For Disclaimer, please see Chapter 1

Author's Note: Okay, this one is "R-rated" for a reason! (Violence…and rape!). I must admit that I did not see this one coming, but like probably so many of you know yourself, sometimes stories take on a life of their own. I still hope you'll bear with me through the heart of darkness.

Lady Baelish: I guess as far as malice goes, this one takes the cake. Yes, life is pretty hard for Éomer these days… and it's getting more downhill by the chapter. I actually feel bad for him myself. I'm an evil person… goes into corner and hangs head

Rohan Nitpick: I hope you'll still be enjoying this after this chapter! I had not actually planned for it to become so dark, but well… what can you do? shrugs

Éokat: Yet another cliff-hanger for you. I hope your fingers still have some strength left in them, LOL!

Kezya: Yup, Gríma's probably going to receive a nomination for "Most evil Person of the Riddermark" shortly. He's honestly earned it. Can't wait until your exams are over – I need my "Betrayal of Trust"-fix!


Chapter 9: Lord of Illusions


It was cold. And wet. The shabby old fur coat she wore had kept her reasonably dry and warm, but her limbs were nevertheless stiff from the night on the hard, half-frozen ground with nothing more to keep her comfortable than a thin woollen blanket. It had been neither the constant drizzle nor the silent throbbing of her aching body that had woken Elana. Rather, the sudden sensation of a great animal stepping up to her and blowing warm, slightly smelly breath into her face had finally roused her.

Smiling, she opened her eyes and found her mare looking at her curiously as if asking how she could still be sleeping when they had been awake for so long already. Heavier steps further away told her that the stallion was also still around. Very well. Time to get started. Time to quickly eat the leftovers from her flat cake and get on the road again.

"Áriel…" Pushing herself into a sitting position with one hand rubbing her eyes, the young woman squinted at the once again cloudy sky… and froze. The position of the sun… it could not be that late, could it? "Oh no…!"

Elana jumped to her feet, inwardly pleading that this was still a dream, but the wet drizzle in her face felt real enough, so real that the hard fact could no longer be ignored: the morning was long gone, and half the day had already passed – while she slept. When she had laid down for a moment during the endless night, close to morning, with the moon already starting to set in the east, she had not meant to sleep at all, only to give her exhausted body a chance to renew its strength for what lay ahead of her. She had meant to wait for dawn to ride hard and get ahead of the king's captors, to alert the village they were headed for, but somehow in the comfortless, desolate blackness closing in on her, the second night she had not slept, exhaustion had apparently overwhelmed her, and now she had lost half a day! As her searching gaze glided over plain in front of her, she noticed with a sharp pang of guilt that the army she had been following had already left, their fires obviously having been put out so long ago, they were not even smoking anymore. This was a catastrophe! Some help she was!

"Áriel, come here!"

Hastily, Elana gathered her few belongings from the ground and saddled her horse, in her head repeating an endless litany meant for the Valar to have mercy on her for her failure.

Éomer's unfocused gaze was directed at the horizon, following the movement of the better part of the Uruk-hai Wormtongue had sent ahead to clear their path. A host of one hundred of the nightmare creatures was now rolling towards the unsuspecting village of Iséndras like a flash flood on rocky surface after hard rain: violent, deadly and unstoppable, set to destroy everything in its path. The king shuddered and prayed that maybe, by sheer chance, Marshal Elfhelm and his éored would be there to prevent the worst, even if the situation did not leave much space for hope.

Grimly he reminded himself how unlikely it was to meet his able kinsman and trusted friend of many years as he watched the dark, menacing silhouettes running half a league ahead of them and putting more distance between themselves and the rest of Gríma's army by the minute. 'Elfhelm must be on his way back to Edoras. Winter is approaching fast, and his errand can not have kept him at Isengard and Helm's Deep for long. He will not risk being surprised by the first storms of winter on the plains.'

