A/N: All right, fine. I lied last time when I said I would update soon. The good news is that I have planned out exactly what I want to do for the remaining chapters. Besides that, this is a flipping LONG chapter. The bad news is that I have two possible endings, one which wraps things up quite nicely and another that allows for a sequel, which I have semi-planned. I will probably take the latter ending, but we'll just have to see how things go. Anyway, apologies for being slow on updating this, and thank you to my Myspace buddy who got me to work on this.
- - - - - - - - -
All of Edoras was in an uproar for the rest of the day. Gríma and Éowyn passed each other many times, but he was careful never to meet her eyes, even as she would pause to look at him. He would have nothing to do with her - not yet. The betrayal - for, indeed, so he viewed it - was too fresh, too painful. Soon, he continually promised himself. I will speak with her soon.
Éowyn, too, was struggling with the desire to speak to him and the desire to avoid him at all costs. He was the one thing causing the potential ruination of all her hopes (or, at least, so she believed), and yet… some part of her wanted him to understand. It was, she thought, her fear that he would do something drastic once more, perhaps returning to aid Saruman or some other dark force for the promise of her hand. She could not allow that to happen again. She would feel responsible if he brought about the downfall of the Free Peoples.
She paused in her work to glance at him as he walked swiftly past her, his robes brushing her side as he did so. He was clearly making a concerted effort not to touch her or look her way. She glared at his retreating back in frustration, but smiled slightly as she thought, He does not seem as though he would have the strength to bring about anyone's downfall save his own.
The smile evaporated. He almost had brought about his own destruction, she realized grimly. Doubtless he knew it better than most; and still he walked upon the edge of a knife's blade, treading the line between treason and honor. Still Éowyn could not determine to which side he truly belonged; still she could not see what he intended. He frightened and intrigued her all at once; she wanted to understand him and yet feared the depth of contact it would take to reach that understanding.
"My Lady."
Éowyn turned suddenly, startled from her thoughts. "Lord Aragorn," she said softly, a smile lighting her face.
He looked grave. "Your people are stouthearted," he said. "I am glad that they will go to Gondor's aid."
"We do not fear death," Éowyn said simply.
"It is death that they face," Aragorn replied sadly. "Death and darkness."
Éowyn glanced at him. "Do you think this war will end well for us?" she asked tremulously.
Aragorn shook his head. "I know not, my Lady," he said. "I cannot see what lies ahead; and even those who can often find that what they see can be altered. There is a small hope left, a hope that you know little of; but every day I fear that that hope may be slowly disappearing." He glanced curiously at the fully loaded horse standing beside her in the stables. "Will you ride with us?" he asked.
"Just to the encampment," Éowyn replied carefully, turning away. She did not mention that she intended to ride much farther with them; she trusted Aragorn, but if he discovered her plan, he would never permit her to go through with it. "It's tradition for the women of the court to farewell the men."
Aragorn casually leaned over and lifted a blanket that she had carefully placed to hide her sword. Her hand flew to cover it, but it was too late. He shook his head knowingly as she tried to shrug off the discovery. "The men will follow you anywhere that you lead them," she told him softly. "You have given us - all of us - hope."
Aragorn smiled slightly and inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, and then turned and disappeared into the crowd of busily moving Rohirrim. Éowyn stared after him, lost in daydreams and whispers of the future - until a bitter voice cut through her reverie.
"Until Lord Aragorn has made his intentions known, my Lady, it would be wise of you to stop staring dreamily after him wherever he may go," Gríma spat out. "A true lady of the court is modest and makes certain her desires are less blatant."
Éowyn whirled to glare at him, infuriated. "And if we are to speak of those who should have made their intentions known, why not recall your own lack of a formal proposal to me?" she retorted. "I do not see the use in mentioning the hypocrisy of your final comment, as your desires are certainly no mystery to anyone in Edoras."
