Disclaimer: LotR and all its related characters do not belong to me and are used without permission. Book based. Spoilers potentially for RotK and TTT

"Into Shadow She Rode"

Chapter 4: Intrigue and Illness

by Papillon

The shutters were closed, but sunlight filtered in through the cracks, stretching its demanding fingers over the room and over the bed where a huddled figure lay. The figure stirred, groaning and pulling the blankets up over its head.

My head…aches as though the hammers of the dwarves pounded at it! Théodred thought, struggling to bring himself awake. He tasted a bitter lingering on his tongue, as if he were ill or drunk, and tried to swallow it away, but the moisture would not come. What…happened? He tried to sort through the pounding in his head and re-gather his memories, yet found them scattered and difficult to recall. Finally, he caught a snippet of conversation…Éowyn frowning, speaking insistently. Of…Wormtongue!

His memory began to solidify, rushing back. That foul snake, Wormtongue! He tried to kill my father yesterday! He pulled himself up to a sitting position, but then slumped back against the wall behind his bed. He searched his memory further, trying to remember why it was that he abruptly felt as though he had to retch. I departed from Éowyn and Éomer…went to my chambers…poured myself a glass of wine, undressed, and went to bed, as I always do…why this? He shook his head, as though to brush the dizziness away. I feel as though I had been drugged…drugged! My wine!

Had he not been weakened by whatever poison it was, Théodred would have leapt out of bed and gone to throttle his serving maid. That wench! Who is she working for? He thought carefully. Wormtongue perhaps…but why drug me now? Surely he cannot have heard our conversation of last night. Surely...…

Éowyn crossed over to the corner of the room where Éomer was standing, his tenseness betrayed by the tightness of his shoulders and the stiffness of his stance. "Where is Théodred?" she asked in a soft undertone. "Théoden has nearly finished his repast and will begin his counsel with all who desire it soon."

"You need not tell me of these things," he said. "They are as apparent to me as to you. Théodred must come now, else the common people will begin their petitions and pleas."

She heard the unnecessary sharpness of his words and looked closely at his face, discerning the brooding look in his eyes. "Éomer, what troubles you? It is more than Gríma's treachery, that much I know."

"It is naught," he said, avoiding her gaze. "Naught but concern for my king."

Inwardly she sighed. Will he never learn that he cannot lie to me? "Éomer…last night you were drawn deep into your thoughts. Can you tell me they were only thoughts of your king?"

"I-" he started to say, but was interrupted by a door opening across from them. Théodred entered the room, and Éowyn thought to herself that he staggered a little and walked unsteadily, almost as if he were ill or drunk. There were very few in the room, only the king, his immediate family, guards, and some guests from outlying keeps and manors; the commoners would come to seek court with the king later. Still, all the eyes in the room were raised from their meals and pulled out of their conversations when Théodred cried loudly, "I come to seek an audience with my father! I come to speak against the traitor in our midst-the Wormtongue whose vile words have nearly deceived us all! I am prepared to defend this claim with my sword and my honor!" He looked then directly at Gríma, eyes narrowing dangerously, and all those present followed his gaze, expressions of shock and disbelief crossing their faces.

Now he can no longer slink in the shadows and filth, hoping to hide behind my father. Now it comes to the thing-what will he do? Théodred tried to ignore the aching still in his head, and searched Gríma's face. The eyes were lidded as always, the dark pupils beneath revealing nothing. Yet he thought he discerned a small curving of the mouth, as if to smile. Théodred was not left to ponder the meaning behind this apparent lack of fear, for Théoden stood, calling the attention of all to him.

He turned to Théodred. "My son, do you wish to lodge a charge against my most loyal counsellor, my most trusted and respected confidant?"

Théoden thought, Speak carefully, my son. What is this madness that has possessed you? This is perilous for us both!

Théodred said forcefully, though the words slurred a little despite his best efforts: "Aye. This man is a traitor to the royal house. He brought the orcs upon our hunting party yesterday, hoping to kill you, then saved you in order to gain your absolute trust. He spreads his lies and deceit among us cloaked in words of wisdom. Wisdom!" He spat at Gríma's feet.

Gríma recoiled, and his eyes flickered slightly, betraying his anger. He said smoothly, in a low, convincing voice laced with concern, "My lord king, your son is not well. See how the sweat beads upon his brow and how he struggles to stand upright even now? He is ill, hallucinating and delirious."

Théoden examined his son carefully and slowly. Gríma speaks truly. He appears very ill. After a long pause, he said, "Théodred, listen to the words of Gríma and send yourself back to rest. We will forget what has been said here today and not hold you responsible for your words, untruthful as they were. Many a sick man has said things he regrets later, and even you, my son, as strong as you are, may be brought low by illness."

