For Disclaimer, please see Chapter 1
Author's Note: Yeah, another "shorty". I just felt it was important to get this out, seeing how most of you are probably a bit confused over Gríma's appearance. Hey, I told you, it's an AU! But it's probably the only AU-part in the story, so I hope you'll stay with me (there is actually a – hopefully – very good explanation for the existence of the Uruk-hai coming up in the next chapter). As my vacation is over now, I'm afraid I won't be able to post as frantically as I have over the last few days, but I'm driven enough to make as much haste as possible (I'm a 'hasty' person).
Kezya: Once again thanks for your fast reviews. Geez, you're almost reading those Chapters faster than I can post them! ;-)
Trickster: By now you've probably discovered by yourself that, yes, Elana is going to be
Important. And yes, you will get to know her better, to. As for Gríma – I just
Thought he'd have such a wonderful motive to come back and haunt Rohan,
I couldn't resist reviving him. ;-)
Chapter 5: Plans unveiled
The dark counsellor of the late King Théoden took the last step that separated him from his prisoner and looked at the puddle next to Éomer.
"What a shame. You should not have disposed of the potion I made quite so quickly. After all, it is the only thing that will keep you alive while you are my... guest." Éomer's eyes became narrow slits, sparkling with heartfelt contempt. Wormtongue's gaze crept back to him. "You know Uruks: they do not keep their weapons clean. Sometimes, so I have been told, they even like to smear their arrows and crossbow bolts with dirt or dung, so that even if the wounds they inflict on their enemies are not fatal in the first place, they will begin to fester almost instantly." With his chin, he pointed at the black shaft protruding from the king's shoulder and grimaced. "It is an ugly death. Messy."
"You are supposed to be dead! Word was that you were slain by Halflings." Even though Éomer was furious over the appearance of his nemesis of old, confusion still ruled him. How could it be? Had he himself somehow brought the slithering servant of Saruman back from his dreams? Was he looking at a ghost? It was something that his practical mind refused to believe, but then again, an army of ghosts had saved them on the Pelennor. Who was he to question the possibility?
His profound consternation brought a thin-lipped smile to Gríma's face.
"Ah, I'm afraid those were but a few well-placed rumours. You find someone with a certain resemblance to yourself, you convince him to follow you... you kill him, put your old clothes and a few tokens people will recognise on him, and make sure he is found. All it takes then to make your own death a certainty to others are a few whispers into the right ears. Men are so easily brought to believe what they want to be true. And of course, the people of Rohan wanted to believe I was dead."
"And dead you will be, once and for all, once the people of Rohan are through with you," Éomer fumed and struggled to sit up. Why couldn't he feel his arms? "Only your death will be much harder now than if you had received it from the Halflings." As he struggled, Éomer realised that his arms were above him, chained to an iron ring driven into the rock. Numb. Useless. Gríma sighed.
"I do not believe, my lord, that you are in a position to promise me any such thing." Turning his back on his captive, Gríma motioned for one of the figures further back to bring him a chair from one of the tents. With a start, Éomer realised where he was, and his eyes widened. Had Wormtongue's army of monsters killed the unarmed herdsmen? Hissing, he forced himself into a sitting position, even if the hammering pain in his head and torso worsened as a result of the movement. He had hardly settled back into a resting position when his foes' attention was directed back at him.
"Quite the contrary: for the time being, my king, I fear that you are indeed at my mercy. I could have let my army kill you on the battlefield, but I have some further use for you yet. I would not want to deprive you of the privilege of experiencing a lesson the people of Rohan have had coming for a long time." Gríma paused, an amused, yet distant smile on his face as he lost himself in his vision for a moment. Éomer narrowed his eyes.
"It was so easy to catch you." The pale blue eyes with their differently formed pupils returned to him. "Far too easy. A shame in fact, considering how much your kind prides yourself of your strength and wits. I knew exactly what it took to draw you out of Meduseld." Another meaningful break. Gríma leaned forward, taking on the challenge of his captive's hateful stare. "You think that by keeping the kingdom shut to strangers, to anyone different than you, you will remain a mystery to them. You think no one who is not of Rohirric heritage can figure out the ways your arrogant, racist, self-loving minds work, but you are wrong. It is painfully obvious to any creature with a brain that there is nothing better than attacking your beloved animal friends, your horses, which you deem of higher worth than actual Rohan-born folk who do not match the conception of what a decent man of the Mark should look like, to have you come looking for them, fuming for revenge."
"Your words are poisonous as ever, snake, and they are false! The people of the Mark know evil when they see it, and our contempt for you was well-earned from the start! Out of self-pity over being unable to acquire what you craved, you joined forces with the White Wizard to avenge yourself. Éowyn would not look at you because she could see the evil in your heart, not because of your dark hair! Because she rejected you, you decided to betray your own people to the death. I truly cannot think of a better definition of evil!"
Unfazed by the king's outburst, Wormtongue continued, his eyes trailing off to the other side now with a malicious expression. When Éomer followed his gaze, he saw a large group of Uruk-hai, back-lit by the crackling fire and burying their faces in large pieces of meat one of the captains in their midst handed out. It was too dark to see their blood-dripping features in more detail, but the mere thought of what they were feasting on sent an icy shudder through the Rohir's spine. As if it had felt his glance, one of the creatures started towards them with a big, steaming spit in its hand. Gríma watched its approach and then directed his attention back at his prisoner.
