Chapter Six: Minds of the Gallows (III. 3010)
He reclined on his bed languidly, closed his eyes. The day had been long, the ride had been tedious. Yet another thing that separated him from his kinfolk was his dislike for horses. For being such large, reputedly intelligent beasts they seemed rather excitable. Their black eyes filled with mistrust when he neared them, they raked the ground with their hooves when he took the reins.
The wizard Saruman had promised him many things, had reminded him of all of the pain and anguish Gríma had endured as a child and still experienced. Now, with the promise of control and the gift of leechcraft, he would suck out the very life of Théoden and his kind. Gríma would endure the taunts and harassment no longer.
The Istari had known what Gríma desired. The right to prove the thinking mind was greater than all of the Marshals of the Mark, that it could instigate infinitely greater destruction than a thousand mindless men heaving swords at anything that moved.
And he fed an even deeper desire, fanning the flames of lust in Gríma's heart. He wanted a woman. Not one of the dirty, toothless hags that scowled at him in the town below. He wanted Éowyn, sister-daughter of the king. Not out of love and not out of cruelty, but out of something so simple and pure even he himself did not recognize it. He wanted to be accepted, and if he was betrothed to the very symbol of virtue and beauty of Rohan, perhaps he would be regarded in a different light. Éowyn was light in a dark place, both in his heart and of the land. She was life and youth and potential and physical strength. He brought age and death, weakness and a curse. But, Saruman had promised, once the War was over, Gríma would rise above the destruction and forge a new kingdom, one that prized mental prowess above all else. It would be a refuge, a haven for thought. Saruman promised many things. Gríma, beaten and starved, hungered, yearned for all the things to come to pass.. But it would take time. Slowly and secretly he must set the trap. Théoden would not fall ill for another several years. The illness would come about in such a subtle manner and increase greatly with every passing season. And then.. and -then-.
He wanted it so badly, he could see it in his mind. When he closed his eyes to blink it flashed with shocking clarity. The lord and lady of Rohan. She in a silvery white dress, modest yet clinging in the right places. Her flowing golden hair pulled back, eyes shining as she looked at him. That smile.. yes, that smile of hers.. That he died a thousand deaths every time she unleashed it, his soul crumbled.. No more. She would smile for him and he would know that joy, finally. It was not love of the woman, it was love of an ideal, the ideal of being accepted. Accepted the way he knew he would never be, if not for Saruman's aid. Aid that he would turn to practice when the time was right.
A new era would rise and the old ways would fall.
~
Lómëí sprawled across the bed, feeling the hay shift in the burlap beneath her. It was delicious to rest under cover, to have something soft supporting her frame. Candles crackled quietly on the rickety furniture, spread haphazardly throughout the small room. Incense burned, the smoke wafted lazily through the chilled air. The Elves looked at incense as something dirty and foul, the human races had no interest in the north. But it connected her to her father's people, and reminded her of home.
She was often afflicted with a sense of nostalgia and yearning for earlier times. Before the chaos. Before the questioning. Before her parents had attempted to cross Gondor to head north and eventually into Mirkwood. Before the soldiers came, with spears and swords and crossbows. And her world was decimated. There was still the love of her kin in the forests, but it had all seemed so hollow and dispassionate. Perhaps it was because she was not fully one of their own, perhaps it was because she forced herself to be miserable. Once she came of age, though, Lómëí had returned to the South, only to find great strife and even more chaos between the civilizations. War was coming. Strangers were not welcome. Twenty years had passed, entire generations were leaving for the south-east, marching into Mordor. None remembered her, none welcomed her, and again she was alone. Not at home with pale skin in the bronzed lands of the sun and not at peace within the woodland realms with her coal hair and wild eyes, strange rituals and garb.
So it came to pass that she journeyed for many years until she eventually had ended up in the frozen wasteland of Forodwaith and thus had met Haldanor, grandfather of Gríma of Rohan.