Éowyn, standing by, saw her brother's shoulders stiffen and reached out to hold him still. So this is how he plays his game. He is more cunning than we ever expected…

Théodred shook his head, slightly at first and then more and more violently. He cried, "Do not listen to his lies, father! It is true that I am ill, but only because he poisoned me! He fears that I will reveal his true nature-that is why he wishes to send me to rest, not out of any concern for my health!"

Éowyn searched the room, peering into the eyes of those present. The lesser nobles had looks on their faces both appalled and alarmed. But they did not believe in Théodred. They were merely shocked by such a loss of royal dignity, and wished to end the matter and free themselves of concern over it as soon as possible. They had no desire to question things better left unquestioned and they would readily accept Gríma's tales of delirium as explanation. The guards, however, had an angry light glinting in their eyes. These men had fought with Théodred and knew he was no liar or dreamer. If anything, he was overly pragmatic, stubborn and sensible, no man to lay his sword down for nothing. If he became truly angry and not merely annoyed, it was with just cause. And he would never risk the reputation of the House of Eorl lightly. "He is a wormtongue," they muttered. But they would do nothing. They could do nothing but bide their time, for they were also loyal to their king and would obey his word until the very last. But we have swayed them. At the very least, they have listened to our truths, she thought, grasping at that small consolation to give herself hope.

Her attention was brought away from the other observers and back to Théodred as he collapsed heavily onto the floor, ungracefully as though all his strength was spent. The king drew in a swift breath of concern and half-rose from his chair to go to his son's side, but Gríma stopped him, saying, "Allow me, my lord. I feel responsible for this. We should not have aggravated one so ill thusly."

Gríma kneeled beside where Théodred lay sprawled upon the floor, trying to lift himself up in vain. He bent close and hissed into Théodred's ear, "Behold what befalls those who attempt to harm me. This is a warning-heed it well!" With that, he reached behind Théodred and flicked one long, unkempt fingernail at a pressure point, causing Théodred to go limp, eyes rolling back in his head. Gríma straightened, his face composed as it had been all along. "My lord," he said, "your son has fainted. I recommend that he be taken to his chambers immediately and given the best care we have to offer until he recovers his strength and health."

The king nodded and motioned to the guards standing alert beside the door. "See that it is done."

The guards hefted Théodred's limp body to their shoulders and carried him out of the room. Éowyn followed them with her eyes, a sick feeling rising in her throat. So easily we are felled and our plans dispersed…what can any do against a foe such as this?

Théoden , too, followed the passage of the guards, yet his face betrayed nothing of his feelings. Éowyn wondered at this, yet thought: That is the mark of a great ruler, to not be brought low, whatever may befall him. But can he not see that he is being brought low, that he will fail and fall if he does not crush this snake among us? She sighed. Beside her, Éomer made as if to step forward.

"What Théodred was prevented from doing, I will do," he muttered. Éowyn quickly stepped in front of him, blocking his movement. His gaze, troubled and angry, met hers. "Éowyn, why do you prevent me from doing that which I must?"

She answered in a low voice, lest anyone overhear them. "Hear me now, brother of mine. You must not do this thing, You witnessed Théodred's fate! We cannot afford to cross Gríma, not yet. He is too dangerous! We must study him further, learn his ways and his weaknesses. Only then can we stand against him in any hope of succeeding."

"Perhaps…" he said unwillingly.

"Nay," she said, "you must promise me you will not yet challenge him openly. Promise me this!" He turned away and would not look her in the eyes.

She reached out to him and laid a soft hand upon his shoulder, but he flinched away. She was stunned into silence for a few moments, looking at her hand as though it did not belong to her.

"Éomer!" she whispered sadly, almost too quietly to hear. "What haunts you, Éomer? You and I have always been as one. Why will you not tell me of the dark thoughts in your mind? Why do you recoil from me?"

"I do not know what it is which troubles me," he said, "only that I--" He broke off, a sudden look of pain crossing his face, and put a hand to his side. "Forgive me, Éowyn. My wound pains me and I must retire to my chambers," he said, then turned abruptly and left, walking slowly as though he carried a great burden on his shoulders.

Éowyn stood staring after him for a few moments in shock and wonder. What has befallen him? He is deeply uneasy, but I cannot fathom the reason for it. It is more than Wormtongue, that I know, but…in all my life, I cannot recall another time when he drew back from my touch thusly.

Éomer leaned wearily against a cool stone wall, at the end of a small hallway where the windows and the torches did not reach to cast away the shadows. His wound throbbed and ached, a fiery burning of pain which would not and could not be ignored.

