For Disclaimer, please see Chapter 1

Lady Baelish: Tears from malicious bliss, huh? Well, take my advise: Keep your Kleenex ready for this chapter, or your make-up will end up utterly ruined! Finally, Gríma's cards are on the table…

Kezya: Wonderful to hear from you again. Yes, a rattlesnake is nothing against good 'ole Gríma, isn't it? My, I never knew how many disturbing thoughts I had in my head until began writing this story… Great also to hear that you will be updating "Betrayal of Trust" soon (poor Éomer though… ;- ).


Chapter 9: The Endless Night


The darkness was almost complete. The blackness of the new moon lay like a silken blanket on the land and even the comforting faces of the stars were veiled from searching glances by a layer of clouds. Sky, mountains and the ground, all were one in the middle of the darkest night Elana had ever encountered.

Never in the nine winters since her parents had perished - her father in a warg-attack, her mother from a fever - had she felt so utterly alone. Sitting in the middle of nowhere with her back to the wall with no one to talk to, no one to confide in and no one to give her courage, she wondered whether she was really doing the right thing. Her family thought she was on her way to Edoras, when instead she was following Éomer's captors. They thought she would bring them help, and food - something they would especially need very fast with their winters supplies gone. What if something happened to her out here? What if one of the wargs that travelled with these nightmarish creatures patrolled the night and found her sitting here, unsuspecting? What if it was watching her right now?

'Nay, it isn't,' she admonished herself, stuffing the last bite of the flat cake she had taken along as provision into her mouth, her gaze wistfully resting on the small, flickering dots of fire she could see in the distance, the campfires of their enemiesHow much she longed for a little more light and the comforting warmth of a campfire, but it would require an act of utter stupidity to build one herself for every foe to see. 'Stay calm. Áriel would smell them if they were close, wouldn't you, Áriel?' Elana turned her head and looked lovingly at the ghostly pale appearance of her horse peacefully grazing close by.

"Áriel?" Stretching her legs, Elana scrambled to her feet and walked over to her, hungering for a little warmth and comfort. The mare lifted her head at her approach, but stayed still and allowed her to lay her arms around her slender neck. Maybe she was feeling just as lonely as she did, out here in the darkness with none of her kin present, with no shelter from the falling rain and blowing wind. Winter was approaching fast, and with nothing to eat, how would her clan survive it?

Survival... she wondered how Éomer would spend the night. Would he even survive it? What if the arrow had hit something vital, or had been poisoned? What if he had lost too much blood? Her hands moved in circles over the muscular, warm neck of her horse, and the touch of a living, breathing creature soothed her anxious mind for a moment.

'He is a warrior, he is strong! One arrow cannot be enough to kill him. Of course he is still alive!' '- But you saw the things that captured him! What if they only took him with them as live food?'

Gods, what a disgusting thought! They had not killed her family, so they would surely not eat the king! Elana was dismayed by the awful thoughts that assaulted her from that pit of her very active imagination. It had to be the darkness that spawned them. Everything looked better in the daylight, and come dusk, she would ride in a great circle around their foes and make for the nearest settlement. After one day of following them, she was certain now that this was the place the darkly clad man and his army were headed. With luck, she could warn them and tell them to get ready to free their king.

'Will they believe me?'

Elana had no time to follow that thought further, for her horse had suddenly stopped grazing and stood now like a statue, listening, eyes wide, her flared nostrils drinking the wind. Elana's heart skipped a beat. What was ailing her mare? Desperately trying to pierce the darkness, she stood at the horse's side, ready to jump on the animal's back at the first sign of trouble. Her nerves tingled. Even then, if it was the wargs, it would probably be too late: she knew how fast the orc-wolves were. A good head start was needed in order to outrun them. So what now? Run? Not run? Standing there under the black sky, electrified and fully expecting to see the sparkle of the predators' eyes in front of her any second now, Elana almost screamed when her mare suddenly gave a short snort and then whinnied.

