3: White Wizard, White Lilies.

Éowyn wouldn't have noticed the small ripple on the surface of her cup of mead, nor how it deepened in color when she lifted it to her lips. She took a dainty, if generous, sip before setting her goblet upon the table. She watched the room of men mirror her action with a smile of pride.

'May victory be on swift wings that would fly you back to me,' she prayed, gazing surreptitiously toward her uncle and older brother.

She took her seat, her full plate drawing her attention. She planned on donning a man's spare armor and shield despite her uncle's imploring words. She was, in fact, a Shieldmaiden still, determined to uphold her own fierce beliefs. Éowyn could nearly feel the rough hilt of her sword at her fingertips. Oh, what a pleasure it would bring to her senses! The smell of the iron, the feeling of that metallic weight in her hands, the sight of the sun reflecting upon that long blade, the taste of her sweat sneaking into her mouth as she slashed enemy after enemy and the melodious sound of victory that would be theirs soon enough; all was enough to make her shudder in pleasure the way a man could never replicate.

Gríma, at the side of his king, found himself staring at his golden-haired image of perfection, the norm'. He studied her subtler habits at the table, his eyes absorbing every movement like a child would watch the lightning kiss the sky before a storm.

How her index finger supported her fork while the others lay folded, how her knife was held with her left hand instead of her right, like most villagers held theirs, how her lips formed the most near-perfect oval before they engulfed each slice of her roast; all of her mannerisms astounded him, even how she only tapped the corners of her succulent mouth and not the center with her handkerchief. Oh, how he could watch her for hours—but next to her, the intense glare of Éomer snared his attention from hid goddess. Gríma swallowed deeply, lowering his eyes to his untouched plate.

"Have you no appetite, Gríma?" Théoden chuckled, patting the dark man on the back."You stare upon your plate as though your meat still lives!"

His king was an honorable man, indeed. Never suspect a thing, he wouldn't. How Gríma found it in his heart to go against such a man, he wasn't sure himself.

'He has only ever been like a father in my presence, the guide that I never knew as a lad… Yet I decided to spit lies and black truth into his mind. Despicable, loathsome me! It is no mystery to me how I am so easily identified with such hateful words from afar.' He wailed within his mind. He reached up with his hands, cupping the sides of his head. The lace material of his sleeve-gloves irritated his fair skin slightly.

"What ails you?" Théoden inquired, patting his adviser's shoulder.

"N-Nothing, my king; I suppose it is merely too much ruckus for my ears," he lied, smiling weakly.

"You may leave our company. I wouldn't have my adviser's mind endangered." The King chuckled warmly, raising his golden goblet to toast with a member of the Guard who sat nearby.

"But, my Lord—" Gríma pleaded. He only wished to remain present, of course, to watch over his target of obsessive love.

"Please. Your stamina is needed to maintain the peace in my stead." Théoden's good spirits had turned stony. His brown eyes were kind, knowing.

The black haired man complied, reluctantly, as expected. He bowed his head as he stood, pulling his cloak tightly around him while he melted into the shadows. He waited there, however, spying on the ongoing merrymaking from the darkness.

Éowyn laughed into her goblet of mead, drinking the last of it down. Her face was bright, almost drowning out the North Star in comparison.

How he longed to hear her laughs reverberate around the stone walls of an empty room, with him being her only audience. 'I broke both alliances for you, my Éowyn. It is the least I would ask of you.'


At long last, the Guard was sent down to camp in the village along with the rest of Rohan's warriors. The hall laid barren, save for the few servants who scurried about in attempt to make it look presentable again. Three gargantuan dogs, Théoden's personal companions for the hunt, gathered beneath the long table that was raised for the occasion, licking their maws at the plates piled high with meat-and-bone scraps that they would receive.

Théoden had retired, bidding the evening to Éomer in the corridor before he took to his chamber. The King placed a hearty clap on his nephew's shoulder, his brown eyes kind and fearless.

"Tomorrow we ride aside the very winds to a victory that shall be remembered for ages. Fear not for what could happen, sister-son; one must focus his mind only on what occurs in the moment. Fight hard, and give up not your sword or shield. You are a man of Rohan. Your lands bring you luck," he spoke, his gaze constant toward the younger blond. He smiled gently, dropping his hand to his side.

