A/N: Gasp! I'm actually updating! Isn't that astounding? And you should all be excited because this is a totally awesome chapter where Éowyn AND Gríma get to kick some ass! So yes, as usual, please leave me a review… reviews make me happy inside… and you want to make me happy, don't you:puppy eyes:
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Gríma slept long and hard and dreamlessly that night - or day, as it was impossible to know in the darkness of the Glittering Caves, which were lit only by torches. Éowyn had covered him with a coarse blanket to keep him warm and protected from the dampness of the stone around him. Although he had fallen asleep leaning against the hard stone wall, he had slowly begun to sink against her. Where once she would have pushed him off she allowed his head to rest on her shoulder, watching him sleep with renewed fascination.
He was different, she realized; different than she had thought him to be, at the very least. No one, least of all her, had ever understood him for everything he was. Éowyn doubted that she had even truly begun to grasp fully Gríma's personality, but seeing him assist in the birth of the little boy had shown her that Gríma was certainly not all evil by any means. He had numerous abilities that, when he so desired, he used in the aid of others - an admirable quality, however rarely it manifested itself - and what was more, he had suffered, just as all the other Rohirrim had been suffering for many long years.
Éowyn had always known life must have been something of a struggle for Gríma, but she had never considered the effects that such struggles tended to have on one's personality. Her own life had been rife with difficulty; her parent's death when she was seven years old had instilled such grief and somberness into her that she had never fully recovered, despite the efforts of those around her to bring her happiness once more.
Gríma had seemed a match to her in that, at least; he rarely smiled, save when he looked upon her, and he carried about him a certain gravity and an aura of loathing that drove off even the most sympathetic of the court. He deplored people, preferring to be alone when others would have sought comfort in the bright warmth of a crowd; he despised them because of the way others had treated them, and Gríma, despite his hatred for such a trait, was rather quick to judge. His isolation had concerned Éowyn since she was but a girl; and when he noticed her concern, and returned it with something much more fierce and passionate, she had grown to fear him. She, too, had abandoned and judged him in some way. It was not a particularly surprising revelation; but Éowyn was angry with herself anyway for mistreating anyone so - even Gríma.
It was strange, she thought, how easily men could be dehumanized. But she was slowly coming to understand that Gríma was just a man - a man who had made a terrible choice, but human nonetheless. Besides, he had returned to aid his people, had he not?
That was under suspicion, however. He might have come to aid Saruman in winning the battle, and to claim his prize. But Éowyn found that increasingly difficult to believe as she looked at the sleeping man resting against her. He looked - not innocent, but peaceful, at the very least. Éowyn liked the way he looked as he slept.
She could almost love him then.
- - - - - - - - -
Gríma awoke slowly and painfully - mostly because of the awkward position he had slept in, but also because of a pervading sense of warmth and happiness. It was rare that Gríma ever felt any sort of joy, and he was reluctant to awaken fully and ruin his current state of bliss.
A few moments longer, however, and Gríma knew he could not sleep any longer. He opened his eyes, blinking in the torchlight, and adjusted himself to his surroundings. Helm's Deep - Glittering Caves - Éowyn - Éowyn? He was startled when he realized he had been sleeping on Éowyn's shoulder. She had her hand resting lightly on his arm, and she was staring at a flickering torch, seeming to think deeply. Gríma sat up quickly and pulled away, astounded that Éowyn would allow him such impropriety. Only in moments of emotional instability had he ever been able to coax her into allowing him a few perfect, brief caresses.
Interesting…
Éowyn glanced at him as she felt him stir, and she smiled softly at him. "You slept long," she said quietly. "You were exhausted."
Gríma nodded slowly, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "How long have I slept?" he questioned.
"Seven hours, maybe nine."
Gríma looked surprised. "I have not rested so long in years."
Éowyn frowned in concern, an adorable pout that nearly left Gríma breathless wanting to kiss her. "You need more rest, my Lord," she chided gently. "You will wear yourself too thin someday."
Gríma shrugged. "I am plagued by dreams, my Lady, and I would rather be awake than face the monsters in my mind," he said, shuddering slightly.
