Night and Day
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "We are not so different, you and I"- Gríma Wormtongue. Gríma shows Éowyn that they are really just two sides of the same coin.
It is late, very late at night, in the Golden Hall of Meduseld- my long home. Though by rights I ought to be abed, fast asleep, I am driven to wander these halls, night after night. Why? This is the only time I can let down my guard, give up my masquerade, and be Éowyn. The real Éowyn, I mean, not the shieldmaiden or the White Lady of Rohan, bound by etiquette and decorum. At night, I can allow the tears to fall, and I walk, silent, my face a mask of tears in the starlight. I can sit on the edge of the wall, heedless of the dirt that soils my nightgown, and gaze over the plains of my country and dream. I can dream of riding far from this prison, of traveling, and fighting, and loving, and finding someone who might love me back, simply for being Éowyn.
At night I need not fear interruption by Wormtongue- the king's advisor, who seems to stalk me, dogging my steps wherever I go. I did not hate him, not at first, for he was clever and wise and learned, and seemed to understand me, but I suspect- no, I know- that he has a hand in what has been happening to Rohan over the past few years. Something about him frightens me, for he is so unerring in his perception of me- he sees rights through my mask to the weakness within, and he preys on that. But, what is the more disconcerting, is he doesn't seem to want to hurt me with his knowledge, as he well could. I cannot understand him.
Suddenly I hear a noise in the darkness behind me, I cannot identify it, but… a breath, and then, he speaks.
"My lady… what troubles you?"
His voice is silky in the heavy air of the corridor. I can sense his presence, even as a rabbit senses a snake, the mere awareness that he is near me sets my nerves instantly on edge. It is as if he heard me thinking about him. Am I that transparent, or is it just an accident of timing? I shiver with the strangeness of it, but wheel to face him, ignoring the feeling.
"Nothing." I spit, effortlessly slipping into my well-kept façade, suddenly every inch the contemptuous shieldmaiden. "I might ask what you are doing, wandering the halls at this hour?"
He is utterly unfazed. Mildly he regards me with those eyes, like chips of ice, cold and hard, glittering in the half-light.
"Keeping watch." He says simply. "But I need not ask what my lady is doing up so late- anxious as I am for your restfulness. Doubtless you find sleep as elusive as I."
"My thoughts are far beyond the grasp of a mind such as yours, Worm."
I turn haughtily, planning to stalk off and leave him standing there, but suddenly I feel a hand snaking 'round my wrist. His fingers, thin and pale though they are, grip my arm like a vice, and I cry out softly. When I turn, it is to see a slight smile at the corner of his thin mouth, and his eyes lit with some inner fervor. But… what is in his eyes? They are not malevolent, hooded, cunning, but filled with pity and something that might possibly be understanding.
"Oh… I think it is rather that your thoughts are beyond the grasp of everybody else." His eyes lock on mine, "You are like a wild hawk, trammeled in a gilded cage, imprisoned by bejeweled chains. Your uncle and brother and the others… they think they know you, but, in keeping you confined in the prison of your form, in fine dresses and propriety, they will make your life a meaningless emptiness… blank, devoid of feeling, emotion, of the fire that lives within you. They see only the beauty of the body, not the true beauty of your soul, your loveliness…" Seemingly of its own accord, his hand creeps up to my cheek. "You endure terrible pain even now, because of those who might condemn you to an empty life, a life behind bars. We are not so different, you and I."
I wrench away at these words, clutching my wrist to me, as though it had been burnt. He was right, of course. How many times had I thought those same thoughts, and more, though I never dared voice them. All the secret fears I keep locked in my heart, the fears I cry about at night. It is as if he has read my mind.
"You're mad! I am as different from you as- as day from night!"
"Ah." His lips curve in a smug smile, as if that was exactly what he'd wanted me to say. "But they are one in the same, are they not? Night cannot exist without day, nor day without night- their survival depends on the existence of their other. Night is only the dark side of day, after all."
I try desperately to close my ears to his abhorrently reasonable words, but his fingers have once again crept forward and closed about my wrist, and inexplicably, my heartbeat quickens. His fingers are slender and tapered, light and cool against the flushed skin of my wrist. He moves closer, and try as I might, all I can hear is his voice; hushed, mellifluous, low.
"But my lady, you are trembling."
I cannot deny it, and those eyes, flicking hither and thither, catch the resignation that must be showing in my eyes, and he speaks again.
"Do not say that is it my presence that has incited this. Surely the simple councilor to the king could not have such power over the Lady Éowyn, shieldmaiden that she is? Is it fear, my lady, or something else, mayhap, that makes you tremble when you anticipate that I might touch you thus…"
With that, his hand releases my wrist and gently steals up, to rest on my neck. His thumb caresses the hollow of my throat and my pulse flutters like butterfly wings. My eyes are half-closed, I can tell; I must look near to fainting, but I cannot move. His words, and the touch of his nimble hands have woven such a spell about me that I both desire desperately to run away from this man who somehow seems to know the content of my deepest dreams and fears, and want never to move again, to succumb to the touch of those hands and the sound of that voice.
"Or perhaps," his voice is like velvet on my skin, almost tangible in the darkness, "you tremble because I see your dark side, and knowing that, you fear that you may come to know my light side. Would that be too much, my lady? To see more than one side to this man, to see not just Wormtongue, but Gríma as well? Or mayhap it is because I can see Éowyn the woman- instead of just Éowyn the shieldmaiden, or Éowyn the princess. Is it because I can see the Éowyn who cries in the dark, the Éowyn who bears pain beyond the measure of mortals? Or…"
He leans closer still, so that his breath ghosts my face, so that I can feel the warmth of his body, even through the layers of cloth that swathe him. The distance between us is permeated with tension, fear, longing, confusion, passion. His ice-blue eyes devour me, keen as lances, seeing far beneath my half-closed eyes and trembling hands. As I watch, the tip of a surprisingly pink tongue darts out to sweep over his thin, chalky lips, and even as it does so, I feel a curious feeling twist in my belly.
"Perchance…" he purrs softly, "you tremble because you fear that you will yield to your passions, to… my passions."
He is too close, he is far, far too close, but my eyes are riveted to his, and I make no move to stop him as slowly, tenderly, he lowers his lips to mine. I half expect them to feel cold, but they are warm and soft against mine. For a moment I am frozen, but with the hand that I had forgotten was there, he lifts my chin, and almost without being aware of it, I return the kiss, I feel compelled to somehow.
A strange feeling grips my heart; I do not recognize it. Then, in an instant, I realize it is completion- completion such I have not felt since I was but a babe in my father's arms. Even as my heart unaccountably warms to the fact that I am being tenderly kissed by none other than Gríma called Wormtongue, when his hands snake around behind my head, fingers woven in my hair, and I moan involuntarily.
Almost immediately, I pull back, shivering. He looks at me, and for a moment, I see in his eyes a mixture of fear and love and a curious vulnerability, until he blinks and the moment is gone. I look at him, my breath coming ragged and harsh, and try desperately to form words.
"I- I… I cannot. I am sorry."
His voice, normally so smooth and composed, is naught more than a broken whisper, wracked with desperation.
"Éowyn…"
I cannot look at him.
"No, please… I cannot. I cannot give myself to you… I would not have either of us pay this price."
A lone tear leaks out, despite my efforts to keep it in check- the first time in years that my mask has cracked. I turn and flee to my bedchamber, but even as I do, swear I can hear his voice, whispering to the night air.
"Night and day, Éowyn…"