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.

Chapter Eleven – A Disturbance in My Heart

Except for those moments in Grima Wormtongue's frozen bedchamber, I had never before felt the exuberant rush of passion with a man. Some may say it was the fault of little experience, though I have cast such argument aside as foolish. Before I married Ceolwulf I took a lover, a Haradrim lad of minor nobility and not much older than I was at the time. Manhood rested lightly upon him and I still think of him fondly in the hazy memories of my youth. That first coupling, clumsy and awkward, left me underwhelmed and confused as to what all the fuss was about. That opinion changed little when I went to Ceolwulf's bed, a new and eager bride. I think I was even more disappointed, having come into the marriage with a certain idea of how things should be between a man and his wife. Still, it was Ceolwulf, in the worst of his abuses, who inadvertently presented me with the gift of desire.

By the third year of our marriage, my husband and I had grown to despise each other. I often berated myself for not listening to Udela's sage advice that the young Rohirrim was far more tarnished within than his golden surface would have me believe. His love for fighting and riding was only matched by a love for drinking, gaming and wenching. The first two caused me the greatest grief, the third a blessing in its way as I no longer wished to share his bed.

It was during the Midyear celebrations, when the village hosted a visiting band of eored from the Eastfold, that whatever softer feeling I still harbored for my husband met a swift death. After a day and evening of celebrating and carousing, many of the villagers were in a sickly state. Too much ale and sweet mead had left them with sour stomachs and I was much in demand to brew and deliver draughts that might relieve the worst of the effects. I had not expected to find Ceolwulf at home when I returned, thinking he would likely sink into oblivion at a comrad's house or spend the evening with more welcoming company than my own.

So it was with some surprise that I opened my door to find him seated and slumped across our table, snoring softly and reeking of spirits. I was not unaccustomed to the sight, having seen it many times before. But what put me on my guard was the stranger sitting next to him, awake, sober and watching me with a solemn expression.

He was one of the Eastfold eorlings, an older warrior called Ealdgar and I had noted him in the day's celebrations earlier. A big man, with massive shoulders and thickly muscled legs, he had ridden into the village on a mount of equal stature. He wore his hair bound at the nape and gray streaked his blonde locks and beard. The beard partially covered a jagged scar that traveled from beneath his right eye and across his cheek, a lasting souvenir from an old battle. Despite his roughened appearance, he was handsome enough and I had seen some of the village women eyeing him with speculative, admiring gazes. Why he was suddenly within my home, keeping company with my sot of a husband I had no idea, though the circumstances made me wary.

"You are Ealdgar of Easter Mark."

He nodded once, his features holding their rather grim expression. "And you are Maeve of Gondor."

The address, uttered in a voice both deep and full, made my brows rise. Not Maeve, wife of Ceolwulf or even Maeve, Ceolwulf's woman, but Maeve of Gondor, the name I carried before I wed. It was unusual for him to greet me in that manner, as naming me as wife or mate established an understood boundary, a claim recognized by one man for another's mate. Ealdgar's words didn't bode well for me.

I grew even more alarmed but kept my tone civil and offered both ale and food as befitted a guest, unexpected or otherwise. He refused both and continued to watch me until I sat down across from him and stared at him with a face as unsmiling as his own. "Why are you here?"

His gaze slid to Ceolwulf briefly and when he turned back to me it was to reveal a touch of scorn in his eyes and at the curl of his mouth. "He was too far into his cups to walk so I carried him."

I shrugged and didn't drop my eyes. My husband's inebriation was not my embarrassment and I refused to show shame. "This isn't the first time. My thanks for bringing him back."

"He gamed earlier this evening."

Again I shrugged. Ceolwulf gamed most evenings, especially when head-soaked with mead, which was often. It was Ealdgar's next statement that made me sit up straight, heart beating hard in my chest.

"He gamed with me and lost heavily."

I could feel my cheeks flush with anger and I stared at my spouse in disgust. I didn't blame Ealdgar for coming to collect what he had rightfully won. That; however, presented a problem in itself. There was nothing left with which to pay a debt save an old sow I planned to butcher the following week and a saddle that had seen better days. We had no horses as those had been given up long ago for the same reason. What little we possessed was bartered for my healing skills, and I doubted Ealdgar had a need for a pig, a horseless saddle or the crock of new ale given to me by the alewife, Nelda for treating a burned hand.

"What did he promise you? There is little left that might cover his debt."

The horselord neither leered nor turned lustful in his gaze when he answered. "He promised you for the night."

I could not have been more stunned had he suddenly struck me with his fist. At that moment, had I a knife in my hand, I would have leapt across the table, pulled Ceolwulf's head up and cut his throat. Rage flooded my veins, scorching my insides and I found myself panting as tears filled my eyes. He had sold me, prostituted me to a stranger over the turn of a game, having no more regard for me than the swine that rooted in the mud behind our house.