Éomer let his gaze sweep the broad valley in the southern fringes of the Ered Nimrais they travelled through, desperately looking for a sign, but with an already low spirit. The plan Wormtongue had finally chosen to reveal to him the night before was too cruel to think through all the way to the end. The people of the Mark were already paying a hefty price after the long war against both the White Wizard and Mordor, with many villages depending on outside help to sustain them with food. More hardships of the like Gríma planned to lay on them would inevitably lead to major famine – and death. There were hardly enough men left in the Riddermark these days to cultivate the vast fields, what would happen to their settlements if yet more people died of hunger was unthinkable. In his youth, while his parents were still alive, Éomer had once experienced what extreme hunger could do a people, how it reduced first the strength and then the spirit, turning honest and giving men into covetous and distrustful ones, and sometimes, even forcing them to become thieves and steal the things they needed to live from their fellow neighbours and kinsmen until finally, when all was lost and nothing left to find or steal, all that was left to do was to lay down and die.

Just shortly after he had turned nine, an entire summer without rain had left the fields dry and their crops dead in all of the Eastmark around Aldburg, their home. The harvest that year had been a major catastrophe, and the people had already known at the beginning of fall that not all of them would live to see the next spring. It had been a frightening experience, one he did not want to see repeated. One he would do all in his might to avert if it still lay within his power.

The main body of Gríma's advance army had already vanished from sight, and Éomer shifted his view again to the greatly reduced group of Uruk-hai that had been left behind to guard him and his adversary on their slower approach to Iséndras. There were only around thirty orcs left. Not an unstoppable force, but with the chains around his neck and wrists, his escape would still have to be the result of outside help. Thirty – plus one patrol warg – were still too many for him to handle, even if Gríma's potion had once again worked wonders on him, considering how feeble he had felt just the night before. If any opportunity presented itself to him today, he would be ready to seize it.

Settling into a slightly more comfortable position on the bare horseback, Éomer finally fell prey to the monotony of their approach again, allowing himself to slip into a daze to retain his strength for a time when he would need it. They had four leagues to travel yet...

"Éomer? Tell me that this is not true! Tell me this is a misunderstanding! Artlas told me that-"

"Do you have her?"

"Yes, but–"

"Then bring her in, and mind your own business, Elfhelm!"

The older, broadly built warrior narrowed his eyes in disbelief – and he refused to leave, even as he motioned his men to bring forth the young, frightened-looking woman Éomer had ordered him to summon to his tent. What was that mud-blooded Rohir thinking to question him openly in front of his men? Éomer knew he had probably had too much ale and wine after that raging Midsummer-celebration, but that was no excuse for his second-in-command to reject his orders! So, maybe he was drunk, but he was still clear enough to know what he was doing, and as Third Marshal of the Riddermark, it was his well-deserved, damned right to exercise! Valar, he was risking his neck every time they went on patrol to rid the Mark of the marauding orcs that kept just coming at them from all directions, so these weak, whiny peasants could bloody well show a bit more of their gratitude.

"You cannot be serious about this, Éomer! You are not yourself!"

"And you, my friend, are forgetting your place!" A dangerous glint lay in Éomer's eyes as he slowly shifted his attention from his rebellious second-in-command to the girl his men lead into his large tent now. She had caught his eye when she had brought him the first cup of wine. A tight, buckskin tunic was artfully tied with leather straps over her womanly frame, a promise of the body underneath. She could not be older than twenty summers, with a delicately cut face, high cheekbones and deep blue eyes. She had the long, golden hair that was standard for the most women of the Mark, and curls that softened her innocent young face to an almost elven likeness. The hard work necessary to sustain life out here in the Westfold had given her a lean, strong body, and – for a Rohan woman – she was quite tall. Perfect, he had decided right there and then.

"My lord? You were asking for me?" Her voice trembled as she stood before him now, slender arms hugging her wiry frame. Behind her, Elfhelm's frown indicated very clearly that he did not approve of his younger superior's actions. Again Éomer locked eyes with his comrade-in-arms of many years in a silent battle. 'I am the king's nephew,' his granite-hard gaze said. 'You object to my will, and you will be punished. Do you understand me? The older man, his mentor for many years, narrowed his eyes, but remained silent. He was a seasoned, experienced warrior and knew what the punishment for mutiny against his superior officer would be.

"Marshal Elfhelm, take your men and leave!" Éomer's voice was firm and determined and there was a hard glint in his dark eyes as he spoke, a threat that only existed between the lines, yet a very potent one, not only meant for Elfhelm, in fact, as the faces of the two men further back told him that they did not like what he was about to do, either. Would he have to court-marshal them all for mutiny, or would they come to their senses?

