Author's note: Ta-da! Chapter 3! bows deeply Now for thank you's and explanations:
BoromirsBabe: Ha! I have snared another into my fandom! Just kidding. But I'm glad you enjoyed the fanfic enough to get hooked on Gríma/Èowyn… it's a wonderfully juicy pairing. I hope this chapter does not disappoint!
Vereena: Hello! Thanks for the review! blushes at compliments I'm glad you enjoy the story. I keep checking to see if there's new stuff on your site, but there isn't. sniffles Ah well. It's good to hear from you, though. I was worried for a while.
EP41: So you liked the little "fantasy" line? I liked it, too. J Of course you can borrow that idea/concept/thing for a one-shot! Just make sure I get to read it first. wink And now for the explanation. No events in the movie are changed. It's just a matter of perception on the character's part. She's crying by her cousin's side, and then Gríma comes in and does his whole, "Oh, he… he must have died sometime in the night…" routine. The point being that she was seeing his sympathy and the falseness of it at the beginning, but then what he says later (the "So fair… so cold…" line) is gentler, warmer, more affectionate. Do you see where I was going with this? Thanks for pointing out your confusion, though. Maybe I'll alter that part.
And now, without any further ado…
The sun rose through a thick fog that morning, and Gríma rose with it, despite his inclination to remain curled in a heap on the ground for the remainder of his sorry life. He was sore all over from the rocks he had laid on, but he still mounted his horse and rode on towards his unavoidable destination.
Gríma was not particularly looking forward to greeting Saruman with the regretful news that Gandalf had successfully shattered all of their carefully laid plans. Of course, Gríma imagined that Saruman was well aware of this fact already; but that did not make the thought any more pleasant.
If only that stupid guard, Háma, had taken Gandalf's staff! Then this wouldn't be happening. Gríma wouldn't be riding to Isengard, praying that he wouldn't be murdered instantly upon arriving; he would be in Meduseld, enjoying the pleasure of watching four executions, and then (oh, didn't he wish), he would be returning inside and spending the rest of his day speaking with his precious Èowyn - perhaps convincing her to allow him to hold her. She had let him do so only two nights previous; would have let him again, last night, if he hadn't been banished. If Gandalf hadn't come at all, this morning he might even have awoken in the same bed with her. Gríma fully believed his words were capable of convincing Èowyn to do such a thing, or would have been, had he given them the chance. He was almost certain she had been close to giving in, very close - one more day of resistance, just one more day, and she would have been his.
Growling in anger, he glared at the bleak countryside ahead. How he hated Saruman and Gandalf and all other wizards, how he wished they would all crawl back into whatever hole they had come out from! Even without Saruman's help, he might have been capable of seducing Èowyn. At least he would have been doing it honestly. Not that he had ever been honest at any point in his life.
Gríma laughed bitterly at this thought. Honesty might have served him better in gaining Èowyn's love, he admitted. But it was too late now to consider that. She was gone from him forever. He would never see her again.
Abruptly, Gríma reigned his horse in. I will never see her again. He had not considered that fact until that very moment, and now, there it was, staring him in the face. I will never see her again. How will I live?
Gríma felt as though someone had taken a thousand swords, pushed them into the ground, point facing upwards, and shoved him down upon them. Never again! The pain of those words nearly struck him to the ground. He had no idea that not being with her would hurt him so deeply. But here he was, alone and without her, feeling as though he had just been shot down by an arrow.
He kept his horse reigned in, still focused upon the black hole that had been created in his spirit, for a very long time, until finally, another thought managed to invade his mind. Saruman will kill me if I don't arrive soon.
Reluctantly, he started towards Isengard again.
c
The day was strange without Gríma there.
Théoden, Gandalf, and the other new arrivals were discussing war and the best strategies to avoid the apparent oncoming onslaught that Saruman would predictably send. Èowyn, of course, was not permitted to join these discussions, and so she set about practicing her sword work.
