Chapter 9.

Six years later

Grima nodded his head quickly in total agreement Éomer's eyes narrowed, since when had Grima ever agreed with him entirely? Théoden's hair, which had grayed substantially in the past years, nodded his silent agreement.

"Go." he said his voice cracked and faded.

"My liege, I request… my lord, that you consider riding out with us once again. Such an attack desires the strong leadership that only you can command." Éomer said subtly.

Grima jumped from the dais with unusual vigor, "You mean to kill your uncle then Éomer. No one doubts the king's excellent wisdom, for none can compare in wit. However, you are asking a valuable asset of this kingdom to be wasted in the bloody drudgery of battle. Any simpleton with a sharp-edged object can kill." Grima finished with an evocative look to the young man before him.

"You would certainly know that worm," Éomer muttered turning to walk away.

He stopped and turned once more, in his warrior's heart unable to surrender so quickly to such an unworthy foe, "My lord king, remember the touch of a hilt in your hand, a bridle in your grip, the uneasy stirring of a horse beneath you. It is no simple thing to stop orcs and protect the livelihood of your people."

The king roused in his chair and reached to where his sword would have been many years ago.

"Where is my sword?" he asked quietly, his fingers aching with a longing for the touch of the cold handle, the caress of the metal.

"My lord, I took it upon myself to have your sword readied for an important threat upon Edoras. It was in need of service…" he said his excuses sounding hollow, "I took it so that I might return it to you another day, give into my responsibility I plead," he finished uneasily.

The hall seemed to darken with the weight of the moment, the hearth fire's flame burned low for a moment as if all was waiting for the king's decision. It was not about the sword, but about the wakening that had been seen in his eyes a moment before. "Yes Grima…" he said quietly.

Things returned to their unaffected state and Grima patted his lord's arm softly. Éomer did not wait to see the look of triumph that most surely adorned his face. The moment had passed, and the snake had poisoned the king's judgment once again.

He headed to the stables where the men were waiting. All the other éored's had been sent away. It seemed that Théodred was scarcely at Edoras any longer and now he wondered if that was not also the advisor's doing. An argument from the king's own son would not fall upon deaf ears. His thoughts were interrupted by Éowyn's voice.

"So he has disagreed? I thought as much…" she said softly drifting into thought.

"Yes, he has refused again, though he has allowed us to ride forth, which is unusual. With all the refusals of late it has come as a surprise… I often am torn, would disobeying an order from Grima's mouth constitute a betrayal of the throne? Fath… Uncle has agreed with him in everything, but one often wonders if he is now merely a puppet," he said quietly not wishing the treasonous words to carry farther than the conversation. "Éowyn, stay with him, watch over him while I am gone, I give the king into your hands for a while."

"Yes of course," she answered, with strained voice and pain in her eyes he did not notice. She was unusually quiet, though the years in the darkening kingdom had sobered her from her former years; she still voiced her opinions with unmatched fervor. They ventured into the daylight for a moment and then into the dark mustiness of the stables.

Éowyn passed Théodred's horse's empty stable and was pained, the men could ride away and fight away their anger. She, however, had to stay with a failing king and watch his advisor rule the kingdom in his stead. Where was she to fight off the demons of hate and despair that tortured her soul? By tending an elderly uncle who no longer called her daughter and ignore the subtle hints of Grima's lust? She was trapped, and watched her brother ride away with the feeling of an injured horse that must stay in the darkness of the stable, and watch the others gallop over the golden fields, feeling afraid for perhaps it would remain in its cage forever and its wound would never heal.

Éomer struggled to think only on the mission before him. The Dunlendings had been raiding village after village in the Eastfold, farmers and horse-herders who lived there were unaccustomed to fighting and though they had fought valiantly, it was to no avail. There were scarcely twenty-five riders with Éomer and by all accounts at least fifty wild men. He had been in many a battle where they had defeated more orcs with less Rohirrim but he had never led such an endeavor. He feared his guidance might fall short of what was needed.