Gríma forcefully sheathed one of the daggers he was packing and almost threw it into his saddlebag. "Very well, then," he said harshly, turning to her. "Will you be my wife, Éowyn?"
She gaped at him in astonishment. "What?" she finally managed.
"You heard me," Gríma replied icily, turning back to his own horse. "You now have my proposal; now you need only wait for his, if, indeed, he intends to have you for his bride."
"He does," Éowyn said hotly.
"Does he indeed?" Gríma questioned, his cold blue eyes slicing keenly to her heart. "As much as I believe Lord Aragorn admires you, he does not quite seem to desire you as you desire him. And if he does not return your love, my Lady, what then will you do? Will you have me, or will you choose death in battle instead?"
Éowyn wanted to beat Gríma into a bloody pulp. Instead, she merely glared at him. "These are the words of a bitter heart," she said, forcing herself to remain calm. "You know nothing of what Aragorn feels, and that frightens you, I suppose, thinking that you may well lose your prize to some other man. But what did you think would happen? Did you expect, by returning, that I would suddenly fall into your arms and love you as though your betrayal had never occurred? I am indeed impressed by all that you have done for us, but that is not enough for me to completely disregard all that came before."
Gríma said nothing in response to this. When she turned to look at him again, he was resolutely saddling his horse, glaring at the horse's belly as though it had deeply offended him somehow. "Have you nothing to say to me, counsellor?" Éowyn demanded, almost triumphantly.
He looked back at her wearily, and Éowyn was startled by the look of utter defeat in his eyes. "What is left to say?" he asked softly. "I have argued and pleaded and commanded; any words that might defend my position have already been spoken and grown dull and worn from overuse. You know what I feel; you do not need to hear it again, save to spite me, I suppose." He stood and walked to stand before her almost reverently. He lifted a hand and held it a few centimeters away from her cheek. "The proposal stands, my Lady," he whispered. "Please, consider it. Perhaps you do not see it, but I do love you - more than your Ranger, more than any Rohirrim, more than any other ever will."
His fingers dropped, and he seemed almost to disappear, melting into the soft shadows of the stable.
- - - - - - - - - -
It was late in the afternoon when the Éorlingas rode from Edoras, their king and third marshal at the front. Éowyn, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli rode slightly behind them. Gríma rode still further behind, with Gamling and several other guards. Éowyn could feel his eyes burning into her back as they rode, but she never once looked back, no matter how much she desired to. She also forced her eyes to avoid wandering to Aragorn. She told herself that she was doing this because there were many other things around her to see, but in truth she suspected Gríma's words had struck her more deeply than she cared to admit.
When they paused to camp that night, Éowyn forced Gríma from her mind and sat with her brother and several of the guards, singing songs and listening to tales of battles past. She greatly enjoyed herself and nearly managed to forget the counsellor entirely - until her uncle approached the fire with a concerned frown.
"Éowyn, have you spoken with Gríma recently?" he asked.
"No," she replied a little coldly. "Why do you ask?"
Théoden sighed. "I can't seem to find him," he said heavily. "No one seems to know where he's gone."
"He's turned on us again," Gamling muttered. Surprisingly, Éomer silenced him with a glare.
"Where would he go, Gamling?" Éomer questioned. "Saruman is dead, and Sauron has no foothold here, not yet. There is no one nearby to whom he could betray us. No, if I know Gríma - and I know him better than he thinks - he's wandered away from the camp to spend some time in silence, pondering the stars. Social gatherings have never been something he enjoys."
"Éowyn, will you seek him out?" Théoden asked, almost pleadingly. "I would send someone else, but I doubt he would listen to anyone but you. I do not wish him to catch cold or be attacked."
Éowyn wished she were a girl again, and that she could stomp and pout and throw a tantrum of sorts in refusal, but instead she rose and gave a dignified curtsy to her uncle. "Of course," she murmured, and, grabbing a cloak, she left the warmth of fire and slipped into the night.
