Chapter 7. Láthspell
Gríma, long known as a leech in Edoras and son of Gálmód the elder, was summoned to the Golden Hall without delay, despite what misgivings the Prince and his cousins might bear toward him. Happily, the man proved true to his repute. After a day and a night of unceasing effort—with draught and steam, and no small labour to keep the fever down—the King at last opened his eyes.
"Our lord King has borne much toil and care in these past years," Gríma said to Théodred outside the chamber, with Éomer and Éowyn nearby—his face pale as linen, yet his manner composed, flawlessly courteous, and offering no fault even to the most discerning eye. "Though he has weathered this trial, he will require closer care for a time. With your leave, my lord, I would dedicate my service to the King and remain near, that his needs might be swiftly met."
He had reason, so Théodred granted his proposal. The Prince took up his father's charge without dispute, ruling from Edoras, and entrusted the outer defences to Erkenbrand and Éomer, while Elfhelm remained in command of the garrison of Edoras. The court murmured, as it ever did in times of change—but the murmurs faded when, a few days later, the King returned to council: weaker, yet still sound of mind. But ere long, he was again too unwell to attend.
This happened more than once. The King's strength seemed to sway between gain and loss, waxing and waning with unseen tides. Meanwhile, Gríma's pale presence became a familiar sight in the halls and corridors of Meduseld. He spoke little at first, delivering now and then quiet messages of the King's needs and rest, and bearing requests too slight to contest: fewer visitors to the King's chambers, fewer lights by night, fewer foreign tongues in the hall.
"It is not against them," he once said softly, intruding upon Éowyn's question to Háma as to why a guest had been turned away. "Only that our King's strength now wanes more swiftly than before. The clamour we once called life presses upon him like thunder."
Éowyn beheld the change with her own eyes. Her uncle—once high and proud in the days of his youth—was, day by day, bowed and dimmed by some unknown torment. There was now more grey than gold in his hair and beard; more fog than fire in his eyes. And it made her heart ache—so deeply that no word, in any tongue she had learned, could name the pain.
She set aside her training and riding, and lightened all other duties, that she might spend more time in the King's chambers. Though he dozed often, when waking he seemed to seek her presence. He would take her hand, and once she heard him murmur—not to her, but half in dreaming, or in some moment long gone—"Théodwyn… little one. Your hair shone like molten gold."
Then his gaze cleared a little, and he called her daughter again. "You look pale, and troubled," he said. "Do not fret over these old bones—they ask only for a little rest. I am so weary."
After a moment, he slipped once more into sleep.
She felt he was slipping from her—in mind, and in truth. She did not remember how her mother had declined, being but seven then, yet she remembered the sudden loss, and the grief. That same dread—the deep fear of losing those dearest to her—returned, growing heavier with each passing day, drawing her back into the old wound of childhood, and making her more and more sparing of speech.
Éomer plainly shared her fear, though he did not speak of it. He came back to Edoras whenever he might, and sat with her beside the King—he, a man now in his full strength, yet with fire in his eyes kindled not by hope, but by sorrow and wrath: wrath that he had no power to shield those he loved from the fate of mortal kind.
The King once called him Éomund, mistaking him for their long-lost father; but he did not correct him, only held the old man's hand, as she did. Yet he could not linger. Now lord of the East-mark in all but name, Éomer had much to see to, and was ever called back to Aldburg—to ready it against the Muster of the East-mark, should the need arise, and to restore their house and name, the inheritance of their line.
"Take care of the King," he told her as he departed, "and of yourself. Send for me if you have need of anything."
"I will. And do you take care as well," she answered—though in her heart, she knew she would not send for him, save the need grew too great for her alone to bear. It was a burden they all must carry.
Yet things had long been slipping toward what was ill—or, at the least, unlooked-for. When the King was strong enough to sit in council, it was not she alone whom he summoned. Gríma son of Gálmód was ever at his side: watchful, silent, leaning close to speak when the King faltered or sat in doubt.
"This need not weigh upon you, lord," he would murmur. "Your son is in his prime, and your knights are bold and eager. Let such matters lie in their hands."
Often the King would rise early from the council, leaving the governance to Théodred and the lords. Éowyn could not remain behind, but followed after him—and after his pale companion, who seemed now less a servant than a shadow, ever clinging close.
The court grew uneasy. Small shifts were enough to stir whispering, and whispering, in time, gave way to division. Gríma was no longer named merely the leech, but began to be called "the King's ear." And when word spread that he might be named a counsellor of the King, there was no small measure of concern—and no little tumult.
It was Théodred who quieted the stir, denying the appointment outright. Long acknowledged as heir, he had acted in the King's stead whensoever need arose.