I made to rise but Ealdgar stopped me with a hand on my arm and it was he who jerked my unconscious mate up by the hair into a half sitting position. Ceolwulf's eyes never opened and a thin line of drool stretched from his lip to his thigh.

Ealdgar's voice was thick with disdain and his eyes flashed with temper. "This is no man, Maeve of Gondor, to sell his own woman as if she was a dunlending harlot." He released Ceolwulf abruptly and his head struck the table with a satisfying thump. I smiled darkly at the thought that such a hit would leave a nasty, painful lump by morning. "Your village holds you in high regard." I stared at him in surprise and he shrugged. "I have ears. And I marked you during the feasting. You were foreign born and I asked who you were."

It took little to surmise that Ceolwulf overheard and found an opportunity. I was sickened at the thought that he may have lured the Easterling into a game with the chance of winning but the reassurance that if he lost there was something of interest to clear the debt.

While I struggled to keep my tears in check, my voice was flat with refusal. "I am not for sale or trade. To any one for any reason."

Ealdgar shook his head and rose, towering over me. "I came not to claim payment, but to warn you. You seem an honorable woman, easy on the eyes, with valuable skills." He thrust his chin toward Ceolwulf. "Renounce him. Find another of better blood, at least one who will see you as something other than a convenient whore."

His words were reflections of my own thoughts and I watched him stride to the door in preparation to leave. The need for revenge against Ceolwulf ate at my gut and suddenly I found a means to have it. I no longer had to deal with the frightening aspect of fighting off a man intent on claiming a prize not rightfullly promised to him. My admiration for Ealdgar and his ethics was great, and in him I saw a way to take back the respect stolen from me by my husband.

"Wait," I called out and he halted, turning back to me with a puzzled expression. "There is no need to leave. You are welcome here this evening." I paused so there would be no misunderstanding between us of my intent. "In all ways."

His sun-bleached brows rose in surprise and he glanced at Ceowulf for a brief moment. "His debt is forgiven, woman."

I stiffened, pulling the tattered remnants of my pride around me. "His debt plays no part in this."

Ealdgar's burgeoning smile was both understanding and amused and he clasped the hand I held out to him, following eagerly as I led him to the bed I no longer shared with the man I wed. And it was there, behind the privacy of a blanket that I finally understood why coupling was so eagerly sought. Fueld by revenge and humiliation, my desire for the battle-hardened warrior with his honorable ways soon became separate from my need to strike out at Ceolwulf, and in the morning I embraced him and kissed him goodbye with a sincere affection. When I heard he had succumbed to the Lung Heat two seasons later, I truly grieved his passing.

I had taken no lover since, and after threatening to poison Ceolwulf's food should he ever try such a tactic again, I was left alone in my bed. I did not miss his presence, but Ealdgar's practiced, gentle touch had left me with a taste for what I knew could be found beneath the linens and once again I sought that in the arms of a man besieged by shadow from within and without.

I returned his kiss gently, cautiously. There was a brittle quality to his touch, a clumsiness that revealed a lack of knowledge in such things. There is an intimacy in touching another's mouth, something that speaks of lovers and the affections between man and maid. While no innocent in the ways of coupling, it was obvious that Grima Wormtongue tread unfamiliar waters with this particular expression.

He remained still as I continued to press my lips against his, exploring the shape of his thin mouth, its contours and texture. There was an overwhelming tension in his body, as if any untoward gesture I might make would have him turn on me in an instant and send me from his chambers with sharply spoken words or even bodily shove me out the door. Rejection can be a brutal mistress and I knew Grima waited for its sudden manifestation, prepared himself for any change in my manner that might give lie to the words I gave him earlier. Only after minutes of nuzzling his face and neck and pressing a chain of kisses along his jaw, did he begin to ease his stance and curve toward me.

I nearly sighed aloud my relief and pleasure when his hands came to rest on my hips and he pulled me closer. His fingers were icy and I could feel their cold touch even through the layers of wool I wore to guard against the winter's chill. The soft threads of his silk tunic caught on the calluses of my palms as I slid my arms around his waist and arched my back, welcoming his embrace.

For all that Grima was unfamiliar with the more refined aspects of lovemaking, he was a quick and adept pupil. The insidious cold of the chamber evaporated beneath the heat of his kiss and I moaned as his tongue slid deep into my mouth, stroking and plundering, demanding an equal response I was only too happy to give. How long we stood locked together, seeking to fuel a fire through a play of tongue and hands, I could not say, but when we broke apart, desperate to breathe, I wished nothing more than to pull him to the hard, unforgiving floor and take him into my body. The banners of high color gracing his normally bloodless features served as proof that his thoughts were similar to mine.

