Author's Note: So I finally got around to updating. As you probably noticed, I took out the wonderfully pointless chapter 6. In the next few chapters Gríma and Èowyn are going to meet up again, and I will probably involve that particular little story in one of their accusatory conversations. Anyway, drop me a line and tell me what you think! I LOVE reviews and am oh-so-grateful to everyone who's sticking with this story! Thanks for all your wonderful counsel! You are all like our marvelous Gríma, and I mean that in the best way possible. ; )

When Gríma had time to glance in the mirror later that day, he saw an ugly, crimson mark across one side of his face from Saruman's hit with the staff. He grimaced and muttered, "That will leave an unsightly bruise." He rushed to finish packing. As he shoved the final items he would require in his bag, it suddenly occurred to him that this was probably Saruman's intention. It would certainly make Gríma's story of abuse more plausible.

Later that same hour, Saruman came to the door and said, "All is in readiness. Are you prepared to depart?"

Gríma nodded slowly.

Saruman turned and motioned for Gríma to follow.

He personally walked Gríma to the stables where his horse was being kept. "When you are at Helm's Deep, you will use this to communicate with me." He handed over a simple book. Gríma flipped through it. It was blank.

"How will this give you my message?" he asked curiously, looking at Saruman with a puzzled expression.

"When you write in it, the message appears in a similar book I have in my study," Saruman replied. "Whatever I write in the book will also be sent to you." Saruman glared frigidly at him. "If you share this book with anyone else, I will see to it that you die - slowly and painfully. After watching Èowyn endure a similar torture, of course."

Gríma flinched at the mention of Èowyn's possible death. "Yes, my lord," he murmured, swallowing nervously.

Saruman turned to look straight ahead as they continued their walk. "I will alert you when the battle is about to begin," he said. "You must be prepared." Saruman stopped walking and faced him. "Take this." He held out a pendant with the White Hand upon it. "When the Uruk-hai see it, they will know you are one of my agents, and they will spare you." He handed him a second of these pendants. "Put this around Èowyn's neck while she sleeps before the battle. It will protect her as well."

"And if she does not sleep, my Lord?"

Saruman smirked, and handed Gríma a final item. "She will, Gríma. You will make certain of this." He dropped a vial into Gríma's open palm. "This is a sleeping draught. Allow Èowyn a sip before the battle. She'll fall asleep shortly after. She will remain in this state for a few hours. During that time, you will send me a message, detailing your exact location. I will cast a spell that you transport you here."

It sounded ridiculous to Gríma. "You can do this, my Lord?" he questioned.

Saruman's eyes narrowed. "You doubt me, slave?" he snarled.

Gríma backed away and groveled. "Never, my Lord!" he exclaimed. "Your powers are simply…greater than I had ever imagined."

Saruman smirked and folded his arms. "My powers are certainly beyond the limited minds of Men," he said smoothly. He turned and began to walk once more.

Gríma cleared his throat and said, "Then what need have we of these pendants, my Lord, if your Uruk-hai will never even see us?"

"You may see a few," Saruman said simply. "And I do not trust in your fighting skills. If Èowyn could remain awake, we would have no difficulties. Alas, that is not possible."

Gríma nodded slowly, chagrined and a bit angry at himself for not being as capable as other Rohirrim were in battle. After a moment, he recovered his senses. He still had his own special abilities. He was more intelligent than almost the entire population of Rohan together, and he could speak so smoothly that anyone would believe him.

Anyone, except Èowyn.

Gríma sighed slightly. That was probably why he loved her; she could not be so easily fooled as others.

Saruman began to speak again. "Should you fail me, or betray me in this venture, you will die," he said icily. "You realize this, don't you?"

Gríma glanced at Saruman's cruel features. I am likely to die anyway. "Yes, my Lord."

"Good. Then I trust there will be no difficulties."

"None, my Lord."

Saruman nodded shortly.

They arrived at the stable, and Gríma placed his new acquisitions and a few things he had forgotten into his saddlebag. After a few moments, he turned and bowed to Saruman as a parting. Saruman made no sign at all. Gríma shuddered slightly, mounted his horse, and spurred out and away from Isengard.

He was circling her in the shadows. She could feel his eyes on her, could hear his breathing in the corner of the room. She was not afraid of him, only… nervous. Curious. She knew why he was here. She knew why he followed her so often, when all the hall was asleep. He was like a predator, waiting to pounce. What frightened her was that she did not know exactly when he would attack.

"Come out," she challenged.

He did not. "No," he said softly, a hiss from the shadows.

Èowyn waited, searching the darkness around her, but seeing nothing. "You are trying to trap me," she said softly.

"You are already trapped." He said this with such confidence that it made Èowyn shudder.

"Gríma, you have already lost. Your intentions were revealed to us, and you were sent from my country forever. You cannot return," she said, trying to speak with as much poise as he had.

He laughed bitterly. "You think you are safe from me now?" he said. "Not even Saruman can keep you from me. But he is not trying to keep us apart. He will reunite us."

"When?" Èowyn demanded.

"Soon," Gríma purred, still hidden - somewhere behind her. "So soon…"

Èowyn awoke shaking - not from fear, nor anticipation, but a rather strange combination of both. She searched the dark corners of the room she slept in, but she saw nothing. She sighed heavily and dropped backwards on the bed. She stared at the gray stone ceiling miserably. Nightmares and dreams of Gríma had plagued her for many nights, but none had promised his return.

Èowyn had only had a few prophetic dreams. She had dreamed of her father in the weeks before he died - had, indeed, dreamed of saying good-bye to him the night that he had been killed. She had dreamed of her mother withering away as sorrow slowly broke her, and watched in horror as her dreams became reality. And then, there were these dreams, these random conversations with Lord Counsellor, who told her he was returning to claim her.

Soon.

Èowyn shivered slightly, and attempted to sleep once more.