"Ssh, Áriel! Quiet!" she said, and then she felt it, too, the concussion of heavy steps on the ground, a rhythmic noise coming closer. Someone was approaching them fast. But who? Friend or foe? Before she could think of anything to do, her mare started forward with a muffled neigh, her neck proudly arched, just as a tall grey figure materialised from the blackness in front of her, unreal like a vision: A great, muscular horse, easily twice Áriel's size, was moving towards them in an majestic, powerful trot meant to impress; its grey hide marred with many dark stains. Threateningly throwing its massive head and then arching the strong neck, it finally rammed its hooves into the ground and - half rearing - came to a stop to taste their scents with widely flared nostrils, its eyes rolling menacingly, daring them to move closer. There was no rider on its back, nor was there a saddle, but it wore wearing an artfully crafted bridle Elana had seen before. The sight of the great stallion robbed her breath.

"Firefoot!"

"Food, my lord. You need to eat!"

The pleasant smell of roasted meat woke Éomer from the daze he had been in ever since they had raised camp for the night. Not surprisingly, he was still chained to a tree, more hanging than sitting and unable to lie down even though he felt too weak to stay upright. All strength he had miraculously possessed after what had happened to him the night before, and which had enabled him to spend the long day on horseback without needing support, had deserted him now and left him feeling hollow and feeble as if in the claws of a terrible illness. His shoulder was a fiery pit of molten agony, and he felt feverish, too, his teeth clattering with cold one minute before the sensation of burning up flushed through his body and made him break into a sweat in the next.

It took a huge effort just to raise his head as the spit was once again held in front of his face. Somewhere behind it hovered Gríma's pale face. Not wanting to look at his adversary, Éomer shut his eyes tightly.

"Curse you, snake..." The king had meant to shout, but was unable to summon the necessary strength. Even a sneer seemed to be too much in the state he was in. He could not even spit on the offered meat like the night before, his mouth being dry as desert sand. Another shudder ran through his body. His constitution was deteriorating frighteningly fast.

"But you have to eat, my king. You see where your stubbornness has gotten you." Wormtongue shook his head in mock compassion. "Where should your strength come from if you starve yourself? The potion alone will not sustain you for long, I'm afraid."

"You're afraid?" Éomer opened his eyes, for a moment seeing two blurry Grímas in front of him. "What do you still need me for, anyway?"

"You won't have to wait much longer now to find out, son of Éomund. Tomorrow around midday, you shall know more." Gríma paused and held out the spit once more, but his prisoner just turned his head to the side and shut his eyes again, uttering an involuntary groan as the movement sent another bolt of pain through his side. "You don't want to eat. Well, I will have mercy on you for now, seeing how this whole business I'm putting you through has certainly damaged your appetite, but from tomorrow on, you will eat, or I shall have the food forced down your throat. Do you hear me, my lord?"

Éomer spared himself an answer.

"Let me see your shoulder again." Now his prisoner responded - by flinching. With a meaningful look at his Uruk-hai captains, Wormtongue moved forth and grasped the crossbow bolt closely above the angry red skin of his shoulder, forcing an anguished groan from the king as he slid one finger nail deep into the wound. Éomer fought against this torment, but was no match for the brute strength of the two orcs holding him.

"My lord, please - you must hold still! My aim is not to hurt you, but to determine whether the wound is already festering. If you move around like this, I will not be able to help you!" Gríma retracted the finger and held it in front of his nose, the pale blue eyes staring at his foe who - under his breath - muttered a few well-chosen curses in his direction before leaning back, utterly spent. Wormtongue faked a hurt expression.

"Ah, well... such is the fate of all healers, I guess, to be the subject of intensive swearing for only wanting to do good."

"You - the most poisonous viper of the Mark, a healer?" Éomer would have laughed had he found the strength in himself. Another flash of heat brought beads sweat to his brow.

Gríma raised a meaningful eyebrow.

