Théodred lay in the growing dark then, listening to his breaths, feeling the fiery hurt building in his abdomen and the throbbing pain pulsing from his forehead. But a few moments had passed when he saw Gríma come out of the hall, pale face white in the darkness.
"Prince of the Mark, you have returned to the land of the living," he greeted Théodred.
Théodred's pride pushed his pain to back of his mind. "Gríma. The Orcs send you a greeting from Saruman," he mocked.
"You threatened me before you left, Théodred," Gríma said, "and now it is my turn." Théodred saw the glint of steel as Gríma drew a thin dagger from beneath his cloak. Gríma smiled thinly, hovering over Théodred, the weapon poised over the Prince's throat.
"You will die tonight."
Théodred glared up at the King's advisor. "I know. But it will not be by your hand."
Gríma seemed taken aback by the strength flaring in Théodred's voice and he lowered the dagger. The Prince was less weakened than he had first believed. A spark of doubt lit in Gríma's mind, asking, What if Théodred did survive the night? He had sent the Prince on the journey to the Fords to kill him, not to have him return with wounds that would merely fade into scars and a story of bravery and luck.
"No," Gríma replied. "You were wounded by servants of Saruman."
Théodred glared at the man. "You are one such servant."
Gríma smiled again. "Exactly."
In one quick movement, Gríma pulled back the sheet covering Théodred's abdomen and slid the dagger neatly into the Prince's stomach, the new wound hidden by the ones delivered by the Warg. Théodred gasped sharply at the pain, throwing his head back as it lanced through him. Gríma pulled the dagger back, wiping it on the hem of his cloak, the dark red of Théodred's blood blending into the black of the fabric.
"Treacherous worm!" Théodred snapped, pain flashing into anger. "You will betray even Saruman if it serves your best interests."
Gríma flinched. "I would never betray my leader."
"You betrayed my father quickly enough." Théodred was weakening through blood loss and the older wounds and his voice was faltering as pain seeped into his heart. Gríma heard and knew the change and smiled.
"Death is coming, Théodred," he gloated.
A clear, forceful voice broke through whatever he was about to add. "Gríma! Go back to the cave you slithered from and torment Théodred no more!"
Gríma whirled around in shock to see Éowyn standing in the doorway, Théodred's sword glittering in her hand. "Leave us!" she snapped, seeming to shine as cold and fair as the golden moon that hung in the sky. Gríma snarled at her, cast one last baleful glance at Théodred and slunk past Éowyn, disappearing down the hall.
"He will not return tonight."
"I told you to go to bed, Éowyn," he replied.
Icy blue fire blazed in her eyes. "I am no longer a child, Théodred. I need not the rules placed on one. Besides, I do not wish for you to rest alone in the dark."
A faint smile graced his lips. "Thank you."
She knelt at his side, clasping his cooling hand with her own vibrantly warm one, letting his sword drop to the floor. She was crying again, he noticed vaguely, and each tear was like a tiny jewel sparkling in the night, streaking her cheeks with brilliance. But such sad brilliance! Pain and beauty so often walked hand in hand.
Éowyn watched the light fade from her cousin's skin, the glow of life withdrawing to fight the shadows that clenched their deathly claw around his heart. His hand's strength weakened and she gripped it tighter, hoping to hold on to him for a few more minutes. He turned his face towards her and he saw the glimmer of his eyes from under half-lowered eyelids. Slowly, his eyelids dropped, long lashes like curtains hiding some precious treasure from mortal eyes. His breath faded until one last gentle push of air form his lungs came out as a sigh, finally devoid of the pain he had lived with for the last days of his short life.
"So falls Théodred, son of Théoden, and the Prince of the Mark," Éowyn whispered softly, brokenly, feeling the cold hand relax limply against her own.