"I shall die with my shield in hand, not on it," Éomer oathed. His tone, although it was barely traceable, trembled with emotion.

"Aye. May all of our allies do the same."

"On the morrow, uncle, I shall see you in battle," Éomer said quietly, bowing his head before he took leave of his kin.


(From the view of a young maid)

'Twas night over Rohan, and we remain awake, cleaning the remains of the great feast held moments ago. The dogs stir beneath the tables, whining for the plates piled high with scraps.

I smile, leaning down to oblige them. I stroke the coarse yet smooth brown fur of Théoden King's prized breeding bitch, Téolan. My palm runs over her belly, full of doglings that squirm against my touch; Téolan sniffs at my apron, resting her head in my lap with a tired lick of her lips. I must bite my tongue to stifle the laugh that threatens as her mate, Oréon, puffs hot air into my ear. I raise my other hand to stroke his proud chest, and he is appeased. I watch while Téolan stands on unsteady legs to greet her lover; such an old, vigorous girl, that wolf of a dog.

"Éobeta, make use of yourself. Attend to the Lady Éowyn post haste!"

I hear an older servant, my favored companion, Éola, instructing me across the hall. Though I am seventeen summers, she still acts my mother. I stand wordlessly, dusting the lap of my dress free of stray dog hair. I give the beasts at my feet a final pat before bowing to Éola, making my way to the White Lady's chambers.

I stop at the corner of the wall, staring back at Éola as she scrubs the floors. I feel a white heat in my core when observing her. Someone as beautiful as she should no longer be found a handmaiden , scratching at the dirt in the stone floors with her rag. No, she should be wife to a noble man and birth beautiful children who dance around her feet.

'You deserve to wash the back of a loving husband in a warm cottage, not the uneven tiles of a cold hall,' I say to myself.

"Éobeta, make not the Lady wait on a silly girl like you. Go now," Éola speaks again, righting herself. Her white-blond locks, straight down her back in a whip-like braid; her eyes, blue like the oceans but shaded by her dark lashes, watch me intently.

I cannot deny the light smile that kisses my lips. I thank her quietly, fisting the hem of my dress.

Her downy cheeks pinked for a passing second and though she is three winters wiser than I, she looks so much younger . She wrings her rag into the kettle that holds her water, giving me an exasperated smile.

"Go," she whispers, her voice amber-colored. She nods once, seeing me off.

I dawdle no longer. My duties are before me like a stone in my path; I must step o'er gracefully in order to continue my journey. I had never ventured into my Lady's chambers, for it was Éomela who took such tasks to hand. I took the hem of my dirtied, flaxen dirndl in my fists ever tighter, trotting briskly down the corridor. I faced the door, taking a moment to knock gently against the smooth, gilded wood.

"Lady Éowyn," I say, my voice a-shiver from emotion. I receive no answer. "My Lady, it is I, Éobeta, your handmaiden who speaks. Need you not aid dressing into your nightclothes?" I rest my ear against the cool, polished oak. In the pit of my stomach, an icy cold water churns there.

I know not why I am consumed so, yet a feeling of chilly dread crawls over me, draping along my shoulders as a cloak. I take the ring handle of the door in my palm, the unblemished metal sending goose pimples to my arms. I push the door in slowly, so as not to startle my Lady.

"Lady Éowyn--" I begin, but my words catch in my throat. I behold her there, her cold grey gaze curtained by her downy lashes. She lay atop her bed, her hands raised around her head. I approach cautiously to gather free-lying pelts with which to cover her up. I wonder to myself if the feast was so exhausting to my Lady for her to sleep so suddenly. I lean in, brushing my hand against hers as I pack the thick animal skins tightly around her. I cease, my heart uneasy.

Her skin feels of ice.

"My Lady, why ever are you so cold?" I inquire aloud, hoping that she would wake to answer. I am graced with no reply yet again. My heart quickens in its dance.

I say her name louder, attempting to jostle her with gentle shakes. I feel faint when she answers not. I place my hands atop her breast, pushing down with a bit more force. My own voice sounds foreign as I cry her name, like a child whose dog would not rise to play. I swallowed the ache in my throat, hesitating at her bedside, my eyes locked upon her motionless form. I saw that her breath did not run from her parted lips; her chest lay still, bestowing the look of a statue upon her.