Finally, after another long moment of silent wrestling of their wills, his old friend gave him the curt nod he had been waiting for, but the rigidity with which he finally turned on his heels to leave his superior's tent was an indication that he was still very much in opposition to what he knew would happen once he had left. Éomer hardly cared as he motioned the girl to step closer. "What is your name, woman?"

"Théandran, my lord." She kept her head lowered as she obeyed hesitantly, avoiding his gaze at all costs, and bent her trembling knees in a formal, stiff curtsey. "But-"

"Look at me!" Large pools of blue met his gaze – and widened slowly as she saw the clear intent on his face. "You are beautiful." he said, his hand roaming over her face, her quivering lips, and slowly tracing her cheekbone back to her ear. Gently his fingertips moved into her hair, playing with the golden curls for a moment before they glided further down on her neck. She trembled under his touch, uncomfortable in his intimidating presence.

"Please, my lord... I'm awaited at home. I cannot-"Her voice sounded husky and choked as if it barely fit through her throat. Narrowing his eyes, Éomer raised her chin with his free hand while the other one still rested on the back of the young woman's neck.

"Tell me, Théandran... are you afraid of me?"

"I –" She interrupted herself as the hand on her neck slid down to her shoulder blades and urged her forward. "My lord?" Breathless now, her eyes widened. Desire... or fear? "No, my lord, but my family-"

"-is safe, and they know you are safe here, too." Éomer was close now, his body next to hers, smelling her sweet scent, which did unbelievable things to him. His voice dropped to a deep, confidential whisper. The girl tried to step back, but he wouldn't allow it. "There is no place in the entire kingdom, not even Helm's Deep, where you would be safer right now than here with me... or do you think you would have harm done to you in the presence of the Third Marshal of the Riddermark?" He ran his other hand from her chin down her neck, briefly stopping in the pit of her throat before his fingertips traced the delicate arch of her collar-bone. The right one was still holding her tight, even though her reluctance was painfully obvious.

"No, my lord..." She shuddered and closed her eyes, breathing heavily. "Please... don't!"

"Ssh... don't speak..." he said, impatient, the building pressure in his lower body making it almost impossible for him to focus on opening the leather straps that held her tunic together. "I did not send for you because I wanted to talk." There now. It was out. His actions had spoken clearly enough before, but now he had also said it out loud, and Théandran responded. Again she fought to withdraw from him, panicking now, but again he held her back and instead crushed her to his chest with barely restrained force, annoyed by her continued resistance.

"Don't!"

His fingers had opened the first straps and uncovered her shoulders as the tunic gave way. Her hands intervened and clasped his in a desperate attempt to stop him. "Please – this is not your right! You cannot do this!"

"You think it is not my right?" He shot her a furious look and forced her hands away. "Every day we ride out and risk our lives for you people. In every battle that we go through our blood is spilled, and now you want to tell me that it's not my right to take what I want in return? Where have you lived so far, that you don't know the way things work, woman?" With a fierce demonstration of his superior strength, Éomer forced her arms down. She was no match for him as he pressed his mouth hard onto hers.

For a moment, there was a hint of the sweet, ripe taste of wine, the notion of the exquisite softness of her lips, before it disappeared under his forceful assault to form a hard barrier. Her head jerked back, but he followed it almost faster than she could move away, not even hearing her terrified whimpering over the thunderous boom of his own pulse and the pressure building in his body, longing for release, tongue searching to penetrate the wall in front of it, his grip on her so fierce her arms would turn purple the day after. Éomer hardly noticed the impact as they stumbled against the door-post, interlocked in an awkward dance, the slight curvature of the body underneath his driving him mad.

Unexpectedly, her mouth opened – and when he plunged in she bit down hard on his tongue and lower lip, drawing blood. The sudden pain cut through his lust like a knife, and for a moment, surprise slackened his hold enough for her to free one arm. How dare she – she hit him squarely in the face and flung herself backwards, out of his grasp, but stumbled and fell, her tunic ripping in his still iron grasp, revealing her all the way to her waist. Huge blue, wet eyes stared up terrified as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, for the eternity of five heartbeats looking at the red stain there before he forcefully threw down the piece of leather he had ripped off and moved after her, now seriously enraged. Who did that wench think she was to deny him?