Her mind continued to wander, ebbing and flowing over the years of her life. She dreamt a waking dream. And then.. and then there was Gríma. A fascinating example of a man, from her limited experience with him. In her minds' eye the face of Haldanor transformed into that of Gríma. Far less fair than his grandfather yet still with the same sad, pale eyes. The same dark hair. He was-
A knock at the door sent the images crashing, light invaded her eyes and she sprang immediately to her feet, drew her Khopesh. A woman's voice called out in Westron from behind the wood.
"M'lady? I bring water for you."
Lómëí pulled the door open with her right hand, keeping the handle of the sword grasped in her left. The woman peered in through the crack, holding a basin of water. The door opened fully, she whisked in, nearly threw the reservoir on the nearest box and fled out, terror in her eyes.
Was it really so horrifying to have a Southron in ones' boarding house? She began to shake her head slowly, sheathing the Khopesh back at her side. Seemingly out of nowhere, a hand appeared in the door jam and gently held it open. Lómëí stood back, curious as to who would be so bold.
~
Gríma tossed and turned, yet sleep would not return. Images raced through his rest-deprived mind, working slowly across the host of people he had known. Of his mother who had passed recently. Of his grandfather, whom he had never known but heard so many tales about. Of his grandmother, also dead and his father.. His father. His father who had been so weak and quiet, who had been executed for the crime he had committed. The Rohirrim had never truly appreciated his family, for they were all somewhat rebels or individuals, thinking men rather than acting men. Gríma was convinced that he would be the first in their line to take his thoughts and translate them into actions, actions the whole of Middle earth would reel from.
The several winters previous, Gálmód had taken ill, both of mind and body. He had aged terribly in a quick amount of time. Once his spirit was weakened, it was almost as if he were the walking dead. And he had murdered, a pointless murder. There was no gold or glory to be gained from the slaying of an old woman, especially Gálmód's own mother. What Léothen, wife of Haldanor had done to her child to deserve such a death, he did not know. Perhaps it was nothing, perhaps Gálmód honestly was insane. Whatever the reasoning or purpose (or lack there of) Léothen was gone. And Gálmód had been dragged to the gallows, kicking and screaming and spitting, denying that he had acted out the matricide. Gríma had turned his head and left, had not witnessed the execution.
Théoden had been kind about it, more forgiving than the rest of the royal family. He had overheard the King's words to Théodred, his son. To not judge Gríma based on his blood, but on his character. His character, Théoden asserted, that while odd was completely loyal the Rohan. Gríma hated him for those kind words, he did not want to look back, ever. He wanted to be lost in his daze of hate.
And then, he was alone. More isolated than he could have ever imagined. No family, no companions, no friends. Abandon and orphaned as an adult. There were none to take pity on him, and his anger festered and grew until it was ripe for Saruman to take his control. Gríma already had the predisposition to betray his people, if simply for their ill-will and malice towards his person. But if he also had no support from those he loved.. he was a man with nothing, absolutely nothing to lose. There was Éowyn, yes, but she was promised to Gríma and he would protect her when the revolution came. He would not bear loss again. He could not. He was restless, listening to the soft rain gently fall.
He swung his feet off of the bed, feeling the cold stone under his bare toes. His eyes focused on the town below, eyes narrowing in on one of the few rooms that still had a candle burning. Golden light seeped from beneath the door. It was the one boarding house in all of Edoras.
~
From the gloom, he slithered in. Still cloaked in his layers of velvet, he looked like a pale mask and dolls hands set upon a deep shadow. His eyes, the only color to him, glinted.
The hand on the hilt of her sword relaxed, she sighed softly. Gríma looked to her with a perplexing expression, lingered on the doorstop.
"Come in. The air outside is chilled." She motioned to a rickety chair that stood like a skeleton in the corner. Without a word, his eyes dropped to the floor and he slunk to the chair.
"What is that scent?" His nostrils flared for a moment as he inhaled slowly, savoring the sweet smell.
