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 5: Enemy

by Papillon

A twilight was falling over the land. A gathering gloom spread over the cities and towns, over the mountains and hills. Its usual deep violet colour was tinged with brown and angry red, as though dirty, for a storm hung menacingly on the horizon. The wind whipped the banner of the Riddermark back and forth violently and all save the door wardens sought shelter indoors. So it was that no one marked the lone figure, standing just inside the walls, in a deepening darkness of shadow. He turned his face to the sky, as though seeking something in its dark clouds.

A bird came flying in low over Edoras, concealed by its black feathers against the twilight sky. Gríma son of Gálmód lifted his arm to it in greeting and it settled easily just above his wrist. Gríma ran his hands over its sleek feathers, and found what he sought.

Ah, the message! That fool Saruman ought not to have used such a large bird to deliver it-anyone could have seen this!

Gríma sighed and released the bird, watching it fly off into the darkness. His master was seldom concerned for Gríma's security. Calling those orcs down-what a foolish thing to do! It nearly revealed me. Or would have, if Théodred was not such a fool.

He smiled. That, at least, had gone according to plan. Three months had passed since Théodred had challenged him publicly, and while he had begun to recover from his illness, the effects of that day were just beginning to unfold. Gríma smiled as he tucked the message under his arm. He knew what it contained-more secrets for creating subtle poisons which twisted a person's mind as well as their body.



He made his way back to Meduseld, following twisting side paths and pulling his cloak over his head, for heavy droplets had begun to fall. The door wardens stepped forward when he reached the top of the steps, their hands on their sword hilts, but once they recognized his face, they retreated and let him through. The king has given them orders that I am to do whatever I please, to come and go at odd hours if I so choose! He gives more trust over to me day by day, Gríma thought to himself with pleasure.

He opened the doors to the king's chambers, but found them empty, as expected. Théoden would be dining privately with Théodred, as he had been these past months. Soon Théodred would fully recover, and Gríma wondered whether Théoden would begin to eat with the visitors and court again. People murmured that he did not eat in public for fear of revealing his infirmity and weakness. They said he had suddenly begun to age, and whispers hungered for a stronger king.

Gríma closed the doors and turned suddenly when he caught a golden glint out of the corner of his eye. It was Éowyn, darting into a side corridor. She had obviously been trying to avoid his attention, and Gríma took pleasure in her anger and discomfort at being caught. She, too, heard the whispers, and they lay heavily on her.

Gríma bowed, not troubling to hide his mocking smile. "My lady Éowyn. How fare you this unquiet eve?"

"Well enough," she said curtly, not troubling to feign politeness. She opened her mouth as if to make an excuse and bid him farewell, but he spoke first and the words died on her lips.

"Your cousin appears to be recovering, does he not?" he asked, ignoring the angry drawing together of her brows. She was not so bold as to utterly defy him, so she was at his mercy until he chose to let her go. Gríma studied her from under lowered lids as he waited for a reply.

Her hair had come loose from its braids as it often did, and wisps trailed in her face. Her cheeks were ruddy with exertion and she carried a bucket as though she had been in the middle of some chore or errand. I will never lay eyes upon a more lovely sight, he thought to himself.

Éowyn's eyes narrowed and Gríma laughed inwardly. She knew very well the true cause of Théodred's illness, but dared not challenge him openly yet, knowing the consequences Théodred had faced. She struggled to control her indignation and said tightly, "Yes, he is finally well once more." Gríma heard the unspoken rest of the sentence, too: "…despite your poisons and wickedness."

He let an expression of tender concern cross his face and said, "Ah, but your uncle, the king, seems ill of late to me. He is driving himself sick with concern over his son. He seems so haggard and aged that I worry more for him than for Théodred! And he has sorely neglected the affairs of the kingdom, spending all hours of the day by his son's side. Alas for the troubles we must suffer." He sighed wearily.

Éowyn responded just as he had predicted, saying heatedly, "Do not imply with your twisted words that my uncle is not a fit king! I warn you, speak no ill towards him or I will see to it that you are punished."

Gríma looked pained. "My lady, I meant no offense! Théoden was a truly great king in his prime. But all things must wither and fade away in time. Théoden is not as he once was, just as Rohan is not as it once was."

She stepped closer, unconsciously, threats in her movements. "How dare you insult the Riddermark in my presence!"