"Is that so? Are evil deeds not evil deeds if the noble Rohirrim commit them? We should ask the people of Dunland what they think of this question. What had they done to you to be driven from their lands into the hills where life is almost too harsh to be sustained? Where innocent women and children die of hunger? You drove them away, and those who refused to go willingly were killed. Does this injustice not give them the moral right to hate and pursue you where they find you? How about that as a true definition of evil?"
"I will not discuss the Dunlendings with you, snake," Éomer sneered. "We both know what they did to make us turn on them in the first place."
Gríma shrugged.
"I assume it all lies in the eyes of the beholder. Anyway, I was talking about the predictability of the smart, cunning Rohirrim: All I had to do in order to draw you out was attack your precious mearas-herd and make it look as if predators did it. Even though we slew so many of them in just one night that your conclusion should have been this was more than an ordinary wolf pack's work, you were still arrogant enough to come here with only twenty men. I must say I am disappointed. I counted on you to bring at least fifty." He exhaled. "You would still have lost, but... as I was saying, it underlines the point I was making about your supposedly sharp-witted people: You greatly over-estimate your abilities. Your arrogance has no match in Middle Earth, except maybe for the Elves. To your foes, it is a very valuable character-trait."
"You shall find that we 'supposedly sharp-witted people' will not tolerate the likes of you and your foul company in our land, snake! And if you underestimate our abilities, then all the better for us!" The Uruk had reached them, and Éomer watched in disgust as the Half-Orc passed the spit to its master. The pleasant smell of roasted meat was carried to him by the light breeze, but all it did to him was turn his stomach, as it was an easy guess where the meat had most likely come from.
Gríma had already taken the first bite and was obviously delighted by his captive's disdain. Leaning forward on his elbows, he held out the spit within Éomer's reach.
"You must be hungry. Would you like some?"
The answer was an amazing stream of ancient Rohirric curses not even Gríma had been familiar with so far. To drive his point home, Éomer then spat on the meat he was offered.
"I suppose this means 'no', then." Wormtongue would have raised his eyebrows if he had any. Calmly, he peeled the spat-on chunk off and dropped it, then continued eating. "Another point to my theory. Supplies are scarce in your land, people are dying from hunger, yet you refuse to reap the wealth of food in front of your eyes. Pity. It tastes delicious, and you will need to eat in order to get through the next days. You will need your strength... what is left of it." Then his face lit as if a great idea had suddenly entered his mind. "Gods, what am I saying, of course we have not only horse-meat!" He furrowed his brow and held Éomer's gaze. "Although I suppose you would like the other one even less... and the Uruk-hai would be very upset if I took it from their part of the prey. Uruks are not very fond of horse-meat, you know? They prefer a different taste."
It took a moment for the terrible meaning of Gríma's words to sink in. A moment when it became terribly clear to Éomer that he was the only one of his éored left alive. And a moment to envision what his foe's grim company was doing to his fallen men as they spoke. There were no words for the horror and rage he felt. Enough rage to scream into the pale face in front of him and kick out with his chained feet, knocking the very alive ghost from the chair; enough even to force Éomer to his feet and shove the agony his body erupted with into the background of his mind while he struggled with the chains, fighting to reach his tormentor who crept backwards on hands and knees out of his reach, then got up.
"I'll kill you, orc-scum! I'll lay you open and feed your intestines to the pigs, I swear it!" Another mighty tug, but the chains held, and not even rage was able to hold him on his feet any longer. His weak right knee giving way, Éomer tumbled to the ground.
Gríma was well aware of the fact that a few of his Uruk-hai had followed the quarrel from close-by, and now he motioned two of them to step up to him.
"Get him up!" Hissing another curse in the direction of his foe, the king was pulled to his feet and smacked against the rock with brutal force. "Hold his arms!" Wormtongue stepped closer, his expression turned from mocked amusement to deadly coldness as he brought his face close to Éomer's, his voice toned down to a deadly whisper which was hard to hear over the loud breathing of his two guards. "You are a wonderful example of the arrogant, proud and stubborn people of this land. You embody all virtues the Rohirrim look up to, and despise others for not having. You shall be an excellent object to teach them a valuable lesson before they'll expire."
"They won't listen to a filthy worm!"
" Oh, but they won't have to listen. They will only have to look at you, and then they will see that - once denied your privileges and stripped of your shiny armour and the pomp of the Royal Court - you are no different from them: a simple, weak, over-estimated, under-smart... peasant! The free people will thank us for removing the population of Rohan from the face of Middle Earth!"
With a sudden vicious thrust, Éomer's brow connected with Gríma's lower jaw, splitting the counsellor's lip and breaking off the two lower front teeth. For a moment, the pain brought tears to Gríma's eyes as he stumbled backwards. The fingers he carefully touched his mouth with came away bloodied, and looking up, he glimpsed a triumphant sparkle in the king's eyes, even though his own head-wound bled anew and the Uruk-hai were almost breaking his arms as they pulled him back against the rock.
"You are bleeding, snake!"
It was but a step that separated them, and Éomer's mocking remark was enough for Gríma to forget his own order as he seized the black shaft of the crossbow and forced it further in with the full weight of his body, finally succeeding in drawing the first satisfying scream from his opponent. With a violent jerk to the side, he slowly turned the bolt and saw all signs of mockery or triumph gone and replaced by a familiar and welcome glaze in the dark eyes in front of him. Despite the experience he had just had, Wormtongue brought his face close again to whisper into his half-conscious prisoner's ear.
"Your people shall pay dearly for your stubbornness, Éomer-king. The lesson I will teach them will be one they shall never forget for as long as they live... even if I do not expect them to last the winter." He retreated. "Release him!"
Darkness claimed Éomer before he hit the ground.