Éowyn's concern seemed to grow. "What troubles your nights, Gríma?" she questioned.
Gríma was about to open his mouth to respond when screams erupted from the opposite end of the caverns. He and Éowyn leapt simultaneously to their feet and ran towards the sound to discover the trouble. "What's happened?" Éowyn gasped out when they arrived at the front chamber.
"Orcs, my Lady!" a frantic woman cried in horror, clutching Éowyn's arm. "There are orcs in the caves!"
- - - - - - - - -
Éowyn turned instantly to look at Gríma, betrayal, fear, and anger flashing across her face. "Gríma, you didn't…?" she asked, and the hurt in her eyes caused Gríma more pain than words could ever express.
"Éowyn," he said in exasperation, "I have been sleeping on your shoulder for the past seven hours at least. When would I have had time to open the gateway?"
Éowyn was about to reply when another woman interjected, "They broke through the door with a battering ram, my Lady. We were firmly secured before. Much as I do not wish to defend such a traitor as Wormtongue, he has done nothing."
Relief flashed across Éowyn's face, and then evaporated into a deathly serious look of concentration. "This threat must be dealt with," she said.
No sooner had the words passed her lips than several orcs appeared from behind several stone apertures. They were swinging their swords in all directions, taking many women down with them. Éowyn's hand flew to her sword and before Gríma could stop her, she had charged off into the battle.
"You must go help her," one woman said, pushing him towards the door. "You are one of the only men remaining here, and certainly one of the only ones fit enough to fight."
Gríma glanced over his figure and said miserably, "You consider this fit?"
"Prove yourself to be something other than a coward," another woman said haughtily. "Go!"
Gríma sighed in resignation and cautiously followed after Éowyn. He was not keen to battle against Uruk-hai that were easily twice his size, but, as one of the small band of orcs took a swing at Éowyn and nearly slashed her arm off, Gríma became more concerned for her life. Gríma could fight, if he had to - not well, but he was capable - with the correct incentive. Éowyn's life was, at that moment, the correct incentive.
Always more apt to choose a less direct method, Gríma had taught himself the art of throwing daggers. It was a simple, effective way in which to defeat an enemy from a distance. No one need ever know to whom the dagger belonged; all he needed was the right place to hide and decent aim, and his victim was finished. It was the only art of battle he had ever bothered with, to the disappointment of his father and the mockery of his peers; but he was skilled enough to kill, and that was what was currently significant to the issue at hand.
He pulled one of two special hidden daggers from his belt and watched the Uruks carefully, waiting from behind a pillar of stone. As one crept up behind Éowyn and raised his sword, Gríma sent the dagger singing through the air. His aim was true; it embedded itself in the Uruk's neck, leaving the orc writhing on the ground and spurting dark blackish blood on the hard stone around it.
Unfortunately, the maneuver caught the attention of the other Uruk-hai, who, although they may not have cared much for the life of their comrade, did not appreciate having their already scant number thinned. Two of them split from the band and charged after Gríma, while the remaining three battled with Éowyn.
Éowyn must have had time to glimpse who the orcs were after, because in the midst of her fight she whirled and sent her sword skittering across the stone ground to Gríma's feet, at the same time hurriedly rolling and grabbing the fallen Uruk's double-sided sword. Gríma had no time to see how Éowyn was faring; he bent, swept her sword up in his hand, and fled as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
When he considered himself to be a fairly safe distance ahead of the two Uruks, he ducked behind another stone pillar, removed his second and last throwing knife, and prepared himself. When he felt they were in a close enough range, he threw the second dagger. It embedded itself in the throat of the closest unfortunate Uruk, leaving him gargling on the ground. He attempted to struggle to his feet, but a few women who had found rusty swords came after him and finished him. They, of course, had no interest in taking on the fully functional and furious Uruk-hai charging at Gríma; they would leave him to the traitor to deal with. Typical, Gríma thought bitterly, and then the orc was upon him.