"It is something from Harad, that many of the people burn. It is herbs." Lómëí sat on the edge of her rented bed, feeling the coarse wool beneath her in folds. She looked to Gríma, tried to catch his eyes. He was still peering at the floor.
"Please forgive me if I intrude.."
"You need not apologize, Gríma.." She trailed off, leaned back onto the bed. He shifted uncomfortably nearby. "Tell me, what became of your father? I have not heard the tale. Does he yet live?"
Silence. Rain. Candles flickered, wind began to howl. Her eyes closed and she focused on the layers of sound. His voice began, quiet and gentle. "I am truly sorry. He passed, many seasons ago."
She nodded, presumed it so. She had no opportunity to know Gálmód, she took the words of his mother to heart and avoided Rohan altogether, or at least as much as possible. After all, the woman had been Haldanor's wife and Lómëí felt some sort of allegiance in his memory to be courteous to her wishes, no matter how ridiculous. After so many years gone, she began to believe that she brought a curse with her. The scowls of the Rohirrim at the borders warned her away.
"May I ask you something?" He sat forward, velvet rustling.
"Ays, what do you wish to know?"
"How you met my grandfather. And why you are here now."
Gríma momentarily forgot all of the matters of Rohan, and settled in for something he had not experienced in what seemed ages: a story. To hear about far away places, exotic races. The woman untied her belt, letting her sword drop to the bed, she pushed it down to where her feet rested. Her back rested against the headboard, ornately carved with images of hunters and horses. Gray eyes flicked to his, he was entranced. She began.
[Author's Note: Sorry about this chapter, they will get better. It's about three in the morning and I'm quite tired, but wanted to get this thing up anyhow. Thanks, Alexa, for leaving a review! And Phantom, as ever, thank you! I respect your opinion very much and it's nice to know that you approve! :) In the next couple chapters expect Gríma's run-in with the Witch King and Co., as well as the adventures of Haldanor and Lómëí. If anyone has any suggestions, ideas or concerns- please let me know!]
He reclined on his bed languidly, closed his eyes. The day had been long, the ride had been tedious. Yet another thing that separated him from his kinfolk was his dislike for horses. For being such large, reputedly intelligent beasts they seemed rather excitable. Their black eyes filled with mistrust when he neared them, they raked the ground with their hooves when he took the reins.
The wizard Saruman had promised him many things, had reminded him of all of the pain and anguish Gríma had endured as a child and still experienced. Now, with the promise of control and the gift of leechcraft, he would suck out the very life of Théoden and his kind. Gríma would endure the taunts and harassment no longer.
The Istari had known what Gríma desired. The right to prove the thinking mind was greater than all of the Marshals of the Mark, that it could instigate infinitely greater destruction than a thousand mindless men heaving swords at anything that moved.
And he fed an even deeper desire, fanning the flames of lust in Gríma's heart. He wanted a woman. Not one of the dirty, toothless hags that scowled at him in the town below. He wanted Éowyn, sister-daughter of the king. Not out of love and not out of cruelty, but out of something so simple and pure even he himself did not recognize it. He wanted to be accepted, and if he was betrothed to the very symbol of virtue and beauty of Rohan, perhaps he would be regarded in a different light. Éowyn was light in a dark place, both in his heart and of the land. She was life and youth and potential and physical strength. He brought age and death, weakness and a curse. But, Saruman had promised, once the War was over, Gríma would rise above the destruction and forge a new kingdom, one that prized mental prowess above all else. It would be a refuge, a haven for thought. Saruman promised many things. Gríma, beaten and starved, hungered, yearned for all the things to come to pass.. But it would take time. Slowly and secretly he must set the trap. Théoden would not fall ill for another several years. The illness would come about in such a subtle manner and increase greatly with every passing season. And then.. and -then-.