I was no longer able to speak. My tongue had gone numb inside of my mouth, and my legs carried me quickly from her tomb to the dark hall, my back pressed to the wall. I was unable to move my eyes from my Lady's still body that lay in her bed.

They were sudden and inhuman, the shrieks what erupted from my lips. One following the next, all danced around the emptied Hall to come back to my own ears. I struggled to close my mouth and end the wretched noise, but my attempts were in vain. Tears boiled over, salty hot, down my cheeks to my tongue.

I had yet to blink them away before Lord Éomer himself charged from the dim torchlight to me, some of his fellow Guardsmen in tow.

"What goes? Speak, girl!" he bellowed, shaking me.

I had not time to utter a word, not that my throat that ached with every breath should allow such an explanation, before my Lord turned to my Lady's opened chamber. I see him dash inside, his Guard companions shifting on their feet around me. I knew not what went on inside of my Lady's chamber, but my Lord's mighty voice bellowed like thunder.

"Éowyn!" he cried, "Éowyn, wake, I say!"

The Guard suddenly parted, their armor nearly making them seem part of the wall. It was my King who approached. His strides were long, and his wail ever longer. His armor, not yet removed, creaked with his frantic movements.

"Fetch Gríma," I hear, Théoden King's order a growl from deep within his throat. I braced during a brief silence, my King shouting as the wargs howl, "BRING FORTH MY ADVISOR!" Lord Éomer emerged, dashing to the West Hall to summon the Wormtongue.

My body shook, my lips slack while small, incoherent noises burst from them. I wipe the tears from my eyes, now nearly dried besides; the sensation stung. I lean into the strong arm around my shoulder, belonging to a Guardsman, no doubt.

"You have seen enough this night, handmaiden. Come, to bed with you," the Guard spoke softly, his armored arm leading me off.

I wring my hands, biting at my fingertips when I blubber, "But, my Lady--!"

"My Lady Éowyn is in passionate hands. She will persevere. Doubt you the ability of your Shieldmaiden?" Though his words held no humor, I could hear the smile in his voice.

My innards felt aflame. 'Be you as strong as your sword, my Lady,' I prayed while rounding a corner, the Guard at my side, ushering me on to the maid's keep. I stood at the door, preparing to enter while the guard left me to rejoin his pack, yet I was frozen a moment more when a fleeting glimpse of a cloak, dark as the night's overhead without stars, vanished into my Lady's quarters.

"A shadow which runs among shadows retreats from his dark haven to aid the light," I wonder aloud to myself, my chest shuddering no longer. I shake away my worries, my fears for my Lady, as it might attract evil spirits to her weakened body. Aside, I knew nothing but faith in Her Ladyship. I knew that the White Lady would wake.


Gríma's heart skipped a beat when his pale eyes landed on the still, ghostly white form of his lady. His face broke into a cold sweat, and he whipped his gaze onto Éomer.

"You, Horsetamer! Seek the Apothecary and obtain the Root of Anwényn and a fresh flame. Go now!" he hissed while taking a worried glance at Éowyn before dashing off into his own quarters. He burst through the entryway, gliding over to his shelves of ingredients. He picked through the flasks, bottles, test tubes and jars until he found a small phial of milky liquid.

'The last of it, but it shall fulfill its purpose well,' he thought hastily, running out to Éowyn's chamber. He clutched the phial of poica limpe in gentle desperation. The mixture of phoenix tears and unicorn milk had been the prize of his thievery while in Saruman's personal store. He had used most of it in his failed attempts to make a sleeping drought in which to give to his Lady one afternoon, but the results were always far too poisonous. He pondered using the ending mixtures to rid himself of Éomer at long last, but he knew what the consequence would be, and he dared not risk it.

Gríma ran past the king's throne just as Éomer dismounted his horse on the top steps of Meduseld, his armor clanking when he ran towards the dark man with a brightly flickering torch in hand.

