A/N: My apologies for the lack of an update. I have a pretty good start on the next chapter though, so I don't think you need worry about whether or not I'll update for a while. Anyway, I only have 7 more days of school left. Rejoice! Soon I will be a crazy writing fool and you won't be able to catch up with all the chapters I've written! (Ha! I wish.) EP41: UPDATE SHADES NOW! lol Well, that's all I have for you today, so read on!

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Éowyn was nowhere to be seen when Théoden and his party left for Isengard. Gríma did not dare inquire after her, as he was currently riding astride Éomer's horse and feared Éomer might push him off at the first chance presented him.

"You should have ridden with Aragorn," Éomer snarled under his breath. "I can hardly bear to have such a traitor this close to me."

"Éomer, be civil," Théoden said reproachfully. "Master Gríma has been useful to us in this battle. Let us see if his loyalty is true before we pass judgment."

His loyalty. That was the only thing ever in question about him. Gríma had to find some way to convince them he was truly on their side, or they would never forgive him.

Gríma rubbed his wounded shoulder as he pondered what Saruman would say or do to convince them that Gríma was still working for him. The bastard surely had some plan by now, had some card to play that Gríma could never have guessed at -

Of course. The plan. Gríma had been sent to kill Théoden. He wore the mark of the wizard around his neck. If Saruman said anything about such a plan, Gríma would be finished.

"My liege," Gríma said aloud. "My shoulder pains me greatly. Perhaps our accomplished healer should look at it again before we continue?"

"Stalling for time," Éomer said with a sneer. "I suspected you'd try to pull such a trick."

Théoden silenced Éomer with a look. "Certainly, Master Gríma," he said. "Isengard is no great distance from here, and, truth be told, I do not look forward to this meeting any more than you."

Éomer reluctantly stayed his horse, and Gríma dismounted. "I am glad to hear it," Gríma said. In a lower voice, he added, "My liege, I must speak with you."

Théoden raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind, counsellor?"

"A matter of some urgency… concerning my loyalty."

"Well, that is certainly relevant to the moment," Théoden said, "But I will not go alone with you. I have not my sister-daughter's great strength; if you decided to cast your spells again I have no doubt I would fall to you."

"Bring the wizard, if you must," Gríma said, glaring slightly at Gandalf the White. "I am of no consequence to such as him."

"Still bitter, I see," Théoden said dryly. "Very well. I will bring Aragorn as well." Théoden turned and called to the wizard, "Gandalf! We must have council. Come with Aragorn as well."

"Shall I go too, my Uncle?" Éomer asked, preparing to dismount.

"No, although I am sure you would be eager to hear whatever it is Gríma has to say," Théoden said. "You must remain with the rest of the party to ensure their safety."

Éomer bowed his head and murmured, "Yes, my King," but he did not look happy.

The small group walked a brief distance from the main party, far enough away where they could not be heard, and then stopped. "Well?" Théoden asked, crossing his arms across his chest. "You told me this was a matter of some urgency. Then speak."

Gríma swallowed nervously and pulled the medallion given him by Saruman from his neck. "I have a… confession to make," he said, handing it to Théoden. The king glared at him suspiciously, but before he could say anything, Gríma rushed to continue. "I was sent to Helm's Deep by Saruman to kill you," he burst out. "The token you hold in your hand was to be my protection - mine and Éowyn's." Here he removed the second medallion from a pouch at his side and handed it to Théoden. "Once the battle was finished we were to return to Isengard. He did not think you had the resilience to survive. I did not think so, either; but I confess speaking with Éowyn changed my thoughts about many things." He sighed heavily and said, "You may choose to do with me as you wish, my liege, but I tell you this as a sign of my utmost loyalty to you, and to beg your forgiveness. You were never anything but kind to me before this war began, and it was not against you that I sought vengeance; yet you were the man most grievously harmed by my actions. I can only imagine what you must think of me, betraying you as I have not once, but twice; but by all that is holy I have seen the effects of what I have done and I can never forgive myself for it."

There was a heavy silence for a moment. Then, Théoden carefully turned the medallions over in his hands and said contemplatively, "I always knew you had courage and goodness hidden somewhere in that harsh and weaker exterior."

Gríma looked up, surprised. Théoden smiled slightly and continued. "When you first came to the Golden Hall seeking work as a scribe, I saw immediately your cleverness and your value to me as a ruler, but also that you were bitter and hateful towards most of the world. I knew Gálmód much better than you can have imagined, and I know he was not a kind man. He rarely spoke of you at all, except in shame. You were never what he wanted you to be, but that did not and does not mean that you ever lacked value.