- - - - - - - - -
The stars glimmered like small shattered fragments of icy crystal spilled across a dark black cloak. Gríma stared up at them in silence. Stars had never brought much comfort to him; he felt as though they were judging him, watching his every move, mocking his agony. Whenever he went outside at night it was to return their glare, lying flat on his back and staring at them as though they had personally wronged him somehow. Stars held no romance or comfort for Gríma son of Gálmód.
Soft footfalls disturbed the silence surrounding him, but Gríma did not move from his position on the ground. He kept his eyes focused on the sky, even when Éowyn spoke softly from behind him. "Gríma?" she whispered. She sounded a little frightened.
Still he did not look at her. "Yes, my Lady?"
She came to sit beside him on the ground. From the corner of his eye he saw a glimpse of long golden hair and a red embroidered sleeve. He forced his gaze to continue staring upwards, much as he wanted to look the other way.
"It is cold and dark here," Éowyn said gently. "You should return to the camp."
Gríma shook his head slightly. "I am not wanted there," he said bitterly.
"You do not know that," Éowyn said indignantly. "My uncle sent me to -!"
"Of course," Gríma snapped. "Of course your uncle sent you. Why in the name of the Valar would you come yourself to find me? Certainly you were not concerned for my safety. Indeed, it would be better for you, wouldn't it, if I caught a chill and died here shivering and alone? Then there would be no barrier between you and your precious Ranger. Well, my princess, Valar forbid I keep you from the warm fire and your beloved. Go on - leave me. The world has little use for me anyway."
Éowyn drew back slightly at the furious tirade, but she did not leave as Gríma had expected her to. "We still need you," she finally said, a little painfully. "Rohan needs you. My uncle, my brother and I all need you."
Gríma laughed mirthlessly. "No, my Lady," he said. "I only wish that you needed me in the way I need you."
He finally turned his eyes to look at her. She was shaking her head, her eyes sad. "Your decisions in the past have nearly ruined us," she said. "But whatever people may say, you are an intelligent man. The House of Èorl needs you to assist in guarding it, when its king and third marshal are absent."
Gríma propped himself up on his elbow. "You won't leave me controlling the throne," he said incredulously. "Not after all that I've done."
Éowyn nodded her agreement. "Perhaps not," she said, "But I will rule in Théoden's stead. I will need aid from someone else. My brother will not be there to help me, and no one knows the inner workings of Rohan's politics better than you. Besides, if it is me you are counsellor to, I suspect that you will do nothing to harm me."
"No," Gríma agreed with a sigh. "I would not."
They sat in silence for awhile, Gríma staring at the ground and Éowyn looking up towards the heavens. "The stars are beautiful tonight," she finally said, somewhat uselessly.
Gríma glanced up at them. "I have never found stars to be beautiful," he replied.
Éowyn glanced at him in surprise. "Why not?"
He shrugged slightly. "Stars are for lovers and the young and naïve. I am neither. In some ways, I have never been either."
Éowyn's glance was pitying. "I'm sorry, Gríma," she said quietly.
Gríma stood abruptly, brushing grass from his black robes. "I don't need your apologies," he said with a touch of ire. "I think I will return to the camp. A fire does not seem so bad an idea after all."
Éowyn scrambled to her feet and ran after him, following him back to the encampment.
- - - - - - - - - -
Éowyn did not speak to Gríma for a few days. The ride to Dunharrow was not terribly long, but it was a tiring journey. Riding all day was not as easy as it looked, and all the Riders were exhausted by the time night fell. There were no more nighttime disappearances for Gríma; he slept like a dead man when they rested and rode in silence when they moved on again.
On the third day, they arrived at their destination. Dunharrow was swarming with Riders from various parts of the Riddermark, all of whom paused in their work when they saw their king riding through their ranks. Théoden surveyed them closely, and the look of disappointment was evident on his face. Éowyn noted it and rode closer to her uncle. "You are displeased," she said softly.
"They are good men," Théoden replied. "It is not them I am displeased with; I simply expected more of them."