Gríma backed away, pretending to show fear, though in actuality he knew she was much more cool-tempered than her brother and would not harm him. "My lady! I beseech you, do not misunderstand me! I mean only to say that beside such brilliant jewels as Gondor, Rohan's glory is much diminished. The men there are noble and true, far above us. We have bravery, it is true, but they have wisdom and grace. If ever you visited the White City, as I have, you would understand."

Gríma watched her face closely to see how she would react. He knew his words were bold, but they were spoken with the cunning voice of persuasion he had learned from his master, a voice few could resist. Éowyn was no different, it seemed, for she stepped back and asked, "Is Gondor truly as great as you have said?"

Gríma hid his triumph and responded, "Oh, it is far beyond my ability to describe. But all the land and the people are filled with majesty and honor. To a man from Gondor, we would appear uncouth and rude."
"Perhaps," Éowyn said thoughtfully, looking off into the distance, but after a moment of silence she straightened and seemed to gain a new strength. She declared, "Yet to us they would seem affected of manner and weak. We do not value politeness over valor in battle! I care not for the noble men of Gondor unless their deeds strengthen their words!"

Forgetting herself, she took a step away, as if to leave, then seemed to remember that she could not insult the king's most beloved counsellor thusly. Gríma watched her, fascinated. She was truly strong of will to resist him so completely. Though in truth the voice often buried itself deep inside a person, working unnoticed from within. Only when the tension became too great would the persuasive words finally take root and show themselves. Ah, the skills I have learned! Saruman is wise indeed, though little concerned for my well being as long as I serve my purpose. Someday, though, he will find that I have learned more than he expected…

Éowyn cleared her throat to draw his attention back to her. "May I beg pardon and-" she began, but he stopped her unexpectedly, mid-sentence.

"Do you fear me?" he asked in an unusually earnest tone of voice.

Éowyn raised her chin and met his eyes. "I fear no man, least of all you!"

What beauty! What unquenchable fire! Abruptly, he bowed and said, "I fear I must take leave of you now, my lady."

A startled look crossed Éowyn's face, but she curtsied gracefully nonetheless. "Until we meet again, Gríma son of Gálmód," she said, as was required. Without waiting for him to respond, she turned and strode quickly down the hall, obviously eager to be away from him.



Gríma waited until she had turned the corner, then slipped into the darkness at the sides of the corridor quietly, following her like a shadow. Another skill learned from the master! But I am more skilled at it than even he. I move as quietly as a snake in the underbrush…

Éowyn turned down another hall and into a chamber. Gríma crept to the doorway and beheld her embracing her brother, eyes closed in contented happiness.

Éomer had much improved since Théodred had first fallen sick. Or, at least, he thinks he has improved. And so does she. So she desperately wants to believe, so she makes herself believe, makes herself forget his odd behavior and forgive his over-protectiveness. In fact, Gríma knew that the poison his words had spread had merely retreated deep into Éomer's being, hiding and working its subtle evils unnoticed. Someday, it will reveal itself. But it suits me now for him to merely be protective. We cannot allow Éowyn to be despoiled or tainted, and he prevents it better than any other could. She must be pure…for me…

He turned back to the scene within the room and saw Éowyn taking an old box from a wooden chest. Contained within were the carved pieces of the game Fréanith. It was a children's game, created by King Fréa of old, who did not inherit the throne until very late in life, and was said to have spent all of his youth in play and diversion. Gríma knew from previous observation that it was a dearly beloved game of Éomer, though he would be shamed if other warriors or Théodred were to know that he still played it. Someday…that might be useful to reveal…but no, I do not play my games so pettily.

Gríma stepped closer to hear their conversation. Éowyn retrieved a small wood stallion from the box and cried, "Brewine is mine today! He is always your piece, but today you shall have Feoforth."

Éomer sighed. "You may, but only if you permit me to have the golden chip."

Éowyn nodded reluctantly, but reached over to hit Éomer lightly in the side in mock protest. "You should give your beloved sister the advantage!"

Éomer did not wince at all when hit; his wound had now fully healed. Actually, it healed quite quickly, once I stopped administering the poison to it, Gríma thought. Alas for Éomer, who thought himself so weak! His weakness and doubt made it so very easy to work my devices on him, to use the cunning words, the effects of which he does not yet know…

They sat at a small table and began setting up the wooden pieces, each drawing several tiny wooden chips from a pile. Éowyn examined hers and exclaimed, "The Sufferer? Thrice already this past week I have drawn her! Why do I never draw the Avenger or the Warrior?"

