Author's Note: Thanks for the review, EP41 - apparently you're the only person who loves me. sniffles I hope this chapter is to your liking…

The night came upon him suddenly, as though it desired to consume him in darkness, to throw him further into the black pit of depression. His horse nearly collapsed from exhaustion when he finally brought it to a halt. Absently, Gríma led it to a nearby stream, and as it drank he dropped down on the stony ground and began to think.

Guilt consumed him. He had not expected to feel guilty about what he had done. Gríma called Wormtongue had done many less than reputable things, but he had rarely felt guilty about them. Then again, he had rarely been caught. And this was by far the worst thing he had ever done in his life - to betray his country and his people.

Ah, but the reward…

The reward would have made everything worthwhile.

Gríma closed his eyes and leaned against a large boulder, ignoring the coldness and the hardness of its surface. He could see her face, her beautiful face with its shimmering green eyes and soft pink lips, the gentle, girlish blush of her cheek, the soft golden waves that framed her face…

All of that would have been his to treasure, had he succeeded. He could have stroked her golden hair without worrying that she would push him away; could have kissed her lips a thousand times without fearing her wrath, or her brother's; could have held her in a tight embrace and never had to let her go. She would have been his - should have been his. But…

Damn Gandalf! Damn him to Mandos! Gríma's fingers curled around a nearby rock, and he threw it, enraged, into the river. He imagined gripping Gandalf's neck in his hands, and squeezing, squeezing the life out of him, watching his eyes bulge as he attempted to suck air into his lungs, watching his eyes glaze over as the life slipped from him. Somehow, this fantasy failed to satisfy him. Gríma had used a similar daydream frequently with Èomer, picturing the Third Marshal wriggling on the floor and gasping, trying to beg but unable. It had worked much better with him than it was with Gandalf.

Gríma decided to settle on a fantasy that he knew would satisfy; something involving himself and Èowyn… probably in a bedroom…

Ah, yesss…

c

Èowyn couldn't sleep that night. She laid staring at her ceiling, seeking answers in the woodwork above her and finding nothing.

You. He asked for you.

Èowyn thrust the furs aside and climbed out of bed. The air around her chilled her, but she ignored the cold. She opened the door from her chambers and walked quickly down the hall to the throne room, her feet padding softly across the stone floor.

The Hall was empty at this late hour of the night, and Èowyn silently thanked each and every one of the Valar for this. She walked slowly, almost reverently towards the two seats upon the raised dais at the ending of the Hall; one her uncle's, and the other… Gríma's.

She stopped in front of where Gríma would, usually, have been sitting. Even during the night, sometimes, when Èowyn had risen from her bed after being plagued with unhappy dreams, she would find him sitting there, leaning against her uncle's throne and thinking. What he thought of she never knew; but sometimes, in the soft, flickering torchlight of the hall, she had sat beside him, and they had talked of nothing and of everything.

One such talk had been last night. Èowyn had been up late tending to her cousin Théodred, praying that he would live but unable to hold out hope for such a miracle. Troubled, and unable to sleep, she had left Théodred to rest and had wandered into the Hall. There, too, Gríma had been sitting, a thoughtful frown upon his face. So intent upon his thought was he that he had not even noticed her until she had spoken.

"Théodred is dying."

He had looked up, startled, but had not risen. "I am sorry to hear it," he said sincerely, sitting up a little straighter.

She had approached him slowly, tears making their way down her cheeks. "If he dies, there's no one left for me," she had said softly.

Gríma had looked upset at this. "Oh, Èowyn, there will always be someone there for you," he had said.

"Who?" she questioned. "Théodred, Èomer, Théoden, they are all gone in one fashion or another."

There had been silence. And then, "And what of me, my Lady?"

Startled, she had looked up at him - really looked at him - for the first time that day. "What…?"

He had risen and approached her, cautiously, as a man will approach a wounded beast. He had said nothing more; only cupped her face in his hands, so gently, so lovingly, and planted a tender kiss upon her lips.

If things had not been so bad, if it had not been so late, if they had not been truly alone, Èowyn would not have let him kiss her. She wouldn't have let him draw her into that tight embrace, wouldn't have let him wrap her in the warm comfort of his arms. But they had been alone, and she was so weary of being lonely herself, and so weary physically, that she had let him hold her while she wept.

She must have fallen asleep in his arms, for she could remember nothing else of that night. She had awoken that morning in her own bed, tucked safely under the furs, and there was no trace of Lord Counsellor anywhere.

Only he and she knew what had taken place the night before, and she refused to reveal to anyone that it had happened. She avoided his eyes - himself - all that day, until her discovery that Théodred had died. And then he had been there, all sympathy, all warmth and gentleness and kind words. He would have held her again, planted kisses on her tear-dampened cheeks, would have cradled her and eased her pain, had she let him do so.

She had not.

And now she was regretting it with all her soul.

She knelt beside the chair that had been his, laid her head against its edge, and wept.

Thoughts anyone? Reviews are very much appreciated! hint hint