"You may not think so, but you are a man of Rohan through and through. No, do not protest yet," he said when Gríma uttered a disbelieving exclamation. "You may not see it, and others may not understand it, but you are indeed as much a Rohirrim as Éowyn or I. Your patriotism came in your love of words and history and language. You kept the country's records more neatly than ever before in recorded history; you organized our historical records, and kept them that way; when some new incident occurred, it was you who spent hours transcribing memories of the events into written words on parchment. Without you much of Rohan's history would have been lost; and I can think of no greater gift to a country and no greater loyalty than protecting its legacy in such a way.

"It took much courage that most deemed you did not have to reveal to me your original purpose in coming to Helm's Deep, but I imagine you shall be grateful for it when we arrive at Isengard. Saruman most certainly would have used this against you, and you would have been killed on the spot. You have indeed proven to me your loyalty. That does not mean I trust you fully yet; you have done too much damage for that. But if you continue this exemplary behavior… perhaps things can return to where they were."

"If this war does not destroy us all," Gríma said bitterly.

"We cannot know for certain, yet there is much hope that you do not yet know of," Gandalf interjected. "And you shall not know of it, for a time. But perhaps it will be you who transcribes the full tale once the war has ended; such a task certainly seems a labor of love for a man of words like you."

Aragorn studied Gríma with interest. "You are a fascinating puzzle, counsellor," he said curiously. "I do not yet understand how all the pieces fit together."

Gríma smiled slightly. "I am a puzzle beyond the minds of most men," he said simply. "Now, I have a feeling Lord Éomer grows impatient and wishes to see me meet my unhappy end. We most likely should move on towards Isengard once more."

"I take it your shoulder does not pain you as fully as you made out?" Aragorn questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, it pains me," Gríma said. "But I doubt it needs looking after just yet."

"Still a master of trickery and lying, I see," Théoden said dryly. "But you are indeed correct; we should be moving on. I do not welcome this confrontation, but at least one burden has been taken from my shoulders by this council."

When they returned to their horses, Éomer immediately demanded in a low voice, "What lies have you told my Uncle now, snake?"

"No more lies," Gríma said calmly. "Only truth."

Éomer snorted. "That I doubt very much," he said.

"I can be very honest if I choose," Gríma informed the other rider. "And although I have little interest in being honest with you, I imagine it will better serve my purpose if I am."

"Then tell me, in your own honest words: do you still desire my sister?"

"Of course."

Éomer's grip tightened on the reigns. "Why?" he demanded.

"Why not?" Gríma retorted.

Éomer was briefly taken aback, and then he let out a bark of laughter. "I do believe you are correct," he said. "Éowyn is a woman to be desired by any man. But I wished specifically for your reasons to choose her."

"She is beautiful, and intelligent, and generous," Gríma said. "Indeed, she is most of what I am not."

"Well, that is certainly the undeniable truth," Éomer agreed whole-heartedly. "But surely there are others who could satisfy you."

"Your sister posed the same question," Gríma noted. "But my answer is the same: there could have been, and there never was. I cannot choose who my heart desires; otherwise I would have sought someone not quite so far beyond my reach."

"So you have returned solely for her?" Éomer questioned.

"Mostly, yes."

"Mostly?"

"You will understand when the time comes," Gríma said shortly.

The rest of the ride was made in silence, until at last the broken stone walls of Orthanc were clearly visible. Gríma shuddered at the site of them; to think, he might have been on Saruman's side, and might have suffered Saruman's fate…

"Time for you to face your fate, snake," Éomer said almost gleefully. "You will not escape true judgment this time."

"For pity's sake, Éomer, Gríma has been pardoned," Théoden said sharply, riding ahead of them. "Leave him alone, if you will. I'm sure he has much on his mind at this moment."

Éomer frowned, but would not willingly disobey his liege's command. Gríma could feel the other rider's cold glare in the back of his head. It did not comfort him to know that he would be riding back to Edoras on this same horse with this hateful rider.

Unless, of course, Saruman had something planned that Gríma was not expecting.

Gríma was startled out of his thoughts by a sudden cry of, "Hallo! What's this?" and a shout from Gimli.

"You rascals!" the dwarf cried. Gríma wondered who Gimli could possibly be speaking to when he spotted two very small men standing on the broken stones before them.

"We've worried and chased after you and searched the entire countryside and then we arrive here and find you feasting and - and - and smoking!" Gimli gasped, as though this were the last straw.

One of them raised a glass merrily. "We are sitting on a field of victory enjoying a few well-earned comforts," the smallest of the two said without a trace of contriteness. "The salted pork is particularly good."

Gimli clearly began to salivate at the mention of food. "Salted pork…" he murmured dreamily.

Gríma shook his head and glanced back at the two creatures. "What are they?" he asked Éomer quietly.

Éomer shook his head, looking as confused as Gríma. "What think you?" he asked.

"My only guess is that they are some of the Holbytla," Gríma said in wonderment. Holbytla were creatures of myth; they were not believed to exist any longer, if they had every existed at all.