The girl screamed and frantically moved backwards on all fours now, but he was even faster as his fingers closed around her ankle and yanked her back, under him. She kicked, first at his face, then, below him, aiming for his groin, finding his inner thigh and forcing another painful grunt. Backhanding her came by sheer reflex and without restraint. His knuckles connected with her mouth full force. For a moment, she was stunned. As was he. He had never hit a woman before. Not like this. Not at all!

A small bubble of inactivity rose where they just stared at each other, he kneeling over her, she frozen in a backwards motion. Slowly, with a dreamlike quality, her hand touched her mouth - and came away bloodied. His strike had split her lip. Large blue eyes met his in utter confusion – and stark, naked shock.

For a heartbeat, words of regret shot through his head – 'I did not mean to…'. Then anger replaced it. At himself. Then at her, for making this so difficult!

"You see what you have done now?" he yelled into her face, beside himself. Her eyes were squeezed shut, for she could no longer bear to look at him, the image of the protector she had carried around in her heart for years turned into that of her worst enemy; her lower, bloodied lip quivering in voiceless terror. "This is your own fault!"

Her presence, the maddening softness of her body under him made it impossible to pull back. He had to have her! "Now quit fighting. I do not want to harm you further." He opened his belt. "What happens now is up to you..." The body underneath him shuddered, but her fighting spirit had finally been broken, and the suppressed, low sobs she uttered as he tore away the remainders of her clothing were the only sign she was still conscious as Éomer claimed his reward...

"Forgive me for asking, my lord, but you appear to be rather introverted today. Is something ailing you, something I can help you with? Are you not feeling well? Is it your wound?" Gríma's silky voice oozed its way through the vivid memory that played in Éomer's head and woke him from the half-conscious daze he had slipped into. For the first time, he was thankful for the distraction. The incident had only happened last year, in the very village they were headed for. It hung like a black cloud over the meadow of his conscience, casting a large, deep shadow. The people would not have forgotten him, much less forgiven. Sure, he had been drunk, but forcing himself on that innocent young woman – and hitting her, too! - one of the people he had vowed to protect with his life… The very thought sickened him. What had come over him that night?

"My lord?"

Éomer remained silent, eyes staring unfocused into the distance without seeing the surrounding landscape. Instead he saw his friend's face. Elfhelm's expression had left no question open that he had been disgusted by what his marshal had done to that girl. In fact, now that he remembered more clearly, all the men of his éored had looked at him as if he were a particularly lowly kind of mutant orc when they had left the village the morning after. Valar, how could he have forgotten? And now he would be confronted with the consequences of his doings again, and he harboured no doubt that – once the villagers had recognised Gríma Wormtongue's captive – they would rather cheer the dark counsellor than try to free their morally more than questionable king. Not that he could blame them.

"Oh, but of course... now I understand," Gríma straightened in the saddle, recognition lighting up his pale features. "It is the incident with the farmer's daughter that occupies your mind, isn't it?"

Why couldn't this snake keep his poisonous trap shut this one time instead of constantly having to pry his fingers into his wounds? And how did he know? How much did he know? Had Elfhelm told him? But Elfhelm hated Gríma almost as passionately as he did, so how -? As much as he fought to keep his stoic expression intact, Éomer could not avoid casting a secretly ashamed glance at his adversary.

"I should have known. Your mind is like a deep black pit that attracts all fell news it can possibly get its greedy fingers on. Nothing delights you more than hearing about other people's misery… except causing it!"

Gríma shrugged and did not bother to display false sympathy.

"But my lord, the entire Riddermark heard about it! Your own men spread the word like wildfire! According to Marshal Elfhelm, who I think used to be a friend of yours until this dreadful event, you hurt that woman badly enough for her to be barren now. The healer they brought her to after you were through with her was certain of that. The poor thing will never have children... and presumably, no husband either, for who would want to have a wife who is unable to fill her home with the laugher of their own children?" A meaningful pause. Wormtongue could tell by the look of the king's face that his latest blow had hurt him to the core. Along with the last defences of his mind, Éomund's son's self-control appeared to have vanished as well. The grim, stoic mask behind which he had hidden his thoughts just one day earlier had dissolved to an open display of shame and guilt. "It was a monstrous thing to do, even for someone like you, whose reputation has preceded him for years."