"Yes indeed, my lord, believe it or not. I will heal the people of Rohan of their arrogance. Tomorrow, you shall witness what enlightenment I bring to your people, even if this can, of course, only be the first step on that never-travelled path to humility for them. Haughtiness of this magnitude is not lightly healed. Some subjects of the treatment need a rather strong dose, I'm afraid. Look at you!" He sniffed his fingertip and made a face. "I regret to inform you that your wound is not in a good state, my liege. I shall have to make the potion stronger this time, and you will drink it, or you will first lose that arm and then die an ugly death..." A meaningful pause. "I realise there are none of your kin around this time to threaten you with, except for yourself. Tell me then, Éomer of Rohan, do you want to die, or will you drink the medicine I am giving you willingly?"

His prisoner snorted in disgust. "You call it medicine?"

Gríma let out a hurt sigh.

"If I wanted to kill you, I could already have done so already. You know that yourself. In fact, I could kill you right now, if I chose so..." Again, he waved the half-empty skewer suggestively in front of the king's face. "And what a death that would be! Éomer, the eighteenth king of the Mark, descendant of the noble house of Eorl the Young, dying on a spit used to roast pigs ... and smouldering over the fire side by side with a delicate piece of meat from with his beloved animal companion..." Gríma clapped his hands in delight. "Yes indeed, this would be a song worth listening to. Alas, we do not have any witnesses here who would spread the word, so I am afraid we will have to postpone this procedure. Although I am quite sure my servants would much enjoy it, as well."

It took Éomer a great amount of self-restraint not to rise to Wormtongue's provocation, and not to look at the spit he was retracting now to commence eating. Was that really Firefoot's flesh that snake was sinking his teeth into?

'He will say anything to have his way with me,' he finally decided, fighting heroically against the surge of rage the dark counsellor's words had stirred up in him. 'He would even say it comes from the corpses of my dead men, but even he would not lower himself to that sort of beastly behaviour. He deems himself much higher than the creatures that serve him! He would not cannibalise his own kind!'

It sounded good. Rational. Yet he had not seen the grey stallion all day, not even in the distance... and Firefoot knew to follow his rider if circumstances ever separated them. The horses of the Mark were not even trained to do that, they did it out of their own, free will, the result of a bondage so strong, it would lead them – in case they and their rider were ever captured alive – to pursue either freedom or death before they would let an enemy ride on their back. But... where was Firefoot? Strangling the life out of this newly awakened fit of desperation, Éomer looked up again, his eyebrows forming a sceptical line on his brow.

"So you don't want to kill me."

His adversary shrugged, clearly enjoying his part in this unsatisfying guessing game.

"Not yet, at least. Maybe not for quite some time, but... I am not certain yet. It all depends, I'm afraid. On the situation... on my mood..." Grima's eyes widened suggestively, "...on the development of the next days... There are still too many variables. I may have to change and adjust my plan. I am afraid I cannot promise to relieve you of your pitiful existence anytime soon...". He came to his feet and looked down on the king. "What I can do is prepare some more of the potion for Your Highness. You look as if you may have use for it." His dark form disappeared into the night, leaving his prisoner to his dark brooding...

"Sshh, Firefoot! Shh... I will not harm you, you know that. Is this not why you are here, to look for comfort in the presence of Áriel and me? Come on, great horse of the Mark, be still. Do not fear me!"

Elana knew better than to directly approach the obviously terrified and deeply torn stallion, so she stood rooted to the ground, one hand held out in offering, hoping to talk her way into the mighty grey's mind. The way he was throwing his head and rolling his eyes told her that he would indeed attack if she moved his way too rashly… but he also wanted to approach her. He was not yet sure about her intentions, even though there had to be some part of his memory strong enough to shine through the veil of horror and death which had descended on him one night ago and left him wild with terror. Something had led him to her, and maybe it was not just the prospect of companionship with another member of his kind.