Éomer smiled superiorly, for Gríma had noticed he often drew the Warrior, but his smile faded when he turned his eyes to his own chips. "Alas! I have the Betrayer this eve! It will be an ill-fated game, it seems."

Éowyn's eyes narrowed competitively. "Perhaps, dear brother, but a skilled player can turn even the worst draw to their own advantage, can they not?"

"Do you think to challenge me? We shall see who wins!" Éomer said, leaning forward eagerly.

Gríma turned his back on their game, a slight pang pricking his heart. They are so very happy…but their draws forebode what is to come. What a pity that Éowyn must endure so much before she will finally be mine. A pity indeed.



He left Éowyn and Éomer to their game and walked slowly down the stairs to his room, locking the door behind him. He unfolded Saruman's message and quickly scanned its contents, then retrieved some necessary items from his chest. He would begin to weave a tapestry of poisons about Théoden, layer upon layer, slowly adding as the years went by, until he was brought low and his throne toppled.

One to prey upon his worry for Théodred and age him prematurely, at least to the outward eye; one to make him overly cautious and slow to act against enemies; one to weaken his limbs and bow his back; one to make him overly trusting of all that was said to him in a certain tone, which Gríma had mastered, of course…there were many poisons, and not all of these were physical ones. Some were tricks of words, webs spun by tones and pitches of voice so subtle that they would never be detected.

Ah, and there were instructions for controlling Éomer, for continuing to plant ideas and thoughts deep in his subconscious, so that they became so much a part of him that he never questioned how they came to be. Also instructions for more weakening poisons like the one he had used on Éomer's wound, in case Éomer should ever become difficult to control. Gríma doubted such a thing would be necessary again. Éomer hated him, true, but he also dared not harm him and go against Éowyn's explicit wishes.

Though Gríma sometimes wondered if Éowyn herself did not secretly wish to harm him. When she beheld him, there was often such a fiery look of malice in her eyes that he shivered a little to see it. She was like some untamed wild mare, full of spirit and natural grace, and he would be the one to tame her! He would not tie the harness about her too tightly, for he valued her wildness, worshipped it even.

But she was too wild now. If he were to offer himself to her, he would be utterly rejected, and if he tried to take her, she might kill him. Therefore he bided his time and worked subtly. Though…I would never poison her! Not Éowyn! She deserves far better. She is a challenge, with such unquenchable determination and stubbornness, and it is my task to slowly make her mine, through subtle words and voice and nothing more. He smiled half bitterly to himself. And by making her stand alone, by depriving her of all supports and strengths, so that she will have no choice but to seek me! And I will welcome her with open arms, and make her mine, and we will leave this miserable kingdom of Rohan behind, free to go wherever we chose. Ah, when Saruman's plans are complete, what bliss we shall have! It will take years…but I will be patient. I will be waiting for my time…

A/N: Okay, I admit it; I don't like this chapter all that much. And the next chapter won't be too terribly interesting either, unless you really like Saruman for some reason. Buuuut, the chapter after that I absolutely love, and yes, I've already written it, and it's where things really start to heat up, so to say. So you should definitely bear with me for a bit while I set up some back-story.

Sorry this took so long yet again! But I have another excuse! Shortly after I posted up the last chapter, I came down with a kidney infection. Unfortunately, I didn't realize it was my kidneys and thought I'd just strained my back, and so I suffered through it until finally it got really bad and I had a 103 degrees Fahrenheit fever. Not very fun, but then we figured out what was wrong, and I got put on Cipro, the stuff they give to you when you have Anthrax. So come on terrorists, I'm ready!

I'm sure you didn't really want to hear all that. It's just my way of making excuses. From now on, the updating schedule will be more regular, I promise, I really do. Barring any more unexpected illnesses, but we really hope that doesn't happen. And since I've already got some advance stuff written, even if I get sick, I'm covered. Sort of.

So…this chapter. Is short, yes I know. But I can only stay inside one person's head for so long, and I like Éomer's and Éowyn's heads much better than Gríma's. He's just not my focus or my favorite (sorry Gríma fans!). Well, er, I do like reading about him, but not writing it, if you catch my drift? What an odd expression. And yes, I did make up that game, Fréanith(Ô ), and no, I have absolutely no idea how you'd play it. Sorry. Stay tuned, since chapter seven is the best thing since sliced bread, I promise (er, not really).

Thank you very much to the few who did review- have I lost everyone else with my long pauses between updates? Apparently so, which is a pity, but I'm writing for myself, so it's okay, I suppose.