So, the thought of cold steel might yet loosen his tongue, thought Éomer contently as Gríma carried on with retelling of his encounter with Hémfal. That the rider had went straight to the source of ill tattle didn't much surprise Éomer. Hémfal had been both brave and clever, although Éomer wondered how he'd gotten away without facing any reprisals from the Counsellor.

However, as he got to this part of the story, Gríma's tongue lost speed, and he still seemed reluctant to continue. Placing one hand meaningfully at the hilt of his sword, Éomer waited. He had almost lost faith any more would come, when Gríma finally let out a sigh and started talking:

"He was a big fellow, Hémfal. Intimidating, I thought, but myself, I was never a man of much strength. I thought my words and my position would be enough to scare him off, but I was wrong. Hémfal did not care, not when we were alone in that study with no witnesses. He came at me," Gríma explained, "and I guess he meant to hurt me less I promised to make the rumours stop. Well, I could have dealt with that," he mumbled, remembering the countless fists and blows he'd had to endure before in his life. Such pain could be dealt with, surely. What had happened with Hémfal was much different.

A sniff from Éomer made him continue; "He came at me, and he grabbed my throat, as if to strangle me. It was quite unpleasant, I assure." Gríma guessed that any admittance of pain on his side would please Éomer, who had himself tried something similar once before. That time, things had worked out more in favour of Gríma Wormtongue.

However, as Hémfal the rider had come up close and pushed him violently against the wall, Gríma's body had responded in a most surprising way. Hémfal had noticed, and he had put on a wicked smile, impulsively letting a hand slide down between them to touch the undisputable evidence that the Counsellor, quite unexpectedly, seemed to rather enjoy this encounter. Cupping his hand around Gríma's hard bulge, Hémal had then pressed himself against him, as if letting the Wormtongue know that the pleasure was, certainly, on the rider's side. The faint gasp that had escaped Gríma's lips did not go unnoticed, and Hémfal started to rub his hand rhythmically against Gríma's arousal. The sensation had made Gríma gulp for air and he had clung on to the rider, rather than trying to push him off. Breathing heavily into Gríma's ear, Hémfal hastily began to undo the Counsellors buttons and lacings, pulling open his robes and making his way to touch naked skin. Gríma had whimpered, tugging hard at the other man's shirt, shy to touch the muscular arms underneath. He was lost in the moment, caught between his own abashment and the rider's raw display of lust. Never before had he felt desired, yet the other man showed no signs of distaste, rather the opposite. Was it a display of power? Yes, but then, not only that. The rider himself seemed to have lost all concept of sense and modesty as he was roughly laying his hands on the Counsellor's body. Perhaps, as Gríma thought much later, it had been an outlet for one of Hémfal's foul moods. The rider did not like killing, after all, not even as a mean by which he could threaten traitors. Whatever the reason, Hémfal had come across an eager participant to whatever game he had in mind, and he seemed intent on seeing that game through.

A hoarse cry escaped Gríma's lips as Hémfal's hand at long last found its way into his trousers and closed around his full length. Pausing only to stroke him a few times, the rider then abruptly grabbed the Counsellor by his shoulders and began lowering him to the ground. Flustered, Gríma had tried to protest but his attempts were useless against Hémfal's strength. Instead, his resistance caused the rider to stumble so that they both ended up in a pile on the floor. Hémfal, irritably shaking his hair out of his face, had regarded the Counsellor silently through narrow eyes. Grima, who by now didn't rightly know what he feared most: that the rider would stay or that he would leave, had lain there, staring at Hémfal as if spellbound. If ever he had wondered what a mouse might feel as the cat approaches, by now he thought he had a pretty good idea.

But in the end, it was he who had pleadingly raised his hands and placed them on the rider's upper arms, gently pulling him down. He had but the slightest idea of what he was attempting. A novel sensation and an exciting one at that, not to be in control of events. Hémfal had complied, much to Gríma's relief, and had proceeded to work at the layers of clothing. As the rider had managed to free him of his robes and cloak, Gríma forestalled him by pulling at Hémfal's shirt, until finally both their upper bodies were clothless. Boldly tracing the rider's shapely torso with his fingers, Gríma marvelled at the sight. Never before had he been aware that a man's body could be beautiful, such joy for the hand to feel. His own body, to his mind, did hardly seem pleasant by comparison. However, before he got a chance to explore further, he was grabbed firmly by the waist and flipped onto his belly. Kneeling over him, Hémfal promptly proceeded to remove his trousers. Before now, no sense of fear had occurred to Gríma, only a puzzled sort of excitement, as if he did not quite believe any of this was really happening, thinking that it more resembled a feverish dream. He did not know much of what one man might do to another, never truly having considered it before. It was not something commonly spoken of in Edoras. But as Hémfal started to massage his buttocks, Gríma began to get a good idea of how this might proceed. He was in no way used to feeling desired, true, but he did have some little experience, just enough to let him imagine what it was Hémfal had in mind. Suddenly discouraged, he attempted to get up, but was firmly held in place by strong arms. As he seemed to have lost all of his eloquence all off the sudden, he could think of no protest when the other man moistened a finger and traced it between his buttocks, finding his rear entrance. It was not precisely unpleasant, but strange enough to make him want to get up, to catch his breath and to perhaps regain some of his composure. Gríma tried to squirm loose. Hémfal would have none of that but instead held him steadily while freeing his own cock from its restraining layers of cloth and quickly moistening it, using his saliva. Pulling the other man up on hands and knees, Hémfal placed his strong hands on Gríma's hips and urged him to keep still, less it might hurt more than necessary. And as Gríma fearfully closed his eyes, Hémfal began to force his entrance.