Why, by the House of Eorl, does this wound affect me so? I am not a four-year-old child who skins their knee for the first time. I am a rider of the Riddermark, and I have braved wounds graver than this many times before. So why now am I brought so low by the pain that I must leave the room like an old man crippled by age?

He clenched at the edge of the wall in frustration, his fingers scrabbling at a crack. A wave of pain swept through him, more awful than any that had yet come, and he doubled over as if to escape it, yet felt it increase until he bit back a scream of agony. Blackness began to edge into the corners of his sight, and he felt as though red hot pinpricks danced over his skin. And then he recalled no more.


Théoden listened with only half his awareness to the commoners' petitions and pleas. He made the requisite responses, but his heart thought only of his son. When they were done and all had left him, he turned immediately to Gríma, finally allowing his mask of detachedness to fall. "Gríma, how fares my son? Is he very gravely ill?"

Gríma's eyes were full of concern. "Yes, my lord, I am afraid that he is. It is my belief that with diligent care he will recover, but…"

Théoden pressed, "But what? Surely he will not die."

"Do not fear, my lord," Gríma said soothingly. "He is not beyond our skill to heal by any means. You have too many other weighty matters holding your concern; trust in your healers and do not trouble yourself needlessly."

Théoden thought for a moment, then decided. "We shall go to visit him now and consult with his healers. Inform the door wardens that I am unavailable for counsel."

"Yes, my lord," Gríma said, bowing.

Théoden strode down several halls and up two flights of stairs, all the while thinking, What would I do if he should die? He cannot die. He must not die.

He reached Théodred's chambers and opened the doors without knocking. The healer was nowhere to be seen, but his son lay on his bed, his face deathly pale. Théoden crossed to his side and knelt beside him, taking his hand. It was clammy and cold, as though it belonged to a newly-dead corpse. Théoden raised a tender hand and swept a lock of loose hair out of his son's face.

"You must not die, Théodred, my son," he whispered. "I am a king, but I am also a father, and you are my only son, my most prized possession. I could not bear to lose you. Please fight this illness, please emerge victorious."

Théodred stirred, and his eyes opened slightly. He coughed and then said in a weak voice, "I am not deathly ill, father. You fear more than you need to. But moreover, it is not the illness which I must fight, it is the traitor who administered it to me. This is no delirious dream, father-it is the truth! Do not let his lies sway you! If I am your most prized posession, then surely you must listen to me. Gríma poisoned me and made me ill to prevent me from exposing his true nature. He saved you yesterday only to further his own ends. You must listen! You must banish him from this land immediately ere he causes further harm to your kingdom! Father--"

But Théoden paid no heed to his words. Instead, he stood, calling out: "Healer! Where is the healer for my son?"

A lean man, dressed in somber colors, emerged from the doorway and bowed. "My apologies, sire. I merely went to fetch some medicines."

Théoden cut him off, saying, "My son is very ill. He is delirious and has been having hallucinations. I trust that you will care for him with your utmost skill and knowledge. He is the future of this kingdom."

"Of course, my lord," said the healer. "I have no doubt that he will shortly recover. You may feel certain that I will use my utmost abilities to heal him."

Théoden nodded and departed, but Théodred thought, as the healer rummaged through his bag of medicines, What sway this Wormtongue already holds over my father's mind and heart! I am powerless to convince him!


Éomer felt consciousness begin to return, slowly and uncertainly. Where am I? This is not my chambers. His surroundings were not unfamiliar but neither were they right. Stone walls…a hallway somewhere in my home…He struggled to remember why and how he had come to be lying on the floor of a corridor, his head and side equally painful. Théodred…had tried to confront Wormtongue and reveal him to Théoden , but had failed, was poisoned and had fallen ill. He had been talking with Éowyn…his wound had pained him and he had gone out into a narrow side-hallway…and then…

He had fainted. He understood and quickly looked up to see that none had witnessed his shame. Yet a pair of dark eyes met his and he nearly groaned in despair. The eyes belonged to Gríma Wormtongue.

To have him see me conquered by this tiny wound…it is more than I can bear!

Gríma did not laugh mockingly as he had expected, but instead said sympathetically, kneeling beside him. "You should take better care of yourself, Éomer son of Eomund, or that wound will do great harm. You of all people cannot take such a risk."

Éomer was not fooled by his fake concern, but said, struggling to sit up properly, "What business is it of yours whether I live or die?"

Gríma said in a hurt voice, "My business is that of Rohan, and you are very important to its people. And I should not like to see you gravely ill as your cousin is."

Éomer scowled. "Cease your lies. They do not fool me. I know that nothing would please you better than to see both of us dead, and you in line for the throne."

Gríma protested, "Why do you think such things? Why do you hate me so? We have many things in common, you and I."