The avid tones of his voice were matched by the glitter in his eyes. "Share my bed, Maeve of Gondor."

My smile must surely have rivaled the sun at that moment. "Aye, my lord. It is my greatest wish."

Grima stared at me for a moment, hunted for and found my sincerity, and returned my smile with a brief curving of his lips. I laced my fingers into his and followed willingly as he led me to his bed, piled high with blankets and furs. Despite the anticipation I felt at finally taking this strange but fascinating man as a lover, I was equally looking forward to crawling beneath those layers of covers and finding respite from the cold.

There was a creak of bed ropes as they stretched and gave beneath Grima's weight. He sat on the edge and spread his knees, pulling me forward so that I stood between his splayed thighs. His regard of me was more open than it had ever been, and there was a pleasure in his gaze that echoed in his touch as he ran his pale hands over my cyrtel.

Udela, in her wealth of wisdom, had always taught me to trust my instincts. Those few times I had disregarded her sage advice had resulted in tragedies of my own making and a sense of failure that could have been avoided had I only listened to one far more knowing than I was. But this time I paid heed to her long remembered words and followed my inner voice that urged me to place my trust in the hands of one who found such an emotion unfamiliar and frightening.

Grima's hands continued to slowly stroke my body even as his eyes lit with curiosity at my actions. I released my hair from its braid, grateful for its dubious warmth as it fell against my shoulders and over my breasts. While a part of me dreaded removing my clothing without the benefit of a roaring fire nearby, I did not hesitate to undo laces and ties, though my fingers were nearly numb. When I finally stood before him, naked and shivering, it was with the sure knowledge that my instincts had not led me astray.

There was a newfound reverence to Grima's touch, an admiration that had little to do with my appearance and everything to do with my willingness to strip myself of the armor of my clothing and stand before him, clothed only in chilled skin and the faded scars left by the long ago birth of a stillborn child. I suppressed a shudder and the nearly overwhelming need to cross my arms over my breasts, not from a misplaced sense of modesty but for the sheer need to find any warmth available. My toes curled against the icy stones of the floor and my teeth began to chatter, but I waited and watched as Grima's eyes traveled over me and I saw the dawning understanding of my actions in his gaze. As if pulled from a trance, he suddenly rose and flung back the blankets, urging me to slide beneath them.

I nearly groaned with relief, wrapping the nearest furs around me until only my eyes were visible. I watched, fascinated as he quickly shed his clothing, revealing white skin and slender legs. He was a lightly built man, showing only a slight thickening at the waist that comes with age and a lack of physical pursuits. I wondered at his years. Grima's eyes were ancient and his sickness could well have aged him beyond the truth of his years, but I did not think him old, certainly not enfeebled. And his potency was not compromised as evidenced by the obvious proof of his arousal as he turned to face me and crawled beneath the blankets.

I immediately wrapped my arms around him, lamenting the loss of the small amount of warmth I had built around me as he returned my embrace. However, it wasn't long before the cold was forgotten and we held each other beneath the comfort of the furs. He lay yielding beneath my touch, breathing softly as I ran my hands over his chest, the slope of his shoulders, the curving bones of his ribs barely hidden beneath the stretch of pale skin. His hands caressed my back, the roundness of my buttocks, learning the shape and feel of my body as it entwined around his.

We kissed again, and then again, and I reveled in his taste, the feel of his tongue in my mouth, the shape of his lips against my teeth. To many he was a scourge, an unpleasant blight with which to deal and behold, but I found him beautiful, uncommon in his aspect, extraordinary in his intelligence. I gave form to my admiration in the stroke of my hands over his torso and thighs, the laving of my tongue on the small dark nipples that tightened against my touch.

Grima moaned, the sound low and desperate in the gathering darkness that swallowed the bedchamber in shadows. Soon, all I could discern was the black of his hair against a white fur and the line of his jaw as he arched his back and tilted his head in pleasure.

I was no longer cold, the chills that had wracked my body destroyed by the heat of desire feeding my blood. I continued to caress my lover's thin frame, squirming lower so as to dip my tongue into the shallow indentation of his navel and ride my thumbs along the sharp angles of his hipbones. The coarse curls at the juncture of his thighs tickled my cheek and I rose to loom over him, feeling the sudden stillness in his body as he waited to find out what I would do next.

Grima's groans were loud and echoing and I smiled in satisfaction at his reaction to my fingers wrapping around his manhood, stroking and teasing the smooth hard shaft and swollen head. Droplets of his seed threaded through my fingers and I bent to take him into my mouth, caressing, tasting, pulling him deeper until he thrashed on the bed, wrapping his fingers in my hair to urge me closer. I suckled him long and hard until the repeated pulsing along his shaft warned me that he would soon find release in my mouth. While I was eager to experience such a thing with him, I wanted this first time to be between my thighs.

