A/N: Ok, so updates aren't coming any faster. My apologies. But here's the next chapter, so rejoice, foolish mortals, and make merry!

Éowyn awoke with a startled cry that morning, feeling as though some sort of energy had burst through her soul and smashed her to pieces. The feeling dissipated, but the vague, throbbing agony remained as she lay in her bed, trying desperately to fall asleep once more. When she could not, she arose and dressed quickly, brushing her hair and walking outside.

Whenever she experienced strange dreams, Éowyn was wont to ride her horse out into the plains. She had been denied this pleasure during recent days; Gríma had sternly forbidden her to ride without escort. He claimed this was a precaution to protect the country's dear princess from coming to harm by bands of wandering orcs, but really it had been to ensure that Éowyn would never stray far from his watchful eyes.

Éowyn paused in preparing her horse, wondering almost fearfully what had become of Gríma in his confrontation with Saruman. Had he been proven guilty of crimes even she did not know? Was he lying dead and broken on the ground by Isengard, her brother's sword run through him?

She shuddered at the visual and leapt astride her horse, forcing it to gallop to the gates. The guards unhesitatingly pulled them open for her, no longer fearing Gríma's wrath. Few in Edoras knew that Gríma might yet be pardoned - pardoned, or dead.

Most would wish him dead.

Éowyn spurred her horse to ride quickly across the plains, feeling the wind rush past her, wiping her mind and body and soul clean of all the pain and agony she had suffered over the past long years. This was a delicious freedom she had not experienced in a long time, and she adored it. She could ride all day and never grow tired of it.

However, her horse soon came to a startled halt, and not at her command. Glancing up in surprise, Éowyn noticed a group of riders coming towards her. Even at her distance she recognized her brother and his companions. She gave a cry of delighted astonishment and sent her horse galloping towards them.

"Hail, Éowyn!" Éomer called to her as she rode close to them. "We need your help, if you might spare it."

"My help?" She reined her horse in atop a hill to wait for them. "What with?"

Théoden rode forth from the small company. Sitting limply astride his horse and before him was -

"Gríma!" Éowyn cried in horror.

"Saruman, in his fury, has caused Master Gríma grievous injury," Gandalf said gravely, halting his horse directly before hers. "Fortunately I was able to divert a great deal of the spell; otherwise, Gríma would be dead."

Éowyn looked fearfully to her uncle. "Has he proven his loyalty?"

"Indeed he has, my sister-daughter," Théoden said with a small smile. "I do not trust him entirely yet, but I believe he is returning to us." He frowned once more and continued, "He will need someone to help him in his recovery."

"Of course," Éowyn assented, staring at Gríma's deathly pale face. "I will do what I may."

Théoden nodded gratefully to her, and the company continued towards Edoras at a gallop, anxious to return to the comforts of home.

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma awoke burning hot, his vision blurred and his entire body experiencing a dull, throbbing pain. He heard two people talking in low voices in one corner of his room. He closed his eyes again, focusing all of his attention on their words. He soon realized that Théoden and Éowyn were the speakers.

"How is he?" Théoden was asking.

"Silent as the grave," Éowyn whispered. She asked tremulously, "Will he live?"

"Gandalf believes it so," Théoden said, firm confidence in his voice. "You have no need to worry."

Éowyn was worried about him? Gríma smiled a little to himself.

"You never told me how he proved his loyalty to you," Éowyn said.

"He was sent to murder me," Théoden said somewhat despondently. "He was to kill me and return with you to the Tower of Orthanc." There was a brief pause. "You are not surprised."

"Until he has me, he will not be satisfied," Éowyn said certainly. "Surely you know that?"

"I know it well enough," Théoden said with a sigh. "Are you willing to give yourself to him?"

Gríma's breath caught in his throat. Éowyn, his wife? Surely Théoden would never permit such a thing to occur. And even if Théoden would allow it, Éowyn would never want it. She deserved a man of honor and principles, a warrior, someone noble and proud - in other words, a man who was everything that Gríma was not.

And yet…

Éowyn was hesitating. She was considering it. She was considering the possibility of marrying him. That was almost more than Gríma could ever have asked for.

She whispered softly, "I need to think. I cannot decide yet."

Gríma felt disappointment slash through him like a sword, but he remained silent. He had not expected her to agree, and she had not completely denied the option yet.

"I will not pressure you," Théoden said gently. "Do not let him pressure you, either."

"I will not," Éowyn promised.

