Chapter II: The Truth About Gríma
26 February, 3018
The next morning, I made my way to the main door to meet with Háma. Théodred had mentioned at one time that Háma had known Gríma in the days of his youth, and I wanted to know what had gone wrong with him.
Háma and I walked onto the battlements and gazed out over Rohan, much as I had done last night with Théodred. The irony did not escape me, and I had to bite back a bitter smile. It did not take long for the conversation to turn to recent events, and Hama admitted that he knew upon whose orders Eomer and Theodred had been sent away.
"Why is he like that?" I asked when the conversation turned to Gríma. "What's wrong with him… what did I ever do to him?"
"Nothing," Háma assured me. "You've done nothing. He is… poisoned, milady."
"No," I said. "He is the poisoner."
"Yes, milady—now," he agreed. "But it was not always so. Once he was… good. Like you and I. He loved… and was loved."
"How?" I said. "Who could ever love such a man? and how could he have ever truly loved?"
"I have known him a long time, when he was such as you and I," Háma answered. "He was a good man, milady. He was braver than most, stronger than most, more noble than most—the best man in the éored, I used to say." His eyes took on a peculiar glow as he reminisced. "He used to fight against the foe fearlessly, always willing to be in the thick of it, never wanting to play it safe." He sighed. "Few of us remember what he was like before it happened."
"What happened?" I asked. "How did he become so evil? How could someone like us… become someone like him?" The thought frightened me, and I needed Hama's assurance that it was impossible for me to become someone like Gríma.
"He… loved someone." Háma explained. Then he flushed slightly, and I sensed hesitation.
"Who was she?" I asked. "Do I know her?"
"A young woman…" Háma said. "She was… a lot like you, milady. Only not so cold."
I brushed off the insult, and asked again, "Who was she?"
"You need not know," he evaded. "It matters not."
"Tell me," I commanded.
"A lady… sister to the King… she was engaged to him."
I gasped… if it could be called a gasp. An intake of breath that made no noise, betrayed none of my horror. "Théodwyn?" I breathed. "My mother?"
"Yes, milady."
I swallowed. "Then what?" I must force myself to hear this terrible tale, I told myself.
"She was affianced to Gríma… and she betrayed him. It was the ideal match for her—the advisor of the King, you see. But Théodwyn was always spirited, and she fell in love with your father… She eloped with Éomund… and they left Edoras and went to live in a house your uncle provided."
I tried to picture Mother—sweet, gentle, kind Mother—with the sallow, sickly Gríma. Try as I might, the picture refused to come. "But how did he become like that?" I asked. "Why did that—"
"It was the beginning, milady," Háma said. "When he lost Théodwyn, he changed. He hated your mother. He suspected everyone and anyone that tried to help him—that felt sorry for him. And there were plenty to choose from. His hate for Théodwyn became hate for all women… and his distrust in well-meaning friends became distrust in everyone." Háma stopped and looked at me. "He never learned to forgive, milady. That is how he became who he is now. And anyone could become like him."
"No," I argued. "Not anyone. You couldn't. I couldn't. It's impossible."
"Haven't you heard a word I've said?" Háma demanded. "Anyone that refuses to forgive—that cherishes and nurtures their hatred for so long, they forget life without it—they can't remember a time when there was no hate—anyone could become Gríma the Wormtongue: sick and decrepit, hurting in an attempt to revenge himself upon those who hurt him, and in the end, hurting no one but himself. True, it takes a long time. But it happens, milady. And it's never too late to come back. Even yet, Gríma could change for the better. He could forgive Théodwyn. He could become what he once was.
"There is little left of what he once was… but there still is, and perhaps it could fuel what might still be. Sometimes… I see it."
Hama's eyes were full of pain and pity. They glistened in the bright sun, and a tear trickled down his cheek. "What do you see?" I asked after a few moments of silence.
"The piece of him… that has not died—or been killed—or been trodden on. The part of him that wants to be free of the pain. I've seen it looking out of his eyes, screaming to be released. That part aches. Once, I tried to help him… I saw the piece, and I appealed to it. I asked him if he didn't want to be free… to speak to Théodwyin… to forgive her…"
"What did he do?" I asked as his voice trailed off.
"He spat at me, and told me to mind my own business."
"It sounds like him."
"You don't understand, milady. His vendetta against you has hardened you to any sympathy for him."
"Shouldn't it?" I demanded. "Am I wrong to fear and hate him?"
Háma ignored the question. "I want to help him, milady," he said. "I want to somehow take the remaining piece of his old life and give it back to him."
"You are a fool," I spat. I put both hands over my ears. "He is not human, Háma, I insisted, my voice too loud. "He is pure evil, through and through. There is nothing that could ever change him, and no one in their right mind would want to. He deserves death for what he has done. I don't understand why someone doesn't murder him like he murdered Éothain." I whirled to walk away.
"Éowyn…" Háma grabbed my shoulder, turned me around, and took my hands from my ears.
I stared at him in shocked silence, too stunned at his forwardness to say anything.
"I'm sorry. But you must listen to me, and I saw no other way but to force you."
Silence. I glared at him defiantly.
"Will you listen," Háma asked, "If I speak to you?"
I remained frozen, obstinately refusing to break my silence.
"I'll take that as a yes. You hate Gríma. And you have good reason to. But you are becoming full of hate—don't give me that look, Éowyn—just like Gríma did. And if you are not careful, you will let it poison you, as he did. You will become what Gríma is."
More silence.
"I'm done now," Háma said, "So if you want to leave, you may. I know you're mad at me."
I walked away, trying not to show how his words affected me.