The dark counsellor let the sentence trail off, knowing full well that his captive would not be able to ignore the loose end. Gríma's plan had taken on a life of its own now with the drug working to its maximum degree. Whatever he implied, whatever he hinted at, Éomer's abducted mind would take and provide images for from the very wells of his own memory. Lies would turn into fact, and would work even better due to one of the king's own character traits: his immense sense of pride made it virtually impossible for him to ignore any implications his foe dropped, in the process being forced to bury his conscience with an ever-growing amount of guilt, which Gríma was happy to feed into. Spinning intrigues and artfully crafted nets of lies had always been something the son of Gálmód had excelled at – and a well of never-ending delight for him if it worked as well as here.

"What do you mean, even for me?" Éomer's hesitant question was rewarded with an incredulous look.

"Please, my lord… don't tell me you don't know about your own reputation! I would deem it far too prominent for you to have missed it, since you Rohirric soldiers always pride yourself of your perception and ability to read people! Please, don't say that you do not know your people's opinion concerning you!" Gríma rolled his eyes and let out a short laugh that indicated how ridiculous he deemed the king's question.

"What reputation?" Éomer's puzzlement grew to the point where he wasn't even paying attention to his surroundings anymore. His foe's hinted implications had brought a hot, pulsing throb to his innards, and he was sure his face looked flushed with shame. What kind of a nightmare was this? Had he been blind all the time?

Wormtongue inhaled deeply and then sadly shook his head, as he began to recapitulate, slowly and pointedly, as if he were speaking to a stubborn child.

"Where shall I begin? Your reputation of a man who thrives on bloodlust? A man who actually enjoys the act of killing and the carnage of war and doesn't take it as a necessary measure to protect his people? Who would prefer to kill his enemies slowly for his greater pleasure, if it weren't for the fact that there are too many of them to do so? A man who – protected and preferred by his noble descent and relationship with the king - had risen through the ranks far too fast for the taste of most of the soldiers he rode with, and who achieved a position of great power at an age where he was hardly mentally mature enough to use that power wisely? The reputation of a man who expects to be rewarded for his deeds by the people he serves - and who will ruthlessly take whatever he wants, with little or no concern to whom it belongs or whether it is given willingly? - That, my lord, is what your people, who you think love and value you, think of the late King Théoden's nephew." Gríma paused, his expression hard and pitiless. "Do you want me to continue, noble king of Rohan, or will that suffice for now?" He stared into Éomer's widened eyes with all sincerity he could muster, even though his inner satisfaction was almost too intense to bear. The king appeared to be unable to answer, and when he finally did find his voice again, it sounded weak and lacked conviction as well as justified anger, which told Gríma all he needed to know.

"This is but your own mind talking. I do not believe that my people-."

"You do not want to believe me, aye, I can see that, my king, and I do not blame you, for who would like to hear such things about oneself? Yet I can see in your face that you know I am speaking the truth. Maybe it is a good sign that finally you seem to feel something equivalent to shame. Maybe, if I allowed you to live longer, you would change for the better, but…" He took a deep breath. "No. I am sorry. It is too late for that… and alas, it also comes too late for your uncle." A hurtful twitch in the king's face. Another strike right through his defences.

Gríma continued. "Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but… let it suffice to say that your scandalous behaviour very much poisoned the well of King Théoden's sanity in those unfortunate days of his illness. He had hoped for you to be a help for him in those hard days, a crutch for him to lean on, but instead you took away what balance he had!" He shook his head. "A sad story, really. And all the time, you blamed me for your uncle's misery… You should have spoken with your sister more often. She knew what the real reason for Théoden's grief was. Your banishment had nothing to do with me – it was a direct result from your behaviour. After that incident with the woman, you were no longer tolerable as a representative of Rohan nobility. This course of action had been my counsel to your uncle for a long time, but alas, Théoden's illness had made him blind to what went on in his kingdom, and unfortunately, he needed your skills as warrior, as the situation was too precarious for Rohan. That he did eventually banish you came as a surprise even to me. He must have had one of his clearer days when he signed that warrant. Alas, you had been gone for a too short time for the people of Rohan to forget you after the king's son fell and Théoden himself was slain on the Pelennor Fields of Gondor, and your own great deeds on the battlefield spoke louder to the Rohirrim than their doubts. When you returned from Gondor, they welcomed you as their king… but their memory is returning, my lord, and the voices among them that call for having you replaced by someone worthy are getting louder… and more plentiful."