The young woman granted him the time to come to his own decision as she continued to let him hear her soothing voice. At the same time she took in his appearance and shivered. There was so much dried blood on him, he did not even look grey anymore! Certainly it could not all be his, and from where she stood, Elana could see nothing more than some minor scratches on his neck and broad chest, but the thought that it was perhaps Éomer's blood, or that of his men, made her tremble.

'Maybe it is orc-blood,' she tried to calm herself, still mumbling in a low voice without even recognising her own words. What colour would their blood be? She had never seen a dead orc, but there was something about these ghoulish creatures that told her that their insides must be black like a starless night.

"Do you not remember me, Firefoot? Do you not remember the one who nursed you and took you into her tent in that bitterly cold winter-night when your mother died after she had given birth to you? You were black then, a little black, wet, motherless foal. I did not hurt you then, and I will certainly not hurt you now. Do you not trust me?" One step in the stallion's direction, her eyes closely observing the grey's body language. How the ears flattened against his head in another threat, how he danced to the side with flying hooves, demonstrating the skill and strength of his terrible weapons. A single kick would be strong enough to break her bones. Out here, all by herself, it could possibly mean her death.

Behind her, Áriel imitated the dance and neighed, longing to be set loose, waking her rider from her contemplation. No, she would have to wait and hope that the king's steed would sooner or later come to his senses. There was no use forcing this. Turning away from him, she went over to her own horse and began to gently stroke the mare's delicate neck. What did it mean for her plan to have Éomer's horse at hand? A swifter escape, once the king made it onto Firefoot's back. Áriel wouldn't have to carry them both, making the task of outrunning the wargs virtually possible. Still… how to get to that point? She couldn't simply ride into the enemy's camp and tell Éomer to jump onto Firefoot's back! No, there was no use trying to come up with a solution. She still needed help, and as soon as the first daylight would greet the new day, she would go and find it.

Steps approached her from behind, hesitant, but already close. Elana smiled to herself, but didn't turn. Closer still. Warm breath on her neck, a feeling that brought a warm glow to her stomach. Slowly, she turned on her heels and – at last - laid her hands on the great grey's face, her fingers gently caressing his nostrils and mouth, and then moving up all the way to his ears, unaware that she had slipped into a low, soothing hum.

"Aye, my little one, you remember me, and you will help me to get your master back, will you not?

"I am very pleased with you, my king." Grima gestured for his captain to leave after he had watched his captive take the potion. The king had taken it willingly enough this time, so the drug was already working. Blowing into his hands and rubbing them together against the cold, Wormtongue sat down on a rock opposite Éomer's position. "At last, you seem to have understood the urgency of this little game of ours... even though it still appears to be still against your taste."

This time, it did not take a huge amount of restraint on the king's part not to answer to his adversary's provocation. Éomer barely heard him, in fact, over the pounding of his heart in his ears as he fought once again to keep the vile liquid inside. He held no doubt that the Wormtongue could have made it easier for him to hold down, less revolting, but of course this was nothing but another part of his elaborate plan for vengeance. Éomer did not want to think about what the potion consisted of. Too many foul ideas came to mind, and they were probably all true, and more besides...

Somewhere further behind, a line of large, black silhouettes was moving in front of the campfire. The Uruk-hai were uncharacteristically silent tonight. Gríma's doing, likely. A Uruk's roar carried over a long distance and would inevitably attract enemies if it was heard, especially here, in the ever vigilant Marshal Erkenbrand's part of the Westfold. Just how had Wormtongue been able to acquire them? Where had they been hiding all these past months since the battle of Helm's Deep?

"I can see your thoughts on your face," his foe spoke softly into Éomer's thoughts. "You are wondering about my army. How I assembled it, since all of Saruman's Uruk-hai were believed killed at Helm's Deep, is it not so?"

The king did not answer, but again the Wormtongue's uncanny ability to know precisely what was going on in his head made him twitch. Gríma leaned forward as if he were about to share a particularly well-hidden secret with his prisoner.