"How many are there?" Éowyn asked.
"At last report, six thousand are ready to ride for us," Éomer said. "It is a goodly number for small wars at home, but it won't be enough to break the lines of Mordor. Many will die."
Théoden sighed heavily. "Had we the numbers to crush Mordor, still would many worthy men fall," he said sadly. "That is the way of war."
Éowyn watched the faces of the soldiers as she rode past them. They were awed to see their king, but they seemed tired, too, and worried. They knew their numbers were not great enough to defeat Mordor. They knew they were headed towards their doom, but they were resigned, fearful as they were. Wherever Théoden led them, they would follow.
She glanced backwards and saw Gríma studying the soldiers as well. His face wore a look of disgust. Such useless bravery, she could hear him saying. What purpose does their death serve? Sauron will win this war; there is no hope for us. Better that they remain with their families to protect them than go to seek glory and honor on the battlefield.
He turned forward once more, and his eyes met hers for a few seconds. His gaze pierced hers, striking at her core, as though he were drawing some part of her personality out through her eyes. What he read there she could not guess, nor did she wish to know. She turned her head quickly and broke the heated stare, now staring at the ground as it passed beneath her horse's feet.
- - - - - - - - - -
Théoden's camp was prepared quickly by his Riders while he oversaw it. Éowyn wanted to help, but none of the soldiers would allow her to do so, protesting that she was a lady and that this was men's work. Instead she watched, infuriated by the stubbornness of men, and thought of the coming battle.
Her eyes wandered idly about the camp until they noted a dark figure standing alone in the shadow of the ominous mountain overlooking the camp. Éowyn glanced up at it and shuddered suddenly and inexplicably. She had heard tales of that place - how many had entered and never returned - but she had not seen it before. She wondered what could possibly have drawn Gríma to that place. Creatures of the dark thrive best in the shadows, she thought, and began walking towards him.
Éowyn slowed as she grew closer to him until she drew up alongside him. "Counsellor?" she whispered, barely trusting her voice. The feeling of dread was strong and terrible, standing as close to the mountain as she was.
"The Dwimorberg," Gríma breathed, almost reverently. His icy blue eyes were fixed upon its craggy surface with an eerie sort of reverence, as though he wanted nothing more than to walk down the chalky gray path that began directly at his feet. "My father kept a book in his house that told of this place. I have longed to see it since I was but a boy. I read often of the Paths of the Dead, and the legends."
"Your interests are most morbid, my Lord," Éowyn said, shifting slightly in discomfort. "They say that none who enter ever return."
"So they say," Gríma agreed, and his voice held a longing that frightened her deeply. It almost seemed as though he sought to follow that path, disappearing into the legend that so fascinated him, so that he need never return to the life he was leading now.
Éowyn took hold of his arm and tugged slightly. "Come away," she pleaded. "The camp is prepared now, and there will be food and drink soon. You must be nearly as weary as I from the day's ride."
She became even more frightened when Gríma did not even glance at her, his eyes still firmly fixed upon the beginning of the Paths of the Dead. "Come away!" she said more forcefully, bordering on hysteria.
He turned to her as though startled from a dream. He took in her face with wide, astonished eyes, and glanced down at where her hand clutched his arm.
Éowyn reached out and took Gríma's other hand in hers. "That path is not for you, my Lord," she said tremulously. Her eyes almost begged him to return with her to the world of the Rohirrim, to step away from the danger and certain death that awaited him, should he follow the trail as he so desired to.
He glanced back at the Paths, sighed, and turned away, letting her lead him into the depths of the encampment, where she knew he would be safe. He spared a last glance at the Dwimorberg, his gaze lingering there until Éowyn tugged at his arm a final time, forcing him to look forward once more.
- - - - - - - - -
Éomer noticed Éowyn and Gríma's return to the camp and, more importantly, Éowyn's deeply shaken appearance. She was clutching Gríma's hand as though she did not dare release him, and he was following with surprising reluctance, for a man who seemed so utterly obsessed with Éowyn. Éomer stood quickly and approached the duo.