Wormtongue opened his mouth to continue, but his attention was suddenly diverted by the sight of three dark columns of smoke slowly rising from behind the hills they were headed for, too far away yet to carry the stench of the fire to them. The procession came to a halt, and the remaining Uruk-hai launched into appreciate grunting as they pointed towards the site of their brothers' doings. Éomer's eyes were also fixed on the first messenger of destruction, but his numbed and stunned mind did not make the immediate connection. His head was reeling from Wormtongue's revelations, and the still prominent images of the bleeding, shivering woman in front of his inner eyes was too distracting for him to be able to deal with yet another catastrophe. A sickening wave of nausea turned his stomach, and he had to bow his head and shut his eyes to fight it, not noticing as the dark counsellor's attention shifted back to him.

"Get him off the horse!"

Suddenly, it took the king a considerable amount of strength just to raise his head, as if all of his strength had suddenly been sucked out of him by some unseen force. Something was seriously wrong with him. Everything - foreground, background, Wormtongue's face and those of the Uruks further back - everything looked strangely flat, distant and drained of most of its colour. Without warning, an unexpected stroke of heat raced through his veins and bathed him in sweat.

"But we are not there yet," one of the Dunlendings who had one end of the chain secured to his saddle grunted. Wormtongue shifted his view from the prisoner to his guard, his voice still sounding patient as he explained the strange order to his follower.

"No, but the king wishes to take a walk." His gaze fell back to Éomer, who was struggling too much with his suddenly deteriorating condition to listen. "He is a very active man, our king, a person of great stamina and endurance. Sitting on horseback all day long without an opportunity to stretch his legs is not something a true descendant of the house of Eorl rejoices in, is it, my lord?"

The words were clear, and still their meaning escaped Éomer. Valar, what was happening with him? This was a feeling as if he were severely drunk, only without the nice warming glow in his stomach. He was unable to think, unable to talk, unable to do anything but stare in utter confusion at the dark figure in front of him.

Orders were bellowed, and then a sudden, sharp tug at the chain around his neck. Unceremoniously, the king slid off his horse's back, and yet his instincts still helped him land on his feet, but his legs were too weak to carry him. He sank to his knees in the middle of a large puddle of mud. Laughter surged up all around him, and yet it seemed very distant.

"You see," he heard Gríma's voice from above, speaking to his army, "the Rohirrim proudly call themselves 'Horse-Lords'. Yet by the sight of this, wouldn't you rather agree they should call themselves 'Pig-Lords', for they seem to share the same fondness of dirt and mud as their naked, squealing, undignified farm animals!" More laughter. Éomer felt the concussion of heavy steps next to him, water and mud splashing under the weight of a horse, the smell of wet fur. "Give me that!" Somewhere above Éomer's head, one end of the chain changed its possessor. Another tug and he fell forward, face down into the puddle, to the amusement of his captors. His right side exploded in agony, and deep within his mind, sub-consciously, Éomer was certain he would never ever be able to use his sword-arm again.

"Up, up, ruler of the Pig-Lords!" Wormtongue's mocking voice teased him. "Your vassals are waiting for their king! And what a fine sight you will be to their commoners' eyes!" He turned his horse around and sent it into a fast trot, dragging his captive behind for a few yards before he stopped again and looked over his shoulder. "You'd better get up, my liege. It would not pose a problem to me to drag you all the way to the village, but what should your kinsmen say? You do not want to look them in the eye the way you look now,do you?" Squeezing his eyelids shut for a moment, the dark counsellor looked up into the rain. "We still have about one league until we are there. If you stay on your feet, the rain will clean you at least a bit and make you more presentable. More... kingly." A nasty smirk. "It is your decision, son of Éomund."