"The truth is, they were. At least to my knowledge, all of the White Wizard's army was destroyed either by the Rohirrim or the tree-druids of Fangorn. The reason for my servants' presence is that they were never part of that army. They are my creation and absolutely loyal to me from the moment on they come into being. Not even my almost omnipotent master knew of their existence... just as he never knew that I had closely watched the procedure he had employed to breed his Uruk-hai to build my own breeding pits in the caves of the Misty Mountains."

Éomer's gaze returned from the distant campfire to him, and even through the deep daze his prisoner seemed to have already sunken into, Wormtongue saw the horror his words had invoked. He shrugged.

"Of course they are nowhere near as large and sophisticated as the ones at Isengard, but they were well hidden and out of your kinsmen's reach. When we return there, I expect that my servants will at least have another fifty ready to join these, and when I return to the Westfold in a month, I shall have an army of four hundred Uruk-hai and two hundred Dunlendings ready to lay your people's settlements to ashes. Marshal Erkenbrand will not be a hindrance to us. I know he is currently at Edoras to find food for his starving people, and upon his return, he shall find nothing but ruins and his people reduced to the same kind of beggars and thieves they have looked down upon disdainfully for generations. Maybe I'll capture him and let him live, too, for a while, to witness the spectacle of his people starving to death and as a guarantee that the Rohirrim will not attack us... just like you."

A dramatic pause lengthened as Gríma made up his mind to give away his big secret.

"Yes indeed, my king, listen closely, for this - at last - is my plan: I will let the people of the Mark stay alive for as long as they don't force me to dispose of them. I will ride through their villages with my servants setting fire to their winter supplies and killing their stock, and using you - their king - to demonstrate that there is nothing special about the heirs of Eorl, nothing that sets you apart from the other people of Middle Earth you look down on so haughtily. I will show them that they are nothing more than ordinary peasants who would have never been mentioned in songs or tales if not by sheer chance they had gained the friendship of Gondor. Gondor gave you this land. It is Gondor who secured your eastern borders for generations. It is Gondor who gives you the steel to make your weapons and armour with. Without the help of the blood of Númenór, you would still be wielding wooden clubs and spears instead of carrying mail and swords and lances and hard shields into battle. Saruman's army would have crushed you underfoot without the knowledge Gondor has taught you. So tell me, Éomer-king, what precisely is it that the people of the Riddermark are so proud of? What have you or your forefathers ever achieved by yourself?"

Éomer stared at him, unable to keep his thoughts focused. He knew that Gríma had just uttered some incredible insults about his kind, but pressed to repeat them, he would have failed. The words were racing in and out of his mind like a swarm of little silvery, slippery fish, dashing apart every time he stuck his hand into the water to grasp them. To his horror, he found that the leaden state had also overtaken his tongue, for he could not, for the life of him, remember how to use it. What was happening to him?

'Bastard poisoned me…' was the last conscious thought before he slipped into a state between dream and waking.

Wormtongue had followed the decline of his prisoner into the sub-conscious realm with keen interest. The potion had worked fast, and Gríma wondered whether he had made it a bit too strong this time. He did not want Éomer to end up raving mad; he wanted the effect to be subtle, and his prisoner still in possession of his personality while he whispered his deadly venom into his ears. The king's mind was now wide open for everything he wanted to plant within – guilt… despair… the feeling of having been betrayed by his own kin… Whatever he would come up with, would enter the king's memory as a fact, whether he told Éomer that he had killed Théodred with his own hands to seize the throne of Rohan, or that King Théoden had banished him for raping his own sister. Ideas were springing to mind faster than he could count them. He had created a void that longed to be filled with the most rotten images and emotions his twisted, dark mind could derive, and, wonderfully, afterwards his victim would not remember either having been spoken to nor having been drugged … and tomorrow, when Éomer's strength would diminish yet again, he would ask for more…

Smiling to himself, Gríma came to his feet and sat down next to the unmoving king of Rohan. Éomer's eyes were open, but glazed with the effect of the drug. He was waiting for new memories. After a moment of collecting himself, the dark counsellor set to work…