"Counsellor," Éomer greeted, inclining his head slightly. "My sister. Some of the soldiers have brought us food, if you are hungry."
"Thank you, brother," Éowyn murmured. "We'll go at once."
"Gamling can go with Gríma," Éomer said quickly, glancing at Gamling, who stood nearby. "I need to speak with you."
Gríma looked sharply at Éomer. "Still don't trust me with your sister, I see," he said dryly.
"Truly, I do not," Éomer agreed wholeheartedly. "But I also truly have need to speak with Éowyn alone - and you are not involved." He motioned to Gamling. "Go," he insisted. "The food will do you good, counsellor. You will need all your strength in days to come."
Gríma eyed the siblings carefully before turning away and following Gamling, who looked none too pleased to be leading the counsellor anywhere. Éomer shook his head as he watched them go, smiling slightly. The smile evaporated quickly as he turned back to his sister. "You are upset," he said concernedly. "What has happened?"
Éowyn shuddered slightly. "Gríma was staring at the Dwimorberg," she whispered fearfully. "I suspect he wanted to go down the Paths. I had to tear him away from that place to get him here. If I had not come…"
"You think he would have had the courage to walk down the Paths of the Dead?" Éomer questioned incredulously.
"You did not see the look on his face," she said, still shivering. "He wanted to meet death there. He wanted to die as a part of a legend. I think he's never craved anything so badly."
"Save you," Éomer added, sounding a little disgruntled.
"Perhaps more than me," Éowyn said with a shake of her golden head.
"No," Éomer said certainly. "He has never and will never desire anything more than you." Éowyn opened her mouth to protest, but Éomer spoke over her. "Perhaps I did not see the look on his face as he stood at the mouth of the Dwimorberg, but similarly you never saw how his eyes followed your every step. You felt it, true; but you didn't see the terrible longing that caused his betrayal, else you would better have been prepared for it."
Éowyn did not answer. She merely stared at the Dwimorberg, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Éomer sighed and reached up to stroke his sister's hair. "Aragorn was drawn by the Dwimorberg, too," he said. "He seemed to fear it, but he looked almost as though his fate awaited him there. I fear he, too, may follow the path to his ending."
Éowyn's head swiveled to look at her brother, horror crossing her features. "You will not permit him to go, will you?" she asked.
Éomer shook his head. "It is not for me to command Aragorn son of Arathorn," he said sadly. "He will do what he must."
"Where is he now?" Éowyn demanded. "Perhaps I can dissuade him."
"It is useless to try," Éomer said forcefully.
"Without him, our hope will fail," Éowyn cried. "I will not let him ride to his death! I will not let him abandon us!" With that she turned and ran towards the path, seeking Aragorn.
Éomer watched her go, but made no attempt to follow her.
- - - - - - - - -
Éowyn found Aragorn saddling his horse nearby his tent. She stared at him briefly and then rushed towards him, betrayal written across every inch of her face. "You cannot do this!" she cried out. "The men here ride tomorrow! You cannot leave on the eve of battle!"
He ignored her, continuing with his work. Éowyn reached up and gripped his horse's saddle. "We need you here," she whispered pleadingly.
At last he looked up. "And why have you come?" he questioned.
A small, fragile smile crossed Éowyn's face. "Do you not know?" she asked tremulously.
Aragorn looked at her sadly for a moment, and then he told her gently, "It is but a shadow and a doubt that you love. I cannot give you what you seek."
The fragile smile shattered, and Éowyn drew back, eyes wounded. She said nothing; her expression spoke for her. She felt as though the mountain above had collapsed around her, that she had been crushed amidst the rush of boulders, and that the wounds caused by this collapse would never be healed. She tried to force words through her lips, but nothing came - nothing save several crystal tears.
Aragorn turned from her, mounted his horse, and left her standing in the cold darkness, utterly alone.