"We have nothing in common," Éomer spat angrily.

Gríma smiled, his dark eyes unreadable. "We share a concern for your sister, for one thing."

Éomer drew back in outrage and surprise. "Concern for my sister? How dare you insinuate that she is in danger? Do you think to threaten me?"

Gríma held up a placating hand. "Be at peace, son of Eomund. I meant only that she is so young, so pure and beautiful. The men swarm around her, sullying her. She must be protected from all of them, for who is worthy of her loveliness and grace? Who deserves to steal her purity?"
Éomer said heatedly, "No one is worthy of that, no one is deserving. There is not a man among them who I would permit to lay a hand upon her or to marry her. She is far above all of them."

"Yet you fail to stop all of them, do you not?" Gríma asked cunningly. "You cannot be with her at all times or see all that befalls her. Sooner or later, one of them will succeed."

Éomer shook his head, as much to deny Gríma's charge as to rid his head of the images crowding in. "I would die before I let that happen. It must not happen."

Gríma agreed. "No, it must not. She is so very helpless, so very innocent and exquisitely beautiful. Those undeserving of her must not be allowed to have her."

Éomer nodded slowly. "I will protect her. I will be at her side always. They will never have her. She is mine to protect."

Gríma turned at that moment and left abruptly, leaving Éomer to think upon his words. Éomer did not look up, too deep in his thoughts, else he would have seen the smile on Gríma's face.


Éomer sat motionless in the hallway, his back leaned upon the wall, still in the same position he had been in when Gríma left. His head was filled with many things, things which disturbed and troubled him greatly.

What did Gríma mean, telling me of this matter? Was he warning me or truly threatening me? He sighed. Éowyn was hard for him to be around of late. She unsettled him in a way he could not quite put his finger on. He wanted to get away from her and at the same time to be always with her. And he feared for her.

Gríma was right about the men who clamored for her attention. They had noticed her beauty and sought after it, along with her position of royalty. But none of them were worthy of her. She thought they were harmless and that she could defend herself well enough, but he knew she was wrong. He knew he had to protect her, though it would anger her greatly if she knew what he was doing.

What does haunt me? Éowyn asked it of me, but I do not know the answer. It is not just Wormtongue…it is something more.

Perhaps it is Éowyn. She has grown so quickly that I do not know what to do. I always thought of her as my baby sister, but one day I noticed…she is beautiful beyond measure. More beautiful even than our mother was…and in a different way.

His hands clenched into fists. And I will never allow that beauty to be despoiled by filth. They will never harm her as long as I am alive. Never.

A/N: Contained within this chapter are two...actually, three, as I later discovered, sort-of stolen lines from the FotR movie. A friend challenged me to put them in...see if you can find them! But remember, this is book based (even though the lines are from the movie).

I'm sorry this chapter is so very late! Can we say getting sick all last week, a 4000 word extended essay due, and my dear sister going to the hospital with pneumonia, among other things? Yeah. So I've sort of got some excuses, but I still apologize. Next chapter will come a lot sooner, I promise (*crosses fingers behind back*-no guarantees).

I can't decide whether I like this chapter or not. I think I do. Does anyone notice a change in my style (sighs shamefully). I'm influenced so very easily, and right now that happens to be the Dune series by Frank Herbert (I've never read it before! I'm liking it, though I think it's going downhill from the first book. Even so...). I may be the only one to notice it, but I do see some style influence there. This is not necessarily a bad thing, since it was always hard to force myself into Tolkien style anyway. And this style is not completely opposite and unreconciliable (is that even a word?) to Tolkien's.

So...tension grows more! Yes, indeed. Grima's just yucky, isn't he? But is he the real villain here? You'll have to wait and see. I'm thinking next chapter is mostly going to be a Grima chapter, if that floats your boat. He's certainly fun to get under the skin of.

A couple last notes before I go. I've noticed that I really get inspired plot-wise and writing-wise when I'm hiking. I guess it's because I've got nothing else to do but think (and look at the pretty scenery). Does this happen to anyone else?

Thanks to mere (does it strike you as odd? I wasn't sure, but left it in just in case. I thought it served a purpose despite the awkwardness), shadowkitty129 (I just love my repeat reviewers), pommekitty (thanks ever so much for reviewing again! That part was my favorite too, even though I didn't plan for it to happen), Kae (don't worry, I'll try not to change it too much-change and variety are the spices of life, though), Kamikaze (I think I might have found that site-oh, yes, I like Theodred. Thanks for reading!), and Gaslight (I read your action scene-it was very intense, and very well done! Congratulations, and I really appreciate your reviews-you've made me feel better about Theodred, who I wasn't too sure about). I love reviews, yes indeed!