"Let me know when he awakens," Théoden said, and with a soft tapping of boots he was gone.

Gríma heard Éowyn's footfalls across the floor. He opened his eyes again; his vision was slightly clearer, and he could now distinctly make out Éowyn's figure standing a few feet from his bed. "Éowyn," he whispered hoarsely.

She turned and smiled at him. "Good morning, my Lord," she said softly. She lifted a goblet from the table by his bed and handed it to him. "Drink some water. It might make you feel a little better."

He glanced at the rim suspiciously. He doubted Éowyn would be so treacherous, but if her brother had come near the room…

"Old habits die hard, I see," Éowyn said with a laugh. "The water is not poisoned, I assure you."

Gríma glanced at her and said, "You cannot be sure. If Éomer even touched this goblet - "

"My brother has no interest in being in your bedchamber while you are ill," Éowyn said calmly. "Now drink that, before I take it and dump it over your head."

Gríma grimaced. "That does not sound so terrible," he said. "It feels as though I've been thrust into a fire."

Éowyn frowned concernedly and laid a cool hand against his forehead. "You're warm," she agreed, "But I think it's merely an aftereffect of the spell. Gandalf told me most of what you'll experience now will be gone within a week."

"I'm not sure I want to trust Gandalf," Gríma said dryly. "He did banish me from this place…"

"For crimes that you committed," Éowyn protested. "That is not dishonest. You can certainly trust him now that you have returned to us."

Gríma smiled at her over the brim of his goblet. "Old habits die hard, my princess," he said. "You told me so yourself not two minutes before."

Éowyn smiled slightly and shook her head. The smile faded, and she asked, "Why did you not kill my uncle?"

Gríma drained the goblet and then set it down on the table beside his bed. "Théoden King is a good man," he said carefully. "And he did not deserve death. Neither do you deserve to spend the rest of your lifetime locked inside a dark black tower, forced to feel something you do not by a wizard's potion."

Éowyn did not flinch at Gríma's description of the fate that might have befallen her. "All true, perhaps," she said, "But they are not reason enough for you to return to us."

Gríma glanced at her sharply. After briefly considering her words, he told her, "I believe it was you who changed my mind, princess. After seeing you… after being with you again… and learning how my former actions had brought such pain to you, I could not continue."

A small smile returned to Éowyn's face. "I am grateful for it," she said sincerely. After a moment of silence, she said, "There is a feast tonight, my Lord, in celebration of our victory at Helm's Deep."

"The war is not won yet," Gríma objected. "You have no cause for celebration. Saruman may yet -"

"Saruman," Éowyn interrupted, "Is dead."

Gríma stared at her, stunned. "How?" he gasped.

"After he attacked you, Gandalf broke his staff," Éowyn explained. "He was no longer a wizard. Left defenseless, anyone could kill him. Legolas shot him with an arrow."

Gríma still did not quite believe that Saruman could have disappeared entirely. "And his orcs?"

"Most of them drowned when the Ents released the river Isen upon Isengard," Éowyn said, laying a cool, wet cloth on Gríma's forehead. "You need not fear him any longer."

Gríma stared blankly at her, still not quite comprehending that the man he had served - that terrible, wicked Istari - was dead. He felt almost as though a great burden had been taken from him; and yet, some vague terror of that burden still lingered like a shadow on his heart. "He cannot simply disappear," Gríma said certainly. "He will return."

"Let us hope not," Éowyn said firmly, ending the subject there. "The celebration is held to celebrate our one victory, and to lift our spirits. It is sorely needed in these times. We may not have won the war, but we never will if we cannot raise morale."

Gríma nodded slowly. "Wise words, my princess," he murmured, closing his eyes. The heat in his body was dissipating, but he still felt the dull aching throughout his body. "You will enjoy yourself, I trust."

"If you feel well enough, you should attend," Éowyn said. "I rarely saw you at feasts before, save hidden in shadowy corners. This celebration is partially for you, anyway; you aided us at Helm's Deep by alerting us to Saruman's great army, and you sustained a wound besides."

"I am no hero, Éowyn," Gríma said darkly, "And there is no cause to rejoice in my lack of courage. I am tired and I am in pain; I will rest this night. You may go and make merry, my princess, but banquets, feasts, and dances are no place for me."

He sank back against the cushions of his bed and slowly began to drift into sleep. Éowyn did not try to stop him, but he sensed her sitting near him, watching him with concerned eyes. The feeling made him smile.

The world slipped back into darkness.