"The Holbytla are legends," Éomer said shortly. "They are tales used to entertain children."

Gandalf smiled and shook his head grandly. "There you are wrong, Lord Éomer," he said. "Lord Gríma is correct in this instance: they are Holbytla, or Hobbits in their own language. They rarely venture from their lands, but there are now four abroad."

"Such times!" Éomer said in disbelief. "Creatures and kings of legend appear from the abyss as though it were utterly natural! I do not understand how all of this came to be."

"I doubt any of us understand it," Gandalf said gently, "But such are the times."

"Treebeard is looking for you, Gandalf," the taller of the two Hobbits said to the wizard. "He's a fright when he's angry, but now that he's mellow I'm sure he'll be kinder to you."

"The wizard is another case," Gandalf said gravely. "But we must confront him at once."

Gríma grimaced unhappily, but said nothing.

The Hobbits were loaded onto horses (the smaller on Aragorn's, the taller on Théoden's) and then they rode inside the stronghold. As they did, the taller Hobbit, Merry, introduced himself to Gríma and Éomer and asked them their names and stories.

"I'm Éomer, the King's sister-son," Éomer volunteered. "And this traitor," he added icily, "Is Gríma Wormtongue."

Merry studied Gríma curiously. "I've heard of you," he said. "Treebeard talked about you. I don't know how he knew, but Gandalf told us you'd returned to our side. I'm glad you did; you sounded intelligent to me, and we could undoubtedly use your help now."

Gríma was surprised by this little speech, and he did his best to bow slightly to the Hobbit. "Your kind are more generous than mine," he said bitterly. "Blessed are Hobbits among the Free Peoples, to stay their judgments so."

"We're not really like that," Merry said somewhat uncomfortably. "Most of us are terrible gossips. We live in such tight-knit communities; it's difficult not to know everyone's business. But things are very different here."

"Do you like it?" Théoden asked.

"Not really," Merry said. "I'd like to go home, more than anything; but if I do, I think… well, there won't be a home to return to, will there? Not if Sauron wins this war. So I don't have any choice: I've got to stay here and fight for my friends. The other Hobbits are so shut off from the world; they don't understand what's going on here. Don't even know they're in danger. I have to protect them."

"I know how you feel," Théoden said gravely. "My people, too, are in danger, and until recently I had been too blind to see it."

Gríma glanced guiltily away as Éomer and Merry both looked askance at him. He did not think he had ever felt so repentant in his life.

Suddenly, the call of another voice forced him to look up: "Who disturbs me in my solitude?"

Gríma nearly snarled at the sound of that voice. "Saruman," he hissed, glaring at the top of the tower and shrinking back on the horse.

Saruman's voice was laden with regret, as though he were simply a tired old man instead of a very dangerous Istari. "Gandalf, my old friend," he said, opening his arms. "You have come back. It is good to see you. Perhaps you wish to reconcile with me?" The wizard rapidly turned to Gríma. "I know that you surely must wish to make amends, Gríma, after having betrayed me so. I have been nothing if not generous to you these past years."

Gríma snorted derisively, waking the others around him from their trances. Gríma, who had been trained to use his unusual oral abilities by Saruman, was nearly immune to all but the most powerful of Saruman's tricks, and was quite capable of using most of those tricks himself. "I did not come to make amends," he said darkly. "You have led me down a path of deceit; a path which I have turned from."

Saruman could not maintain his fragile control at this comment. He laughed, a cold, high-pitched, wicked laugh that sent shivers down Gríma's spine. "I led you down that path?" he called furiously, eyes glowing. "You were quite willing to follow, weren't you, with Éowyn as your prize?"

Gríma hung his head. "Yes," he admitted. "I was." He looked up, summoning all his remaining courage. "But I was wrong."

"You were wrong?" Saruman screeched mockingly. "And you accept this new demeanor, Théoden King? Do you truly? You are a fool, then; a greater fool than I took you for. Do you not know that he came to Helm's Deep at my command, to murder you?"

Éomer's hand flew to his sword, but Théoden stayed him with a motion. "Indeed, I do know," the King said calmly. "He informed me of it before we arrived here. Have you any other evidence of his traitorousness? If not, your words are worthless to us."

"Evidence? Evidence? What evidence is necessary against such a worm?" the wizard cried, unable to form a coherent argument at this newest outrage. "If Sauron were to offer Éowyn's hand to him he would turn once more!"

"I believe Gríma has come to understand that my sister-daughter is hardly won by treachery," Théoden replied coolly. "He will be closely guarded, but he is no longer your servant. You have lost everything, even your most significant spy."

Saruman gave a scream of utter rage at this and howled a spell in the Black Speech. Before anyone could react, he had pointed his staff at Gríma. All Gríma felt was a hard slap of energy, as though something had hit and then rushed through him, and then darkness surrounded him.