The last thing Gríma would have expected by now was for the rider to be gentle. But he did go slowly, thrusting cautiously yet determinedly, getting deeper with each careful movement. Though there was a certain pain to it, it was by no means overwhelming, clearly because the rider knew what he was about. Drawing a shallow breath of relief, Gríma relaxed, granting him a satisfied grunt from Hémfal as he pushed himself as deep as would go, pausing for a moment to place his hand on Gríma's crotch. To his own surprise, Gríma noticed that he was still hard and anxious to satisfy his need. Experimentally, he arched his back and pushed slightly backwards, then moved carefully forward, attempting to thrust into Hémfal's hand. The effect was rewarding. Hémfal let out a hoarse, nondescript noise and closed his hand around Gríma's cock. Regaining the initiative, the rider began to move, establishing a steady rhythm. Gríma soon found that when he pushed back to match the movements, Hémfal would simultaneously tighten his grip, allowing Gríma to thrust along with him. The joint sensation was of pain and pleasure both, but as the rhythm quickened and made him break into a sweat, he found it all the more gratifying, soon forgetting any initial discomfort. Breathing heavily, he could feel himself approaching his climax, waves of heat rolling over him as he let out a stifled cry, caring for nothing now but the other man's steady thrusts and his greedy hands upon his body. As if following a signal, Hémfal let himself go over the edge, pulling a slightly trembling Gríma along with him as they both came, heavy body coming to rest on top of slender, contentedly wrapping arms around a pale chest with a heart beating hard enough that its owner thought it might be trying to escape.

Lying still on the floor, Gríma sought to steady his breath. Hémfal's hands were still on him, inattentively caressing him and Gríma wondered briefly if the rider had in mind to get him back to size and start over. But then, the moment was gone. Hémfal started to withdraw, and the cold air of the room came pushing in, reminding Gríma of who and where they were. The chill made him shiver, but his cheeks were suddenly burning hot with embarrassment. Pulling his cloak around him for cover, he remained on the floor as the rider stood to adjust his clothing. When Hémfal spoke, at long last, he spoke true, and Gríma could not deny it. If, after this, the Counsellor would ever try to confirm any rumours of Éomer, or else any rider of Edoras, he would as soon have to confess his own desires. Hémfal would see to that, and Gríma believed him. The Wormtongue, admitting defeat, hung his head and swore to comply.

But now, the rider was dead, and it was to the ever distrustful face of Éomer King that these truths would somehow have to be delivered. Gríma tried his best, carefully telling the story in as few words as he could possibly manage, all the while attempting to edit out the most intimidating parts. When he had finished, at long last, it was past midnight and he had talked his mouth dry. Wearily, he sagged in the chair, awaiting the King's reaction.

"So," said Éomer at long last, "this would be your version of telling the truth?" he was dubious. "You said you did not know Hémfal, but now you're claiming to have been quite closely acquainted with him. Either, you've cooked up this here tale, or else you have been lying to me all the while before. I warned you, did I not? I did warn you that I would accept no lies from you. And yet…" Éomer broke off, studying the former Counsellor intently. He did not fully believe what he had just been told, but still, why would the Wormtongue make up such a disgraceful story? There was a certain logic here, one that Éomer King didn't quite like to admit.

"My King, I have told many lies in my life," Gríma pleaded, his usual velvet voice now raucous. "But not today. I stuck to the truth, just as you requested."

Éomer considered the weary look in Gríma's face. He really hadn't seemed his same old self when retelling his story, not the slightest smirk or smug expression to suggest he was withholding any scrap of information. The Wormtongue seemed truly embarrassed, having to confess such a shameful defeat. How he, the master of blackmail, had fallen into a trap himself! And even though the nature of that trap was not something Éomer liked to accept, he eventually had to admit that he did. It did not seem too uncharacteristic for Hémfal to have tried such a trick, the man had always been bold, perhaps beyond what was healthy for him.

"Maybe you have," Éomer conceded, "but then, I don't think you were precisely honest from the start, Wormtongue. You claimed you knew next to nothing about him!"

"My Liege. I did not," said Gríma, exhausted. "There was but one encounter! And after that, the gossip stopped. He made me put an end to the rumours, less he'd add to them. I was not in a position where I could afford that."

Éomer King also felt tired. He'd gotten what he'd asked for, but it wasn't, he felt, what he'd wanted. He needed to clear his head and decide what to make of this new information. He rose, saying:

"Well. Honest or no, you have given me much to think about. We will resume this conversation, Wormtongue, and I do believe you will try to be more apt at telling truths than before." Pausing in the doorway, he turned to look at the traitor, but Gríma had buried his face in his hands and did not look back as Éomer closed the door and locked it, fierce footsteps disappearing down the hallway.