Disclaimer: I own nothing that belongs to JRR Tolkien. I am merely borrowing his toys for a while, and promise to put them back when I'm finished.

Dedications: To Evendim, who gave me my start in this fandom and has graciously supplied me with permission to play in her playground any time I like. Thanks, sweetie… it means a great deal to me. To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and the occasional kick in the pants I need to keep writing. And last, but not least, to AJ, who is helping me write this one which started so innocently with a game of "What if…"

Author's Note: This story is set in an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE of my own creation. That means that some facts, faces, and features found in canon might not exactly fit. All constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms; flames will be read, laughed over, and then tossed out the window for Dogzilla to eat.

Author's Note #2: This was just supposed to be an innocent little way to pass the time… AJ and I were playing "What if" games and came up with the idea that perhaps Théodred hadn't been killed at the Fords of Isen. It quickly spiraled from there, grabbed a couple more innocent-looking little bunnies, and guess what? We're off and running on another story! I beg your indulgence; all works in progress are intended to be updated and completed as time allows. This is mostly movie-verse, though there will be a few elements of book-verse involved later. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Théodred woke some time later; he couldn't say how long. There were, of course, no windows for him to check the position of the sun. And his first thought was that he was not alone.

"So you have rejoined the land of the living, my lord. Then it is a good thing that I sent you to Saruman for tending. The wound you received was a mortal one; at least that was what everyone believed." Gríma shifted in his seat by the fire to look more closely at Théodred. "You don't look nearly as dead as the last time I saw you."

"It should have been a mortal wound," Théodred snapped back as he struggled to rise. He fell back, exhausted by the simple act of movement. "I see you have finally slithered your way back where you belong, Gríma. Did you tire of tormenting my father finally, or did your master call you home?" He couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice.

He had long known the Worm was in Saruman's service; it was one reason he had gone to the Fords, to avoid spitting the creature on his own blade and being called to account for it. The changes in his father had come only after Wormtongue had begun plying his version of leechcraft; why could not the others see that? He vowed to himself not to trust the man, no matter what was said.

Gríma picked up a glass of mead and brought it to Théodred. "I'm sure you would prefer mead over the wine that you have been drinking. As for your father, he dismissed me from his service. I returned here because I knew you were here and thought to perhaps offer my services to you."

"Then Father has seen your true colors," Théodred snarled back. "I'll take nothing from your hands, you snake. I've seen what your leechcraft is good for. You would have had my father crawling on all fours like a beast! Get from my sight, worm, and go to your true master! Go to Saruman!"

Théodred knew his words were useless; he hadn't the strength to back them up. Whatever it was they had put in the wine, it held him nearly immobile from weakness. His strength of arms was gone; but his strength of will remained. Never would he bow to these creatures of darkness, these traitors to all that lived.

Gríma paused before continuing to Théodred's bedside. "You will drink this, my lord, even if I must force it into you. As for my leechcraft, I did what I thought was best for Rohan. Neither you nor your father can know why I did what I did." He sighed as he placed the mug against Théodred's lips. "I promise you that there is nothing in this but the sweet mead you favor. This cup was prepared by me, and I give you my word as one of your Riders there is nothing in it to harm you."

"Ale would be the most welcome thing at the moment," Théodred remarked sullenly as he turned his head away. He had not the strength to fight off the Worm, and he knew it. The realization was galling to him, even though the man had once been one of his riders! Somehow he found the strength to knock the cup from Gríma's hands. "I meant what I said, Worm. I'll not drink anything from your hand, nor eat food from your table. And what is best for Rohan? Surely you cannot believe that turning the King himself into a dotard would be best for Rohan!" Théodred struggled harder to sit up, finally coming to rest against the rather ornate headboard. He counted it a victory that he had been able to move at all. "Best for Saruman, perhaps, best for you, but not for Rohan!"

Gríma sighed and picked up the spilled mug, and then took some pillows and helped to adjust Théodred so that he could rest more comfortably. "Rohan is not just a king on a throne. Rohan is its people and horses. I thought if Saruman was convinced that Rohan was easily taken that he wouldn't attack with his full forces; hoping that he would decide not to attack at all." He sighed knowing that his thinking would not be understood by the son any more then it had been by the father.