Wormtongue dashed into Éowyn's bedroom, Éomer shortly behind. The dark man took the sturdy piece of Root of Anwényn, cut the sandpaper-like skin and collected the cloudy juices that quickly spilled over into the phial. There was a sudden aroma of heavy mint with honeysuckle that wafted from the glass tube. Gríma placed the cork inside of it, taking the torch from Éomer to boil the liquid briefly.

Théoden sat on the bed next to his dying niece, stroking her chilled cheek, his bearded chin quivering. His eyes revealed that he was much older than he seemed. 'My beloved sister-daughter... If I was ever borne a daughter, I would pray that she could be as you are. My Éowyn; so strong. Do not lose this fight. Do not be defeated...' he prayed.

Gríma pushed the torch back into Éomer's gloved hands, jumping to Éowyn's side. He sat upon her bedside, uncorking the phial above her lips. The scent of fresh rain, roses and warm tears spilled into the room from the concoction. Pale fingers probed at the colorless lips of the king's niece, opening her mouth into which the adviser poured the savory smelling liquid.

Éomer stood over his baby sister, his head spinning. He couldn't lose her. She was... She had ever been everything in his world. If he lost her, then so would all else.

The three men awaited anxiously when the last drop of the elven cure fell from the rim of the phial between her lips. What felt like hours was, if only but one. Théoden could wait no more. The sight of his adopted daughter laying motionless and paled made him want to retch, and so he strode out into the hallway, leaning against the stone walls with his forehead in his hands.

Gríma's eyes zeroed in on her lips, how they parted gently. He lowered his exhausted lids, exhaling and putting the weight of his face upon his palms. Éomer had left the scene not long ago upon silent order of his uncle, which left the two alone to wait.

In the dreary, heavy-minded state of being nearly asleep, Wormtongue awoke sharply, his eyes struggling to make the room stop spinning. He had heard something; the whisper of a whisper, it sounded like. He stumbled from his seat onto the floor, scooting closer to her bedside. His thin lips twitched at the corners; the sound came from Éowyn's lips.

Her mouth had brightened from its marble-white coloration to a rosy pink, her skin returning to its ivory fair shade as well. From her slowly heaving chest up to her eyes that danced beneath her lids, his honey-fair maiden was alive.

Gríma scrambled to stand, caressing her forearm gingerly. He found himself being stared at by two drowsy, silver irises. His ecstasy did not falter even when her eyes drifted closed again. He sidled out into the hall, speaking excitably.

"My Lord, my King!" he tittered.

Théoden snapped to his adviser's white visage, gaze ridden with anxiety.

"My lady... She lives." The way that Gríma spoke these words could be compared to him announcing the birth of a beautiful infant.

"Éowyn!" He made it to her resting place in four strides, touching her warming skin with uneasy fingertips. He placed three chaste kisses upon her; one to her brow and two to her cheeks. "You frighten this old man, my dear, and on the eve of war..."

The dark man felt as though he were prevented from entering the room on the touching scene by a barrier of sorts, but he stepped forth with uncertainty despite. "My liege... I shall guard her this night." The look that his king gave him demanded to know why he himself should not sit by her. "...My lord, gracious king..." he simpered, "You are most needed at the front of your men on the morn,' not the side of your niece. So shall you purify your lands from the growing poison that is Saruman and his armies, so shall the quicker my Lady be healed, as well."

Pausing, the sovereign blinked contemplatively. He knew that what his slimy opinionator spoke was the harsh truth. He bestowed a final kiss atop her light haired head before standing before Gríma. Behind his overjoyed though exhausted eyes were the words of a sage.

"Gríma, what I must ask of you is of grave importance," he began, searching the councilman's face for traces of insecurity. There was none to be found among the intent stare what decorated his colorless mug. "The war against our greatest enemy lies only a few hours ahead." He paused, gathering his muster.

"The possibility that my horse shall arrive on the city's steps without me is great. I hereby entrust you, Gríma, son of Gálmód, with a very heavy charge." He spoke with not a drop of humility.

"...Yes, my liege?" Gríma murmured, signaling his ruler to continue.

"In the event of my death, which could be nearly certain amidst what the future holds, I ask that you aid my Éowyn in the ascension to the throne. ...My Éowyn..." He stopped once more to look at her fondly. "She shall mold Rohan into a kingdom worthy of allegiance; prosperity and desirability will be of our people in her hands. She shall be a fair governor, more so than I."

