giving the room around him a more dim atmosphere. Focusing and opening his psyche, he flew across the lands of Mordor, his mind at last connecting with the thoughts of his desired target.
'Gríma, son of Gálmód, you disappoint me deeply,' he boomed into the darkness of his psyche, although his tone was playfully ominous.
Suddenly, the abyss around him filled with light, and the images of several young, beautiful women appeared. Saruman walked forth, examining his handyman's innermost mind. A smile that was most unsettling crept across his mouth; the images happened to be of the same young woman, every single one. It was as though he was staring at an endless hall filled with rustic paintings of deceased rulers, what with the images decorating his left and right, stacked and spaced neatly above each other.
The White Wizard recognized the young lady.
'So, I was correct in assuming that it is, indeed, still the sister-daughter to Théoden King whom you so wretchedly lust after?' he mused, trotting down the gallery of Éowyn paintings. His dark gaze must have learned all of her emotions while he journeyed along; happiness, embarrassment, despair, excitement and more favorably, anger and loathing.
'Tell me, Worm, in what way would you respond should I pilfer such a treasure from your loveless fortune? ...The curiosity is weighty.' He chuckled suggestively, opening his eyes and leaving Gríma's mind.
*"Wordless Speech" - I didn't think it would sound Third Age-like of me to say "telepathy," so I had to think of an alternate term. (laugh) It doesn't sound too corny, does it?
AN: Hopefully this chapter was easy to comprehend. I know it seemed a little scattered in places, but I tried to abstain to one idea at a time. Also, the last bit with Saruman 'flying across Mordor' is meant to express how his mind is searching across the lands themselves for Gríma's psyche, to which he connects and infiltrates. Just in case one happened to say "WTF?" to themselves. lol!
I wonder what the White Wizard's plan will be?