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The Uruks, although huge and angry and having an advantage of numbers against their single female opponent, were rather clumsy fighters with no particular style. Éowyn, being more agile, found herself at an advantage. She also noticed that a few of the bolder, younger women had lifted some rusty swords from various caches and were watching the battle cautiously, seeming to be at least a little prepared should one of the orcs tire of the battle and move on to kill elsewhere.
Éowyn spun and stabbed one orc in the neck - one of the few weaknesses in their armor, she noted as she spun and went after the others. From the corner of her eye she saw that the other women were now going after the helpless orc. Such bravery, Éowyn thought with a touch of disdain as she beheaded the second Uruk. She grimaced as black blood spurted across her face, momentarily blinding her.
Sensing her at a disadvantage, her final opponent swung at her. She barely managed to duck as she wiped the blood from her eyes, and she felt the rapid whoosh of air as the sword passed over her head. She glanced briefly at the ground and saw several long locks of her hair drifting lightly to the stone. Too close, she chided herself, and she straightened, blocking the orc's second strike with her sword. The blow shuddered down her arm, but the sensation only made her smile. She had been born for this - the heart-pounding battle, the blood, the perfect melding of the sword with the rest of her body. Here, in this place, in this fight, she was more at home than she would ever be anywhere else.
She parried another blow, ducked, spun, and stabbed. The third orc fell to her cut, and soon the other women were upon him with their swords, crying out jubilantly at their victory. But Éowyn realized with a horrible sinking feeling that it wasn't victory yet.
Where was Gríma?
- - - - - - - - -
The Uruk swung hard at Gríma, and the former counsellor barely managed to parry. The blow sent him reeling back against the stone wall. The next swing might have taken his head off if he hadn't ducked just in time. He heard the ugly clang of steel against rock and watched the sword sail back at its wielder. The Uruk, surprisingly, sneered and stayed his weapon. "You're the black-haired one," he said with a leer. "The one the Master is seeking. Sent you here to kill the king, didn't he?"
Gríma stood slowly. He could potentially use his service to Saruman as an advantage - but after seeing Éowyn, had he not sworn off that traitorous bond? "What Saruman commands of me is no business of yours," he said arrogantly.
The Uruk chuckled darkly, more a growl than a laugh. "The King of Rohan, as you may have noticed, is not dead," he noted. "He still walks among the living. You're not defecting to the other side, are you?" He lifted his sword and pressed it pointedly against Gríma's chest. Gríma gulped and took a step back fearfully.
The Uruk continued talking lazily. "Picking whichever side will server your interests best, are you?" he asked without really asking. "Well, if you've joined the horse-breeders, you've made a mistake. They won't survive this battle, and neither will you, you worthless coward. And I'm certain the Master would appreciate your head returned to him after your treachery…"
The Uruk lifted his sword and swung again. Gríma ducked once more and dove beneath the Uruk's arm, scampering across the floor. He barely managed to get to his feet before the Uruk swung again. Gríma parried as rapidly as his untrained body would allow; but the force of the clash was too much, and the sword flew from his hand, skittering across the floor to where he couldn't reach it. As he stared at his last defense disappearing, the Uruk's sword grazed his shoulder.
Gríma sank to the floor in a haze of red agony, clutching his shoulder. He could feel a warm liquid - blood, he thought dimly, it's blood - spilling from a gash crossing from his upper arm to his chest. For pity's sake, end the pain!
The Uruk smirked in the knowledge that he had won, lifting his sword high above his head - and suddenly, he had no head at all!
- - - - - - - - -
The Uruk toppled before Éowyn's sword, the thick muscular body collapsing on top of Gríma's much more pitiful figure. Éowyn bent and jerked the Uruk off of Gríma and knelt beside him. "Gríma! Are you hurt?" she cried. She saw red blood dripping from a massive gash on his shoulder and chest, giving her all the answer she needed, and the Uruk's black blood was splashed across his clothes and face.
Gríma wiped the orc blood numbly from his face and stared at it. He seemed to come to a slow realization that another creature's blood was smearing his chin, had somehow dripped into his mouth, and he turned several shades paler than he typically was - quite a feat. He collapsed on his side, his wounded arm hanging limply, and retched.