"And so you did Saruman's bidding and rendered my father an old man before his time," Théodred scoffed. However, he settled back against the pillows with a thinly disguised sigh of relief. "Gríma, if you were truly a man of Rohan, you would have brought your fears to my father and aired them, not used guile and deceit to work your will in secret from those you should trust above all others." He felt that he had failed somehow. Gríma, if he was working for the good of Rohan (and that was still very much in doubt in Théodred's mind) should have trusted at least his Marshall with his suspicions. Théodred would then have taken said suspicions to his father and they would have been acted upon. Where had he failed in Gríma's training that Gríma believed he must work alone?

Gríma shook his head, "I had already been talking with Saruman. He had promised me something that even you could not give my lord. And even to that end I lost what he promised me." He took up another mug and drank deeply from it. "As for you father being an old man before his time, I had spoken with him once about Saruman and his ambitions. He chose not to believe me saying that Rohan was stronger then any wizard alive. Your father in arrogance thought that nothing could harm the people of Rohan. He thought that he could conquer any one who came against him."

Théodred winced inwardly at the news. His father was arrogant, yes, but he had never seemed foolishly so. Théoden as he had been would never have discounted a threat to his people, not unless there had been some darkness already at work in the Golden Hall.

Was it his own arrogance that was discounting Gríma's story? After all, he was here, and not in Edoras tormenting the King further. "Why were you cast out, Gríma? My father trusted you, until he became so addled from your whispered spells that he could no longer think for himself. What have you done that could have awakened him from his stupor? What crime so heinous did you commit that he could no longer condone or explain your actions?" Even as he spoke the words, he knew what it was Gríma had been promised. Yes, he had been one of the Rohirrim; but that had not changed his looks. He was not at all a comely man, and that had been his downfall. He had hungered for one he could not have, and desperation had made him ripe for Saruman's temptations. "Was my cousin your promised price? Éowyn?" The thought made him see red and he cursed the weakness in his limbs.

Gríma sighed and moved away from Théodred's bedside. "Gandalf the Grey came to the hall and helped your father regain his senses. Théoden did not remember any of our conversations about Saruman or that I had sent you to the one I thought could heal your wounds." He ducked his head in sadness his voice a whisper of sound, "And yes for love of your cousin I gladly sold my soul to the darkness. Only even then she would not have me. Nor will I place blame on her shoulders; she will always be the most precious star in my heavens." He spoke that last almost to himself.

Théodred found his heart swelling with hope, only to feel it plunge into despair. If his father had no memory of Gríma's words... Bema, he must be devastated! And there would be no rescue, for Théoden would think him dead. Above all else it galled him that he could not summon the strength to pace. Pacing could be used as both an outlet for his frustration and a way to once more examine the room for a possible escape route.

He gave some thought to Gríma's words. The man had been an excellent Rider, had been totally devoted to Théodred while in the éored. And he had worshiped Éowyn for a long time; it had been no secret that he loved her, and that his love would never be returned. Gríma was not without fault in this; but neither was the blame solely his to bear. Théodred needed more information; he needed to be free! His father would lose heart if he felt Théodred was lost. Rohan would surely fall if his spirit was not bolstered in some fashion. He nearly groaned aloud at the thought.

"Gríma, you must help me," he began, his voice low. "Tell me what you know of my father, and help me get free of this place! Saruman means to destroy the people of Rohan and I would prevent it, or die with them. Help me now."

The door slammed open as the Orcs ushered in the young woman who had been bring food and drink. She cringed away from Gríma and brought the food to the table as the Orcs closed the door behind her not even bothering to lock the door when they left.

"I have brought you food my lord." She kept her face hidden by the mesh of dirty hair. In Rohirrim she spoke softly. "I have ensured that there was nothing placed in the food this time. Although it is poor fare it is what I am given to eat. I am sorry that I failed to check your meal before this." She completely ignored Gríma.

Gríma looked at her puzzled as she seemed familiar to him. "Who is your family child?" His voice was soft.

She ignored him and watched Théodred closely.

Théodred also had been perplexed by the resemblance he couldn't place. Her hair; it was so filthy he couldn't tell what color it was. If he could just see her eyes clearly...