I raised my head, smiling with a certain satisfaction at the sound of his breathing, hitched and labored. His hands slipped out of my hair, grazing my shoulders, cupping my breasts as I again rose above him , and it was my turn to moan as he caressed and gently pinched my nipples between his fingers. The musk of desire was thick around us as I gripped his hips with my thighs and lowered myself onto his erection. Grima arched against me, sliding in easily, aided by the slick heat of my desire for him. There was the sweet feeling of fullness as I took him, of muscles long unused that flexed against the penetration that stretched me as he plunged deep.

I don't know who was more lost to the sensations, he or I, or if it even mattered. All I know is that we were both caught within a high tide of want and craving, a crawling need that began at my lower back and traveled along my spine. It gathered strength as I slid upward and then down repeatedly against Grima, bracing my hands on either side of his head as he suckled my breasts and clutched my hips in a grip guaranteed to leave its mark in the morning. He kissed me and the touch bore none of the clumsiness or hesitancy of the one by the hearth, only a ravening, silent appeal that I give more, take more. I acquiesced to his silent request, increasing the pace of my movements, pressing him into the bed with my body until I feared I would smother him with my enthusiasm.

He returned my fervor, thrusting hard within me even as he strove to slide his tongue to the very back of my throat. The arch of his pelvis against mine rubbed the most sensitive place between my thighs and the heat that spiraled along my back found center there, radiating outward until I stiffened and groaned hard into Grima's mouth, finding a release that left me gasping, shaking and dripping with sweat. I was barely aware of his own groans and the sudden rapid pulsing within me, but felt immense pleasure at the flow of wet heat as he came inside of me.

I collapsed onto his chest, slick with perspiration, and nestled my face into the hollow of his throat. He took in great, heaving breaths and I could feel the shaking of his hands as he caressed the back of my thighs. The silence between us was neither awkward nor stifling, and I wondered idly how it would be to have many nights like this with Grima Wormtongue.

Soon his hands traveled upward, drifting lightly over my back and shoulder blades and down my arms. I could feel the warm draft of his breath as it stirred my hair. His voice had a sated quality to it, even with its sibilant tones. "What payment will you ask of me, Maeve of Gondor?"

I did not wrench myself away from him, expecting such a question at some point and finding no insult in it. His experiences were confined to women such as Beornwyn, and I suspected were not much different during his time in Harad. I raised a hand, running my fingers along his tense jaw and up into his dark hair, tangled and damp with sweat, and kissed his throat before answering.

"My payment will be a full night in this bed, Lord Grima. "I let a small amount of teasing into my voice. "A steep price to be sure, but worth your time."

I could not see his face but heard the answering smile in his voice, mixed with relief. "Again I find succor in the darkness, and once more it is of a woman's making. Only this time, it is far more pleasurable."

I frowned at his cryptic words, not understanding the meaning behind them, but sensing a wrongness there that gave lie to the surface pleasantries. I shrugged the worrisome feeling away, reasoning they had no place here. Grima's eager response to my kiss and his quick movements that soon had me on my back and him above me drove all other thoughts from my mind.

He made love to me twice more in the waning hours of the night, each time as intense as the first. Only near the birth of the meager dawn did we seek true slumber. We lay entwined beneath the blankets, his body curved against my back and hips as he rested his head near mine, breathing gently into my ear. It was a comforting sound, one that would have soon lulled me to sleep had I not been jolted awake by one softly spoken word.

Until that moment, I had wished on occasion to be a certain Shield Maiden, blonde, beautiful, noble. It is true what they say. Do not be careless with your wishes. Sometimes they are granted and their truths can be painful. For a brief second, my wish was given to me, and I was no longer Maeve of Gondor and that knowledge caused me to close my eyes in despair even as Grima pulled me close and buried his face in my hair.

"Eowyn," he whispered.

Please review.

Additonal A/N – Based upon the arbitrary nature of 's rules regarding what defines R and NC17 ratings, it is possible that this story may be removed for TOS violations if complaints are lodged against it. That being said, I also upload this fiction onto my Live Journal under the name whitemunin (no spaces in the name).

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Saul Bellow - "There was a disturbance in my heart, a voice that spoke there and said, I want, Iwant, I want! It happened every afternoon, and when I tried to suppress it it got even stronger."

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

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – , 6)The Reading Room – , 7) The Haradrim – , 8) The Swan – , 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – , 10) Suite 101 – , 11) Questia – , 12) The Grima Dictionary – , 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – , 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – , 15) TolkienWiki Community – , 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – , 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – , 18) Map of Middle Earth – , 19) Tolkien Maps –

20) The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr