Myrhil bent over the basin and dipped her hands in the tepid water. As she brought her cupped palms to her face, she discovered she was trembling so badly that the water ran freely between her twitching fingers. With a muttered curse, she gritted her teeth and splashed what little water she could on her face, finishing the procedure with a furious scrubbing of the skin with a small towel.
She had washed what seemed like a dozen times, and still she felt the stench clinging to her, despite the fact that she had discarded her clothes that reeked from the sewer. Now clad in a pair of hose that were too short and an ill-fitting tunic, Myrhil felt that it should have alleviated the presence of the gaol, but it had, if anything, increased.
"I apologize for my poor wardrobe."
Myrhil lowered the towel from her face and looked at Gríma, who sat on the edge of his small bed.
"Considering the alternative, I'll not complain."
Gríma nodded. He didn't appear to be nervous or irritated but, rather, seemed in the first throes of exhaustion. Her own body was fast succumbing to the temptation to collapse and sleep wherever she fell and, given Gríma's slight stature, it was not surprising he showed signs of fatigue.
As Myrhil wiped her hands, she surveyed her surroundings. The room was cramped, and she deduced it was one of the myriad niche chambers given to subordinates of more expansively accommodated guests. Tucked away almost as an afterthought, it had been relatively simple to reach it with minimal observation by the guards on duty. Tightly snugging her cloak around her, Myrhil had bobbed and smiled to the night watch in a display of tipsiness, all the while hoping their noses wouldn't be alarmed by the aroma in her wake. Once inside the Steward's hall, Gríma had quickly led her down a series of corridors and stairs to his humble chamber. There, she could wash and reemerge in a presentable fashion. Above all, she and Gríma could gather their disturbed thoughts.
Now that she had accomplished the former to some degree, they could tend to the latter. Still, the wall Myrhil sensed Gríma maintained around himself showed little sign of crumbling, despite their shared part in Falvöd's death.
"If you remain here any longer," he suddenly said, "it will be dawn and your absence will be noticed."
Myrhil finished drying her hands on the towel. "You're right, of course, but I can't leave yet."
Gríma shifted in discomfort as Myrhil eased herself gently onto the bed with a heavy sigh. "Your body…it is stiff?"
"I was bent nearly double in that drain, pushing and pulling him along," she replied. "I don't feel as I'll ever get back to my normal self."
Gríma nodded, but his gaze never left the floor. He brought a thumb to his mouth and plucked at his lower lip in a distracted manner.
"You think—" she began tentatively, but stopped when words failed to form on her tongue.
"I think…what?" Gríma prompted, still aimlessly thumbing his lip.
"That he'll ever be found?" she finished with great effort. "I took him into the sewers as far as I could, but what if it wasn't far enough?"
"It will have to be," was the brisk reply, "though fingers may point at us regardless. Our only alibis rest with a guard who believes we were only concerned with drinking. We'll have to trust that no one will imagine we deviated from those plans when Falvöd's presence is missed."
Myrhil leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees, head cradled in one hand. "Why was he there, Gríma? He killed that man, the prisoner I wanted to question. The man knew about Belaród and the plots to raid herds in Gondor. It must be why Falvöd was there."
Gríma shook his head. "My impulse is to reject it utterly—"
"But you're not the impulsive sort," Myrhil interrupted in annoyance.
"—and I cannot believe," he continued smoothly, "that such a delicate mission as the King's embassage would be imperiled to assassinate some lowly—"
"—spy," Myrhil finished. "The man was a spy, and he knew more than what others wanted him to say."
"And Falvöd was a part of these others? That is what you're saying? Correct me if I'm wrong."
"I…" Myrhil's mouth worked silently until she sighed in perplexed frustration. "I don't want to meet the same end as that prisoner," she finally said. "I have never felt so close to Death before as I did tonight. Waiting for that knife to do its work—"
"Yes, very harrowing," Gríma replied as he hastily rose from the bed. "You have a tale to amuse your grandchildren."
"Gríma!" Myrhil felt all of her inner counsel to be calm fly out the window in the face of the Rohirrim's flippant remark. "Haven't you the good sense to be frightened?" she demanded.
He regarded her with a thoughtful expression. "Of course, but you can't allow it to cloud your judgment."
Myrhil's eyes narrowed. "Was your judgment clouded when you struck at him? You did not like him," she added, not waiting for a reply.
His thin and angular features seemed to sharpen at this implied accusation of premeditated murder. "No, I did not like him, but I didn't know his identity until afterwards, as you very well know. I came to the defense of one who was in danger, and not for the first time. If you recall."
"I do recall," Myrhil replied, without embarrassment at his reminder, "and I am grateful."
"Strangely, this is the first I have heard you say so. I was beginning to question the wisdom of my generosity."
Myrhil clenched her hands and shook them at him. "Very well, then. Let's insult each other for what remains of the night! I would absolutely rather do that than go to Boromir's bed."
She took satisfaction in the discomfited expression her remark provoked, but his embarrassment was short-lived, to be replaced by exaggerated patience.
"Your fine Captain will be full of questions when the prisoner's body is discovered. One possible outcome to our advantage is that there may well be some recrimination around the Citadel that a guard was not on watch in the gaol. They may become occupied by that matter and, hence, overlook us."
"We can hope," Myrhil said, glum. Much as she loved Boromir and regarded Faramir, her own desire for self-preservation was asserting itself.
"I would remark that it is a shame the Steward's sons will be inconvenienced on your behalf—"
"Our behalf," she corrected tersely.
"—and that you must consider it a mixed blessing, but I don't wish to antagonize you further."
Myrhil looked up at him balefully. "I don't wish to antagonize you, Gríma, but your barbs are becoming tiresome. I can implicate you, and you me. We could ruin each other, if we push ourselves to those extremes."
"Then this is an understanding?" he inquired with interest. "I'm content with that."
"I thought you might be," Myrhil continued, less irritable. "I won't say or do anything to spoil your future plans, whatever they may be, and—"
"—and I won't let one word imperil your cozy sleeping arrangement."
"How thoughtful," Myrhil replied dryly, "that where I lay my head means so much to you. I would rather have a head to lay down than whether it be in one bed or another." She grabbed her cloak and rose from the bed. "Gríma," she said as she paused before him, "I'd rather have you as a friend, even a prickly and disagreeable one, than to have to watch my back lest I find your knife between my shoulders. Figuratively speaking, of course."
"Of course."
"So, what are your future plans?" she asked, tossing the cloak over one arm and moving towards the door. "To become the King's most trusted man? No one would suspect you of this wrongdoing if you prove yourself loyal and humble while doing so."
Gríma inclined his head in agreement. "True, but a man already holds that position, and he is not humble. His blood affords him that luxury. Still, you have my humble gratitude for the advice. However, I'll soon be leaving for Lebennin."
Myrhil straightened and peered at him in wary curiosity. "What takes you there?"
"Belaród. Elfléda has given me leave to collect his remains."
"This is the first I've heard that you wanted to claim his body," she said, tone brittle. "When does this journey begin?"
"Considering what occurred tonight, as soon as possible."
"You go alone?"
Gríma stared at her, silent. The corner of his mouth then quirked upwards. "You think a scribe would warrant an escort? Unlikely."
"But you don't know the way."
"Gondor's maps are reliable."
"To a certain point, yes."
Gríma's smile did not widen, but his eyes glinted in mute anticipation and Myrhil knew she was being picked at and frayed as deliberately as a loose thread discovered by a child. Her nerves had been yanked, throttled, pummeled and squeezed into a suffocating and reeking sewer. And the threat of light mischief by one as guilty as she – no, more so – promised to rend the rest of them to irreparable shreds.
Though she felt her darkening mood was obvious in her expression, she was not surprised when it failed to stay Gríma's intent.
"I was wrong," she said, cutting him short before he could even speak. "You are the impulsive sort. At least when it comes to infuriating those who don't deserve it."
"Everyone has done something to deserve an annoyance or two. You are no exception."
The reason was left unspoken, but to both it was clear. Belaród. It chafed him that she had known his brother when he believed the young man had been killed anonymously and without remorse. And it saddened her that, behind Belaród's beguiling speech and seemingly honest smiles, there had lurked not only deceit about his intentions, but also of a past he never felt her worthy to know about.
And now, to exhume him and reopen that grave she had believed was forever sealed shut…
Myrhil turned her head away briefly and closed her eyes, trying to gather her thoughts. If she remained silent for too long, it would only fuel the scribe. She needed to reclaim the offensive, at least for a while. So strange that Boromir, the hardened and strong warrior, was gentle in his words and behavior, whereas this slight and unmartial man was nearly unrelenting with his sharp tongue and mind. Expressions were akin to punches, and words carried the same effect as a hot iron to the skin or a skewering blade.
"Then I wish you speed and safety, Gríma," she said. "Both you and your reliable maps. Belaród's grave is clearly marked as well. We gave him a worthy resting place, but it seems others have plans for him." She paused. "Are you going to broach any of this with your Ambassador? He must be told of Falvöd's actions."
"His actions?" Gríma retorted with some incredulity. "What of mine? That I was lurking outside a gaol well past midnight because I had followed Lord Boromir's mistress when she aroused my suspicions? That I saw this same mistress enter said gaol with a pilfered key, heard a scuffle, and then heroically waded into the mire, only to slay his loyal soldier and friend?" He shook his head in disbelief and regarded her as if she had gone insane.
"Falvöd's loyalty was either too little or too great."
Gríma paused barely a second before he placed a hand on her back and, with a sudden display of strength, steered her the remainder of the way towards the door. He lifted the latch with speed, yanked open the door, and propelled her into the flickering hallway before she could voice a protest or a curse. So quick were his movements that Myrhil had no opportunity to brace herself or right her balance. The ill-fitting hose hampered her legs and for the second time that night, she found herself meeting a stone wall. This time was more gentle, but it angered her no less. Balling up the towel she still held, she threw it at him, despite her flaring temper wanting a more lethal weapon.
He dodged it easily and gave it, then her, a disgusted look. "Entertain whatever suspicions please you, only don't trouble me with them!" he spat. "Tell them to your fine lord if you think them so credible!"
As he began to shut the door, Myrhil pushed herself away from the wall and reached it before he could do so, jamming a foot against it and throwing all her weight to force it open. Soon a struggle developed, both pushing furiously. Her throbbing shoulder hampered her efforts and she could see the open wedge quickly narrowing.
"In a short time, our lord will be one and the same!" she told him, just as the door thumped shut dangerously close to her face. "What shall I tell him?" she finished, louder, though not enough for her voice to echo down the corridor.
She remained there, leaning against the door and fuming silently. She tested the latch and gave an experimental shove, but the door opened only a fraction before thumping shut again. He was no doubt bearing his weight against it as well, determined to keep her out.
In parting, she pounded her fist once against the dense planks and stalked down the dark hallway.
Hey, buddy, can you spare a dime (of feedback)? Are more than 4 or 5 people reading this? The page hits say no, but I'm wondering. Anyway, PLEASE, if this fic sucks in any way, I want to know! (This pitiful whine is a re-do because I've had to replace the chapter a couple times when I've found idiotically on my part overlooked typos. And thank you, G. Thomas and Closet Oddity, for de-lurking! I'm really very happy to hear from long-time readers, first-time reviewers! You both – and good Ozma – have made my day.)