He wanted it so badly, he could see it in his mind. When he closed his eyes to blink it flashed with shocking clarity. The lord and lady of Rohan. She in a silvery white dress, modest yet clinging in the right places. Her flowing golden hair pulled back, eyes shining as she looked at him. That smile.. yes, that smile of hers.. That he died a thousand deaths every time she unleashed it, his soul crumbled.. No more. She would smile for him and he would know that joy, finally. It was not love of the woman, it was love of an ideal, the ideal of being accepted. Accepted the way he knew he would never be, if not for Saruman's aid. Aid that he would turn to practice when the time was right.
A new era would rise and the old ways would fall.
~
Lómëí sprawled across the bed, feeling the hay shift in the burlap beneath her. It was delicious to rest under cover, to have something soft supporting her frame. Candles crackled quietly on the rickety furniture, spread haphazardly throughout the small room. Incense burned, the smoke wafted lazily through the chilled air. The Elves looked at incense as something dirty and foul, the human races had no interest in the north. But it connected her to her father's people, and reminded her of home.
She was often afflicted with a sense of nostalgia and yearning for earlier times. Before the chaos. Before the questioning. Before her parents had attempted to cross Gondor to head north and eventually into Mirkwood. Before the soldiers came, with spears and swords and crossbows. And her world was decimated. There was still the love of her kin in the forests, but it had all seemed so hollow and dispassionate. Perhaps it was because she was not fully one of their own, perhaps it was because she forced herself to be miserable. Once she came of age, though, Lómëí had returned to the South, only to find great strife and even more chaos between the civilizations. War was coming. Strangers were not welcome. Twenty years had passed, entire generations were leaving for the south-east, marching into Mordor. None remembered her, none welcomed her, and again she was alone. Not at home with pale skin in the bronzed lands of the sun and not at peace within the woodland realms with her coal hair and wild eyes, strange rituals and garb.
So it came to pass that she journeyed for many years until she eventually had ended up in the frozen wasteland of Forodwaith and thus had met Haldanor, grandfather of Gríma of Rohan.
Her mind continued to wander, ebbing and flowing over the years of her life. She dreamt a waking dream. And then.. and then there was Gríma. A fascinating example of a man, from her limited experience with him. In her minds' eye the face of Haldanor transformed into that of Gríma. Far less fair than his grandfather yet still with the same sad, pale eyes. The same dark hair. He was-
A knock at the door sent the images crashing, light invaded her eyes and she sprang immediately to her feet, drew her Khopesh. A woman's voice called out in Westron from behind the wood.
"M'lady? I bring water for you."
Lómëí pulled the door open with her right hand, keeping the handle of the sword grasped in her left. The woman peered in through the crack, holding a basin of water. The door opened fully, she whisked in, nearly threw the reservoir on the nearest box and fled out, terror in her eyes.
Was it really so horrifying to have a Southron in ones' boarding house? She began to shake her head slowly, sheathing the Khopesh back at her side. Seemingly out of nowhere, a hand appeared in the door jam and gently held it open. Lómëí stood back, curious as to who would be so bold.
~
Gríma tossed and turned, yet sleep would not return. Images raced through his rest-deprived mind, working slowly across the host of people he had known. Of his mother who had passed recently. Of his grandfather, whom he had never known but heard so many tales about. Of his grandmother, also dead and his father.. His father. His father who had been so weak and quiet, who had been executed for the crime he had committed. The Rohirrim had never truly appreciated his family, for they were all somewhat rebels or individuals, thinking men rather than acting men. Gríma was convinced that he would be the first in their line to take his thoughts and translate them into actions, actions the whole of Middle earth would reel from.
The several winters previous, Gálmód had taken ill, both of mind and body. He had aged terribly in a quick amount of time. Once his spirit was weakened, it was almost as if he were the walking dead. And he had murdered, a pointless murder. There was no gold or glory to be gained from the slaying of an old woman, especially Gálmód's own mother. What Léothen, wife of Haldanor had done to her child to deserve such a death, he did not know. Perhaps it was nothing, perhaps Gálmód honestly was insane. Whatever the reasoning or purpose (or lack there of) Léothen was gone. And Gálmód had been dragged to the gallows, kicking and screaming and spitting, denying that he had acted out the matricide. Gríma had turned his head and left, had not witnessed the execution.
