Look, everyone, I'm alive! It's been almost two months since I last updated, and I apologize for that. Everyone thank my friend Towie for inspiring me to write again by reading his excellent Harry Potter stories. Anyhow, here's Chapter Two. What's that I smell? A developing plot? Hurrah! By the way, I took Auri's advice and snipped the last section off the end of Chapter One and made it the beginning of this chapter. It ought to serve as a nice reminder as to what the story's all about at least. ;) I'll shut up now; enjoy!

Chapter Two

Gríma stood outside the door of his chamber – his chamber, his bed where Éowyn rested – simply marveling at her. She had only just awoken, and already her strength was returning. He had not exaggerated; when he had seen her lying on the wet rock of the caves, unconscious and bleeding from a horrible blow to the head, he had thought she was dead. He had knelt beside her body, taken her white hand, brushed golden hair away from her face, thinking that he too might die. For what was life worth without her? How beautiful could the world be without her in it?

Softly, he slipped down the stairs, knowing that he was just as addicted to her cruelty as to her beauty.

Inside the room, Éowyn slowly sipped at the hot soup. It was thin and was in want of some salt, but it warmed her to her very toes. She wondered if Wormtongue had made it himself.

Glancing down at the cloak which lay atop the thin blankets, she gently entwined her fingers in the fur. Then, as if tossing aside some errant thought, she scoffed and threw the cloak on the floor. In the event that he should return, she could always say that the soup had overheated her.

"The King of Rohan is dead," he had told her. The battle must have been nothing short of a massacre. Her only family, her friends, the Lord Aragorn… they had all fought with honor, and in all likelihood had died with honor, while she had been trapped in the caves, helpless. To her surprise, she did not have to blink back tears – there was only grim acceptance and emptiness within her. She wished, though, that she had fought and died alongside those she loved. "I fear neither death nor pain," she had declared to Aragorn, and she had meant every word. But she did fear a cage – or a stone tower. If only she had died at her king's side…

And yet she did not truly wish she were dead. Not entirely.

Frustrated, she pushed the blankets off of her and swung her legs out of the bed. She gasped softly at the chill of the gleaming stone floor upon her bare feet. The numerous bookshelves towered before her. What were all these tomes and manuscripts and parchments?

She recalled how Wormtongue (though she had called him by his right name then) had read to her from his books when she was younger, how he had shown her maps and recounted many tales. He had taught her the letters, insisting that even though Rohan was not generally a place for the written word, knowing how to read and write was absolutely vital. She had not shared his passion for such scholarly activities, but she was a willing student and an intelligent one too, as it had turned out.

The lessons had ended when she was fifteen years of age, when she came into her womanhood and was deemed a lady of the court.

Gently, she removed a volume from the shelf, imagining him doing the same with great reverence. Herself and his books, she thought wryly – the only two things he revered. She flipped through the pages, skimming a few as she went. This particular book was about the lineage of Gondorian kings, written in the Common Speech. Hardly finding such a topic of much interest, she put it back in its place.

She looked over a few of the other titles. Some were in the Common Speech, which she understood; others seemed to be in some Elvish tongue, of which she only knew a few words. And yet even as she marveled at Wormtongue's mastery of all these languages, she realized that next to none of them were in Rohirric. Small wonder he thought us simpletons, she thought.

Whilst gazing upon the impressive collection of books, Éowyn found herself wondering if Wormtongue had ever kept a journal. She remembered how he would shut himself in his chamber at Edoras, and the sound of a scratching quill could be heard from within for hours at a time. Yet no one, not even Éowyn, ever knew exactly what it was he was scribbling away at – why couldn't it have been a journal? It certainly was like him to put his thoughts to paper.

Another thing occurred to her. What language would he use, if indeed he had kept a journal? Her hope faltered; she had thought for a few moments that she might actually be able to get inside his twisted mind. But she knew him better than anyone else (which, she thought, was not necessarily a good thing), and she knew he would not be so careless as to transcribe his innermost thoughts in a way easily read by anyone in Rohan.

But Éowyn, girl, what will you do with your time, anyway? You've nothing else to do, so you may as well pursue some answers, no matter how unlikely it is that you'll ever find them. Yes. It was better than spending her days in idleness, waiting for Wormtongue to… well, she didn't want to think about that.

But where to look first? Smiling strangely to herself, she began combing each bookshelf in search of a man's secrets.

Gríma wound a silent path down the spiral staircase that descended though Orthanc. He aimed for nowhere in particular; in the past, he might have gone outdoors to enjoy the beauty of Isengard's flourishing gardens, but those days were long since gone. Now, the Ring of Isengard was barren, and from it rose smoke instead of tree-tops. Gríma avoided looking out of the windows these days. He was a tactician, a schemer – he had few qualms in doing his part in Saruman's grander agendas, but he really had no desire to bear witness to their full culmination.

No, he had no destination in mind now. All that mattered was that Éowyn was getting her rest and nourishment. He imagined her sleeping peacefully, disheveled and tangled in his bedsheets. The image was so wonderful that he completely forgot to watch where he was going.

"Idiot!" the White Wizard spat, having nearly been knocked down the stairs.

"My apologies, my lord," Gríma said quickly. "I was lost in thought."

"I am glad you do not lose your wits as well every time you take it upon yourself to think! Where are you off to, Worm?"

"I have just left the Lady Éowyn to eat and recover her strength, my lord."

Saruman eyed him severely. "Be prudent in your care, I beg. While the wench is hardly a threat to us, if she grows too strong she may acquire a taste for more than your foul cooking, Worm. She may turn her mind to vengeance and escape."

"Fear not, my lord. I shall see to it that she harbors no such desires."

"And do not forget that I have a number of elixirs in my stores should you wish her to harbor… other desires," said the wizard, more sardonically than generously.

"You are most kind, my lord."

Saruman took his leave, tossing off some comment about how Gríma ought to avoid killing anyone else as he descended the stairs. The wizard would have been irked, for Gríma was soon deep in thought again. This time, though, he was not envisioning rumpled golden hair on his pillow, but rather wondering if it was possible to earn her love. Saruman did have potions that would make her bend to Gríma's every whim, but Gríma was loath to use them. He felt there was hope. She had counted him as a friend once, and there had been times even in the recent past when he had seen something other than hatred in her glances.

No, all was not lost.

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