A/N: This story is getting long! And as it gets longer, it's rapidly becoming one of my favorites. Thanks so much to all of you for sticking with this story and reading and reviewing - I am most appreciative!

And now for something completely different…

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Gríma experienced an unusually rude awakening when he was suddenly and abruptly kicked in the side by an extremely hard boot. He groaned unhappily and sat up, hand flying to where his knives were normally kept. Then he remembered that he had lost them all in battle, and with another groan, looked up to see who his enemy was.

"So the worm has come crawling back to us," a man's voice sneered from above him. "I suspected you would return in the end."

Gríma's eyes narrowed furiously. "Éomer," he snarled. "What an unpleasant surprise."

"I could say the same upon seeing your twisted countenance in this place," Éomer said icily. "Why have you returned? Has your true master sent you on some new errand?"

Gríma started to stand, and then shakily collapsed back to the floor, clutching his wounded shoulder. "I returned," he said through gritted teeth, "To warn Théoden King of the imminent danger of Saruman's army." He glanced sharply up at Éomer and said, "How goes the battle?"

Éomer smirked. "Saruman is defeated," he said, "And you no longer have power, snake. You are solely at my mercy."

"At the mercy of your King," Gríma corrected him. "Which, if I am to be honest, is not a great deal more comfort. But let us not speak of this any longer - how did you arrive here? And how were we delivered victorious from the hands of Saruman? His numbers were far greater than ours."

"Indeed," Éomer said with a proud smirk, "Until Gandalf and my men arrived this morn."

He then proceeded to detail to Gríma the final events of the battle, bragging unabashedly, while Gríma listened with interest. Éomer told of Saruman's strange new weapon - they had settled on calling them 'explosives' because of the way in which they erupted; of Théoden's final charge, assisted by Aragorn; of Gandalf's arrival and the massive charge of the Éorlingas down the hill. Gríma was a patient and fascinated audience - unusual, particularly considering to whom he was listening.

Éomer managed to stay his typical unkind remarks as he told his tale uninterrupted, until he arrived at Treebeard's Huorns and greeting Éowyn as she departed the caves. There, he stopped and looked almost curiously at Gríma. "My sister told me you fought orcs," he said. "I found this extremely difficult to believe, considering what I know to be your fighting abilities. I have related to you my battle; now it is your turn. I spoke only briefly to Éowyn, and I wish to know every detail."

Gríma told him as much as he knew; how the six Uruk-hai had broken in, how Éowyn rushed to fight them, how Gríma was sent after her (here Éomer made a disparaging remark about the counsellor's courage, or lack thereof), and how he killed two of the Uruks and fended off another. "Of your sister's battle I know but little," he concluded. "I was not present for the vast majority of it. But she escaped without a scratch, talented warrior that she is; as you can see, I was not nearly so lucky."

Éomer studied the wound. "It is a nasty slash," he agreed. "You are lucky my sister found you. It will be long before that heals."

Gríma tenderly touched the bandages on his shoulder and grimaced. "I wish it would hurry," he muttered. "This was my good arm. I doubt I will be capable of doing much without its full operative use."

"Such is the way of the warrior," Éomer said bitterly. "You, fortunate counsellor, may remain behind while others ride to battle, but the rest of us must risk our lives in order to keep our people safe. You have had a taste of what I experience daily."

"And I am very grateful that you so willingly put your life on the line," Gríma said, and he truly was; but his gratitude to the warriors did not quite extend to Éomer. "I have never been made for such a life."

"We will need every man that can be spared in the following days," Éomer said gravely. "This is but the beginning. And if you truly have returned to our side - which I doubt - we may need your skills with throwing knives before the war has ended."

Gríma motioned to his wounded shoulder. "I cannot be of use for a long time yet," he said. "Unless in a short space of time you believe I can teach myself to throw with the opposite hand."

Éomer opened his mouth to make a rude comment in reply, but Théoden suddenly appeared behind him. "Gríma!" he exclaimed, and Gríma was surprised to note he was smiling. "Éowyn has told me of your battle and your wound."

Éowyn pushed past her uncle and brother and knelt by Gríma's side. "How does it feel?" she asks gently.

Gríma forced a smile. "It pains me, but I'll live," he said. "Unless, of course, you chose to poison me while cleaning it."

Éowyn smiled slightly. "I suppose such a punishment would not have been entirely unjustified," she said, "But I did nothing of the sort."

Gríma laughed and was about to say something, when another voice interrupted them. "You seem to be much improved, Master Wormtongue."

Gríma turned to glare at whoever had so addressed him and saw the tall ranger standing beside Théoden King. "Aragorn son of Arathorn," Théoden said, motioning to him. "He led us to victory this day."

Gríma inclined his head slightly. "A pleasure," he said bitingly. He seemed to struggle inwardly for a moment, and then he said grudgingly, "I thank you for saving my life on Meduseld's steps."

Aragorn nodded in acknowledgement, and then turned his eyes to Éowyn. "My Lady, I heard that you did battle with the orcs as well," he said.

Éowyn blushed prettily and looked down at the ground. "There were only six of them, my Lord, and two were slain by Gríma," she said modestly.

"That is still quite a feat, my Lady," Aragorn said. "You are indeed an excellent swordsman."

Éowyn smiled at him and seemed to glow from sheer happiness. Aragorn returned the smile gently and then turned away to listen to Éomer and Théoden, who were now conversing in low voices. Éowyn's eyes lingered on him overlong, and Gríma felt a sudden icy stab of jealousy. No! he nearly screamed. No, you cannot! Already my pride, my dignity, my honor, my place in the Golden Hall have been stolen from me - you will not steal my princess as well!

He watched Éowyn in a near frantic state of terror and rage, his breathing suddenly turning shallow. For a few moments longer, Éowyn did not notice the change, but it did not take long for a sharp inhale to disturb her from whatever thoughts she was having. She glanced at him and caught the look on his face. "Counsellor, are you ill?" she cried, pressing a cool hand to his face. "Your face is warm," she said with a frown. "You may have a fever. We must get you to Edoras as quickly as possible."

Gríma closed his eyes tightly and reached up to clutch at her hand. "Don't leave me, princess," he whispered painfully. "Please…"

"I will not," she promised, although she sounded slightly confused. "I will return with you to Edoras. Surely we are going back this day?"

"No," Théoden interjected. Gríma opened his eyes and glanced at him. He had finished his conference with Aragorn and Éomer and had now turned to his niece and former counsellor. "Gandalf will take some of our number to confront Saruman. But you, sister-daughter, should indeed return home. As for Gríma - if you do not think he is in mortal danger, I wish to be certain he has come back to us to stay. He will go with us to Isengard, and there we will see where his true loyalties lie."

Éowyn's face fell. "But, Uncle, why can I not go also to Isengard?" she demanded.

"There is too much danger," Éomer said sharply. "The wizard has many powers beyond our knowledge. I would not see my sister come to harm at his - or his servant's hands," he added, looking pointedly at Gríma. Gríma returned the look with an icy glare.

"Gríma has proven that at least Éowyn is safe when she is with him," Théoden said. "She was alone with him for an hour and came to no harm."

"Éowyn is perfectly capable of defending herself," Gríma snapped, struggling to stand. She bent and pulled him to his feet, and helped to balance him. "And why would I bring to harm the one thing most precious to me in all the world?"

Éowyn blushed at this, but quickly asserted herself. "I can indeed defend myself," she said. "And Saruman does not frighten me. I would go with you to Isengard. Besides, Gríma is my charge; you yourself granted that duty to me, Uncle. If he is to go with you, then so too shall I."

Gríma liked the emphasis she had placed on 'my charge.'

Théoden seemed at a loss as how to refute this argument, but Aragorn stepped in. "My liege," he said, "I am a skilled healer, having studied with the Elves for many years of my life. Let me take care of his wounds, so that Éowyn may return to Edoras with the other women and children."

Both Théoden and Éomer were visibly relieved. "You are most generous, Lord Aragorn," Éomer said gratefully. "We will accept your offer."

Éowyn looked as though she had been stabbed by her brother's own spear. "But -" she tried to object, looking hopefully at Aragorn, but he only looked away. She stared at him with wounded eyes, and then turned and stormed off.

Éomer shook his head. "She does not understand," he said unhappily. "She knows only the glory of battle as told in songs; but she has not seen the real agony of a battlefield."

"Lady Éowyn was not made to be a rich man's bauble," Gríma said frigidly. "Surely as her brother you can understand this?"

Éomer rounded on him. "You have no right to speak!" he spat. "You have never seen a true battlefield, either, you cowardly bastard!"

Gríma laughed bitterly. "Haven't I?" he said. "I rode often with my father when I was fifteen. I fought with the same orcs that killed him. The horrors of the battlefield are what drove me to the life of a counsellor - among other, more obvious physical reasons, and a lack of interest in the art of killing. My health fails more often than I would wish, and I am of little value to the Riders of Rohan in my weak state. You have said so yourself often enough, Lord Éomer."

Théoden waved a hand. "Whatever your battle experience, Éowyn is a woman, and it is not deemed proper for women to fight," he said resignedly. "I know her temperament, and were she my sister-son I long ago would have trained her in the arts of battle; but she was born a woman, and much as her soul longs for battle, there are other duties I must place in her hands."

Gríma followed Éowyn's path of departure with his eyes. "By those words, you have slain her," he said regretfully.

"How dare you say such a thing?" Éomer snarled, but Théoden held him back.

Gríma turned his eyes back to his King. "If you do not grant her the freedom she desires, she is certain to seek it herself in secret," he said quietly. "If you will not permit her to ride to battle, she will find another, more deadly escape, once she has sunk deeply into despair; or perhaps she will find battle, and death, despite your refusal to allow it to her."

Théoden frowned. "She would not go so far."

"To what lengths wouldn't she go to be free?" Gríma demanded. "Can any of us say what terrible things we might do, if we felt we were trapped and could not escape? I am certainly a testament to such desperation."

Théoden appraised him with curious eyes, and then nodded briefly. "I daresay you are right," he said, considering. "But Éowyn's place cannot be on the battlefield. I will not allow it."

Gríma sighed and turned away again, saying painfully, "Then you shall see her dead ere this war has ended, and you will have only yourselves to blame."