Normally, this activity would calm her mind, and it did, for a while; but, unconsciously, she began to seek the dark form normally skulking in the shadows, watching admiringly the fluid movements of her body. She had never been irritated when he would watch her as she practiced; she had loved showing off, and knew that he had loved giving her the opportunity to do so. But the sudden remembrance of his banishment caused all the pleasure to be sucked from her swordplay, and she stopped much earlier than she usually would have.
She had planned to return to her room, but as she walked down the corridor in which the royal chambers were, she stopped by Gríma's door. She had never been inside his quarters before, and she began to wonder. What are they like? What did you keep inside your rooms? What secrets are hidden inside?
Cautiously, she pushed open the door and entered.
The door opened to a library. There was a table at its center, which was littered with hand-drawn sketches and paintings, and other papers - notes, perhaps. There were shelves lined with books from every corner of the world pressed against each wall, and there was a long couch in one corner that Gríma might have slept on if he had too much work to do. This was obviously Gríma's favorite room, and the one he spent the most time in.
Èowyn approached the table uncertainly. She couldn't read, but she wanted to see the pictures he had drawn. She lifted one of them from the table -
And saw it was a picture of her.
It was so startlingly lifelike that it made Èowyn jump. It was her features almost exactly, but the gown she wore was certainly one Gríma had invented in fantasy, as it revealed far more of her than Èowyn preferred to show. She smiled slightly and studied the rest of the pictures. They were all of her, some better than others, and some that were positively shocking, obviously straight from some sort of daydream that Gríma had been having.
Èowyn replaced these on the table and approached a door on the opposite side of the room. She opened it slowly and saw that it led to a drawing room, in which there were seated many comfortable chairs and a large table. This would typically have been frequented by various guests visiting Lord Counsellor's quarters, but it was doubtful that Gríma had many visitors at all.
The room had fallen into total disrepair. There was dust all over the tables, cobwebs in the corners, stains on the carpets, and stuffing popping from the cushions on the chairs. Mice scuttled in every corner, squeaking loudly, and spiders hung on the lamps around her. She could see all of Gríma's boot marks across the carpet. They led directly to the next door - a large, ornate wooden entryway.
Èowyn opened this door and found that it led to a bathing room, with a tub, a basin, and a few towels. This room appeared to have been more used than the previous had been - but not by much. Èowyn smiled slightly, recalling Gríma's greasy black hair and dirty clothes, and how many times she had wanted to toss him into a bathtub and scrub him until he sparkled.
He wouldn't have minded that so much. She smiled wryly and moved on.
The next door led to Gríma's bedroom. On the edges of the room, there was a closet and a thousand candelabras. There was a desk on the opposite wall. Pressed against the back wall was a massive four poster bed, surrounded by black silk curtains. Èowyn pushed them aside and saw that the blankets, which were made of velvet, had been thrown carelessly at the end of the bed. At the head, there were hundreds of cushions. They were all made of extremely lush materials, like velvet and satin.
Èowyn dropped onto the bed. It sank under her weight, and she fell back on it. It surrounded her comfortingly. Èowyn's own bed was not nearly so luxurious as this. He has a feather mattress, then. Èowyn cuddled against the pillows and closed her eyes. I wouldn't have minded sleeping here. I've never found a bed so comfortable.
She might have slept there someday, if Gríma had had his way. She would have fallen into this same bed every night, were he still here - and he would have been with her.
Suddenly, she had a visual of Gríma lying beside her, watching her with his strange white and blue eyes that held a longing that only she had ever comprehended. She sat up in shock, her head swiveling this way and that, looking for him, and softly she released a breath when she saw that he was nowhere to be found.
She rose from the bed and started to leave. She stopped in the doorframe and glanced over her shoulder. His quarters could definitely use a cleaning, if only to accommodate the current guests. Perhaps she should take the task into her own hands?
She nodded decisively and then swept out of the room.
Thoughts, anyone? Care to share your opinion? (giggles That rhymed!) Did I make up for the romantic-Gríma with enough sleazy Gríma? looks hopefully at EP41 If not , you can smack me upside the head. Or just send me a review. That always works too. giggles That rhymed again!