Théoden reached into the folds of his under-tunic to reveal a folded envelope stamped with his royal wax seal. He stared at it momentarily in thought before presenting it to his assistant.

"I had prepared this decree long ago, as I knew that a time such as this would impend upon me. With this final order unto you as your king, Gríma, I insist that you take Éowyn as a wife, however surreptitiously, for she must be thought of as the only ruler. Our family has only ever married our family*, and so it must remain as if she had refused to be bound by marriage. I ask that, in this union, you act as a guardian. I give my very trust to you, and so plead that you give her no burden. Catch her wrist should she stumble, but remain free of her path and her mind unclouded."

Gríma swallowed dryly, twisting the parchment envelope subconsciously. "My... my lord..." It was all of the court's knowledge how a moment like this was the Worm's ever-present fantasy. They knew how he whimpered her name in the dead of night within his dreams, how her very passing aroma of earth and honeysuckle made him sweat. And then as her uncle, her "father," bereaved him of his doubts that such an event could ever take place...

"Will you honor what may be my final desire? If not one else to guard her, then have her marry a suitable, strong young man, so help me, or let her to live a lonely life, but never truly alone. Gríma..."

Wormtongue's luminescent blue eyes traveled up to his world-weary king's imploring, strong stare. He glanced quickly upon the sealed decree in his shaking grip, replying in a tone that trembled with anticipation, loyalty, and longing, "You wishes are but my greatest concern, Théoden King."

"I would not doubt that your promise is kept. My thanks to you for assuring the desires of an old man." Théoden smiled briefly, passing one final sweep of his goateed lips across his niece's forehead before he took his leave, opting to rest then before he was swept into battle.


The black fur cloak swirled to pool about his feet when he sat there in the corner of her chamber, staring at her peaceful form from within the torchlight's shadows. Wormtongue tucked the final decree of his ruler into his cape, insuring his remembrance of it.

'My Golden Maiden... How oft you are nearly stolen from me if not by orc sword then by wizard's poison, and if not that then by the charm of another man. How do you seek to escape me so? Am I truly so repulsive, so vile that you could welcome death quicker than my touch? ...How presumptuous of me. Of course I am as vile and repulsive as I, myself, have proposed, what with this flesh that seems to have accepted death, these lips which uttered lies to your sweet ears for so long. Yet you, so beautiful and more so than the freshest moonbeams caressing the lightly trembling waves within the lakes, nay, more gorgeous than the rose bouquets given to virgin maidens that are adorned with Baby's Breath... I am still incorrect. My Lady, my Éowyn, you... you are so resplendent that the very gods of the Valar are blinded by your grace, your selflessness... How I could muse upon your fairness for weeks upon weeks. Yet, I digress. I shall keep you, my Éowyn, like the monks keep the Holy Scrolls; forever in my possession, forever under my doting watch.'

With a pale finger resting atop the inner pocket in which the decree rested, Gríma's eyes spun in a feeble attempt to remain active.

It was then that she stirred, if only subtly. Beneath her naturally darkened lashes, her eyes thrashed about. "Th...éodred..." she whispered, her hands fisting weakly.

Wormtongue's memory coughed up a favorably disregarded snippet of the past, in which she snapped in a tone so low and weighted with her pained loathing, "Your words are poison."

'Oh, White Lady... You know not how...fatal... your own tongue can be.' His final slurred thought dissolving into the blackness swallowing his awareness, Gríma collapsed into a dormancy the likes of which he hadn't known in years.


I do apologize for the lengthy time in which I've been away. Well, for those of you who care. In any case, I do hope that this meets your presumably high demands of me, seeing as I've been so largely absent. I'm alive~

*- "our family has only ever married our family": Théoden is saying that the Eorlingas had never really married anyone from outside of Rohan, and so to do so, especially with his niece, would cause outrage.

Also, poica limpe is Sindarin, I believe, for 'pure milk'; the name of the draught that Gríma prepared to "resurrect" Éowyn.

If I missed anything noteworthy in this installment that raises questions, just ask. I'll probably scoff at my own carelessness and explain. :D