Éowyn quickly rushed to pull his black hair away from his face, and she gently ran her free hand across his back. When he seemed finished, she rippled fabric from her skirt and wiped his face clean with it. "You are in pain," she said softly, laying her hand on his cheek.
He clutched at it, his eyes closed tightly. "My… my arm…" he gasped out.
"Yes," Éowyn said soothingly. "Don't worry, I don't believe it's fatal." She turned and shouted at a surprisingly large group of women standing by and watching, "Hurry and fetch me water and any fabric we can spare for blankets and bandages! And some of you - find anything solid you can and use it to block the entrance to the caves! We do not wish this to happen again."
The women rushed to do as they had been commanded, and Éowyn turned back to her charge. "You were very brave," she said gently.
Gríma snorted. "You gave me your sword, and I ran away," he said deprecatingly. "Just because I am wounded does not require my Lady to lie to me."
Éowyn smiled and laughed a little. "I did not realize you used throwing daggers," she said.
"They are effective, simple, and do not require direct contact with a victim," Gríma said, wheezing slightly from pain. "My type of fighting. The coward's fighting."
Éowyn shook her head, and then bent and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "You fought three Uruks, no matter your methods," she said. "I consider that courageous."
Gríma looked as if he might die from happiness. "My Lady…" he said in a strangled whisper, reaching up to touch her cheek.
At that moment, a small group of women rushed towards them, carrying buckets of water, fabric ripped into strips for bandages, and blankets. "Here, my Lady," the woman leading the group said, setting the things down. "We found what we could."
"Thank you," Éowyn said. When they stood uncertainly beside the pair, waiting for orders, she said pointedly, "The other women will need help blockading the entrance."
They glanced at each other, but bowed and scampered off to do as she asked.
Éowyn turned back to Gríma and helped him sit up. When she considered him in a satisfactory position, she reached over and pulled his cloak from his shoulders, causing him to grimace in pain, and then unbuttoned his shirt.
"You know, my Lady, I always imagined you removing my clothes in a rather different setting," Gríma said, smiling tightly despite the immense amount of pain in his arm.
Éowyn blushed prettily, but smiled where once she might have slapped him for such indecency. "Your fantasies will have to wait, my Lord," she said, her eyes sparkling in amusement. "I do not believe your damaged arm will allow you much room for aught else."
Gríma sighed painfully. "I could manage," he murmured jestingly, but the spasm of agony that crossed his face told Éowyn otherwise.
"Hold still," she said gently as she pulled his shirt from him and carefully wet one of the bandages. "I must clean the wound."
The instant she laid the fabric to the gash, Gríma gave a gasp of pain and tried to writhe away. "For pity's sake, Éowyn, do you intend to leave me wallowing in my own anguish?"
"If you do not stop complaining this instant, I will take back my declaration that you are not a coward, and rest assured I will tease you about this for the rest of your life," Éowyn threatened.
"You'll mock me whether I protest or not," Gríma said sullenly, but went silent.
When Éowyn was satisfied that the wound had been cleaned well enough, she bandaged it tightly to ensure the wound was protected. When she had finished, she leaned over and planted a second kiss over the gash. Gríma drew in a sharp breath, and Éowyn looked up and smiled gently at him. "No matter what I said in jest before, you were unusually brave this day," she said solemnly. "And I… I am grateful. You are not at all what I had thought you were, Gríma son of Gálmód."
Gríma smiled slightly. "Do not let me fool you, my princess," he said quietly. "I am as much a cold-blooded bastard as you once deemed me to be."
Éowyn shook her head, a small smile flickering across her face, and she said, "You should rest again. You must be tired after such a battle."
Gríma closed his eyes. "I am wearier than I think I have been in my entire life," he said softly.
Éowyn took his hand and lightly stroked his fingers, and started to rise to leave, but his eyes flew open and he whispered, "Éowyn, please - don't leave me… I don't believe I can sleep unless you are here…"
She nodded and sat beside him again, wrapping him in several warm blankets and allowing him to rest his head on her shoulder again. Soon, they were both asleep.