Théoden had been kind about it, more forgiving than the rest of the royal family. He had overheard the King's words to Théodred, his son. To not judge Gríma based on his blood, but on his character. His character, Théoden asserted, that while odd was completely loyal the Rohan. Gríma hated him for those kind words, he did not want to look back, ever. He wanted to be lost in his daze of hate.
And then, he was alone. More isolated than he could have ever imagined. No family, no companions, no friends. Abandon and orphaned as an adult. There were none to take pity on him, and his anger festered and grew until it was ripe for Saruman to take his control. Gríma already had the predisposition to betray his people, if simply for their ill-will and malice towards his person. But if he also had no support from those he loved.. he was a man with nothing, absolutely nothing to lose. There was Éowyn, yes, but she was promised to Gríma and he would protect her when the revolution came. He would not bear loss again. He could not. He was restless, listening to the soft rain gently fall.
He swung his feet off of the bed, feeling the cold stone under his bare toes. His eyes focused on the town below, eyes narrowing in on one of the few rooms that still had a candle burning. Golden light seeped from beneath the door. It was the one boarding house in all of Edoras.
~
From the gloom, he slithered in. Still cloaked in his layers of velvet, he looked like a pale mask and dolls hands set upon a deep shadow. His eyes, the only color to him, glinted.
The hand on the hilt of her sword relaxed, she sighed softly. Gríma looked to her with a perplexing expression, lingered on the doorstop.
"Come in. The air outside is chilled." She motioned to a rickety chair that stood like a skeleton in the corner. Without a word, his eyes dropped to the floor and he slunk to the chair.
"What is that scent?" His nostrils flared for a moment as he inhaled slowly, savoring the sweet smell.
"It is something from Harad, that many of the people burn. It is herbs." Lómëí sat on the edge of her rented bed, feeling the coarse wool beneath her in folds. She looked to Gríma, tried to catch his eyes. He was still peering at the floor.
"Please forgive me if I intrude.."
"You need not apologize, Gríma.." She trailed off, leaned back onto the bed. He shifted uncomfortably nearby. "Tell me, what became of your father? I have not heard the tale. Does he yet live?"
Silence. Rain. Candles flickered, wind began to howl. Her eyes closed and she focused on the layers of sound. His voice began, quiet and gentle. "I am truly sorry. He passed, many seasons ago."
She nodded, presumed it so. She had no opportunity to know Gálmód, she took the words of his mother to heart and avoided Rohan altogether, or at least as much as possible. After all, the woman had been Haldanor's wife and Lómëí felt some sort of allegiance in his memory to be courteous to her wishes, no matter how ridiculous. After so many years gone, she began to believe that she brought a curse with her. The scowls of the Rohirrim at the borders warned her away.
"May I ask you something?" He sat forward, velvet rustling.
"Ays, what do you wish to know?"
"How you met my grandfather. And why you are here now."
Gríma momentarily forgot all of the matters of Rohan, and settled in for something he had not experienced in what seemed ages: a story. To hear about far away places, exotic races. The woman untied her belt, letting her sword drop to the bed, she pushed it down to where her feet rested. Her back rested against the headboard, ornately carved with images of hunters and horses. Gray eyes flicked to his, he was entranced. She began.
[Author's Note: Sorry about this chapter, they will get better. It's about three in the morning and I'm quite tired, but wanted to get this thing up anyhow. Thanks, Alexa, for leaving a review! And Phantom, as ever, thank you! I respect your opinion very much and it's nice to know that you approve! :) In the next couple chapters expect Gríma's run-in with the Witch King and Co., as well as the adventures of Haldanor and Lómëí. If anyone has any suggestions, ideas or concerns- please let me know!]