Still there were many experienced men with him that would be worth at least three wild men before they fell. He was shocked at how easily he fell into thinking that way. Horrified at how he was thinking of the men as numbers not faces. It was easier that way, seeing a number die was easier than seeing a comrade or friend die. He could not plan the attack based on the men behind the digits; that would lead to ruin. This disengaged outlook would serve him better, if only he could stop looking into their eyes and stop knowing that the attitude of numbers was false.

The riding continued for some hours until they were forced to stop for a meal. After that they continued, and were fast approaching their destination by nightfall. Another small village of horse-herders, still safely away from the ransacked settlements was not far off and it was decided to stop there for the night and see if they might obtain shelter for the night.

Their horses were tired as well and a few small lights lit the darkness as men from the village hurried out to take the horses to stables scattered about the settlement. They agreed readily to provide accommodations.

A large, burly man with grey hair and chipped front tooth smiled broadly at Éomer, "We knew you could not be Dunlendings when we heard the racket you were making. Though you gave our hearts quite a start." he added with a loud laugh.

The man was named Hyrde and seemed like a leader among the independent group of horse-masters. He lead Éomer and two other soldiers to his house where he would give them food and rest. Éomer sighed contently that night, his stomach full with a hearty meal provided by Hyrde's wife Dagræd who was a fair match for him in size. He lay his head down that night glad for the delay, and worried about what would happen upon the morrow. His stomach was tied in knots that had not been there for many years and he found himself silently praying that the Dunlendings would go back to their own lands without a fight.

Éowyn hurried down the familiar halls of Meduseld late that night. She was determined to keep her promise to Éomer and was planning to check on her uncle before she retired. She slowed as she reached the hall where his quarters were located and came to a silent stop as she saw another sneaking figure's shadow walking towards her destination.

The shadow's hand dove into its clothes and came out again carrying some strange object, he held up a wine goblet and tiny grains rushed forth from the object into the cup. The hand rotated quietly, mixing the contents and then stuffed the container back into the dark shadow of his garment. Only one person in Rohan's shadow could be so bent, so crouched. It was Grima, and to what mischief he had involved himself in this time she could not say.

She remained still as he opened the door to the king's inner study, the light flooding out in the hallway for a moment and then disappearing with a slam of wood. Éowyn stood for a moment quietly, trying to take in what had happened, such evil, poisoning the king's own goblet could not be thought of. She knew what she must do.

With decisive movements she knocked on the door twice and entered. Grima's hunched form shot up suddenly away from a wine goblet that he had placed on the king's table. Théoden had not yet entered the room. Éowyn cursed silently at her own foolishness, she could have waited and come in after Grima had left again.

"My lady, what brings you to the king's study in such a state?" he asked quickly perusing her damp brow and vexed look.

"Grima, I was simply coming to talk to my uncle on some private matters. Is he in his own chambers already?" she said quickly.

"Yes," he answered slowly, his eyes narrowing, his mind trying to perceive whether she was telling the truth, "He will be out in a moment I am sure."

"Thank you, it is kind of you to bring him his drink, but I will make sure he receives it, I must talk to him alone," she said with proud voice that only a descendent of Morwen herself could have managed.

Grima felt cowed in her presence in that moment when she stood straight and tall like a fine blade and her voice commanded him like a lowly servant, her voice reminded him of someone else's… of his master's voice. Whether it was this similarity with the one to whom his allegiance laid or something else no one could determine. Éowyn saw his form shrink, and wondered at how she had ever admired such a man in her youth. He bowed sheepishly, and left.

Éowyn swiftly took a step towards the table and poured the wine out onto the blazing hearth. Her uncle came in and sat down as she filled it again with new wine which was easily found in a drawer of his desk. He took it from her silently and drank for a moment. His eyes seemed clearer for a moment as he spoke.

"Excellent wine."

Note:

Hello all! Too many people to thank at once! Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers to without whom this story would never progress. Sorry about the slow updates, but I have been in the middle of a mass editing process on all my chapters so things have been a little hectic. Hope you all enjoyed this one!