"The food is more than sufficient," he said softly, hoping to set her at ease. "But I insist that you share the meal, since you are giving up your rations. I will have none of my people go without for my sake." He knew she was one of his, by the simple deduction that she was here and obviously against her will. Saruman had long hated the people of Rohan, though he had not dared to be so open about it before now. He and Hama had often shared their criticism of the wizard, out of Théoden's earshot, of course.

Hama. Recognition burst on him suddenly. "You have the look of your father," he said softly. "Your name is Halla, is that right?"

Gríma started and shook his head in horror. "By Bema, no! It is not possible. I suggested that Hama send his wife and younger children to somewhere safe. When I heard he had sent them to the Westfold I despaired that he had sent them to their deaths." He drank deeply from his mug.

Théodred snarled from his imprisoning body. "The Westfold? What do you know of the Westfold, Worm?" he spat. He wished he had the full use of his hands, though strength was slowly returning. "Halla, what has happened that you are here? Tell me everything." He glared at Gríma. "And you will tell me why you asked Hama to send his family away from Edoras."

His mind was working furiously. The one true defensible position in Rohan was the Fortress at Helm's Deep. If Hama was concerned for his family, why not send them there? It made no sense.

Gríma sighed and motioned that he should rest against the pillows and eat what she had brought him. "I had some knowledge of what Saruman was going to let loose on Rohan. But only enough to try and save as many as I could. I knew that he was planning to attack the Westfold with an army of Wildmen. I ordered as many as I thought I could get away with to move to the Deep. But then I found out from Hama that he had sent his wife there because her sister was married to a man of the Westfold."

Halla snorted, "You are nothing but slime. You betrayed your oath to Rohan for the promise of a woman. One who would probably kill herself before she'd let you touch her," she spat at Gríma, her eyes blazing with fury and pain. "My mother died protecting my little brother and sister. Then only reason I'm not dead is…" She paled and trailed off as she remembered the pain of what the Wildmen did with her after the found her. She shook as she suddenly felt the need to sit.

Théodred picked at the food on the plate as his mind raced through the possibilities once more. Halla would come with him when he escaped, that much was painfully clear. He would leave no one to Saruman's tender mercies, not even Gríma. Unless Gríma refused the salvation he offered.

He ate less than half, noticing again that his strength was returning, though the process was slower than he would have liked. Then he shook his head and forced his mind to business. More strength meant a greater chance of escape, if he was lucky. "Halla, what he did was misguided, but necessary to his mind. Love has a way of making men do foolish things." The words almost choked him. He could not yet credit that Gríma loved Éowyn so deeply he would betray everything he held dear for her, and yet he could not completely discount it, either. "That you have survived speaks of your strength. I ask you now; use that strength to aid me."

Cautiously he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and then stood up and began searching the walls. Wait... when Halla had come in, the door had not been relocked. The poker was the only weapon he could call to hand; but an enraged Rohirrim armed with anything was a force to be reckoned with. He could feel the battle heat rising inside him again and welcomed it. "Gríma, if you would right your wrongs, then help me now. Are there any weapons to be had? I would not leave either of you here in any case but we would fare better if all were armed."

Gríma watched him, "Théodred, escape is not an option at the moment. You would only get so far before being recaptured. They eat horses here." He shuddered at the thought of good horses being used in such a manner.

Halla's eyes blazed then. "I will do what I can my lord." She smiled as she pulled a wickedly long butcher's knife from beneath her kilt. "I've been keeping this on me incase another Wildman decides I'm fair game."

"They eat Men, too, Gríma." Théodred had no intention of remaining within the confines of Isengard any longer than necessary. "Théoden-king will need us." He reached out and grasped the other man's shoulder, offering support. "We must escape, and quickly. Have I your word that if you will not help us, you at least will not hinder us? You are coming with me, Gríma. I would leave no one in this festering place of darkness."

"Festering place of darkness?" The silky smooth words caressed everyone in the room. Saruman moved away from the door, leaning lightly on his staff. "I believe that you have decided that you do not like my hospitality, Prince Théodred. Here I try to comfort my neighbor's son in his time of need, and all I receive in return are his insults. That is a pity."