Soon thereafter, Gríma came before the Prince with the manner of one bearing weighty counsel, while Éowyn stood beside her cousin, aiding him in sorting the letters and scrolls that bore urgent tidings. He bowed low and said:
"The King wonders if certain burdens might lie less heavily upon him—and more swiftly upon others. In days such as these, my lord, he fears… misunderstanding."
Éowyn did not at first grasp the full meaning of those words. But as she pondered them, a frown gathered upon her brow—startled by the accusation they carried beneath their courtesy.
Théodred, meanwhile—not clad in mail but in his plain attire—regarded Gríma long and level. Then he gave a laugh, soft and without mirth.
"Is it the King who wonders thus, Gríma—or is it you?"
Gríma bowed lower still, his hands folded with the measured grace of studied humility.
"Only that the burden might rest more lightly, my lord—shared more evenly, perhaps, and more fitting to the King's waning strength. These are days of unease. One word too many, or a judgment ill-timed, and men begin to mur—"
"Come," said Théodred, cutting him short. With no more than that, he seized Gríma by the arm and strode toward the King's chambers. The leech was all but dragged along, stumbling to keep pace, but knew better than to protest. Éowyn, wordless, let the scrolls slip from her hands and followed.
They found the King seated in his great chair by the hearth, though the season was early summer. Thick furs were drawn about his shoulders, and he seemed half-asleep.
"Father," said Théodred, releasing the leech at last, "I am told you harbour concern—that I might overreach, and take your authority before its time."
The King stirred at the sound, and for a moment his eyes searched the room in confusion. "Gríma?" he said, faintly.
"That," said the leech at once, "was… a misapprehension. I fear the Prince has misunderstood—"
"Hold your tongue," Théodred said, and his voice left no room for reply. "I have no need of a middle man to speak with my own father and lord." He stepped forward and knelt before the King, lifting his gaze to meet his sire's. To Éowyn's surprise, he did not seem troubled; rather, he smiled—and a glint of mischief gleamed in his eye.
"I deem your would-be counsellor has overlooked something of weight, father—to suppose there might be strife between us. If, some twenty years past, when the thought was raised—and by me, indeed—you had no mind to wed again, nor to beget another heir, then surely you would not consider it now—or, would you?"
The King blinked, and for a moment only stared. Then, as if memory had stirred from long-buried years, Théoden King rose. He stood with a swiftness that belied his age—not like one bowed by sickness, but as a man still in the full strength of his days. And when he spoke, his voice rang clear and strong, though in his eyes dwelt both mirth and weary affection.
"To ask that question anew—I deem you miss the whip, my son."
Théodred rose and caught his arm to steady him, and laughed—long and full-hearted.
"Gladly shall I take it, if it brings your strength back."
Then the King turned, and his eyes fell on Éowyn.
"Daughter—see that a feast is made ready. I am well today."
The King seemed restored for a time—some months of steadiness, to the joy and relief of all. Though not as in the vigour of his early days, he could now sit through the councils once more. Yet more and more, his gaze turned to Gríma, and even Théodred could not completely turn the tide.
Gríma, for his part, kept low for a time. He moved with care, made no further remarks concerning the Prince, and kept well out of Théodred's path. Instead, his attentions turned toward Éowyn. Often he would draw near with quiet inquiries, asking after the King's habits of old—claiming it was all for the sake of better care. His tone was ever courteous, ever soft-spoken.
But Éowyn had not forgotten the words he once dared to speak. Now full-grown, and wise beyond her years, she understood better what such words might portend—and so kept her guard ever high. Her cool reserve and distant bearing held him at bay—for now. Yet she could not wholly avoid him, for he had won the King's trust, and she would not forfeit her place at her uncle's side—her concern for the King, who had long been as a father to her, forbade it. She would not leave him to the leech's counsel, nor yield his care to one she could not trust.
Still, unease grew in her heart. She began to feel his gaze linger—longer than was fitting, yet never long enough to call out. When Théodred was away in Mundburg for counsel with the Lord Steward of Gondor, there came a time she thought she heard footsteps behind her in the dim hall—slow and measured, keeping pace with her own. She turned swiftly to catch the one who followed, but the sound had vanished, and the corridor lay empty.
That night, she sat in her chamber with the door bolted and her sword within reach. She looked into her mirror, and thus into her own eyes. In the flicker of candlelight, her reflection seemed pale and strange—clad in white, the young woman who bore steel in her heart looked more ghost than maiden, though still in the full bloom of her years.
"Shall I strike him now, and be done with it?" Elfhild's words came to her unbidden—half in jest, back then, but now they held a sharper edge. The thought had its lure. Could she speak to Éomer or Théodred when they returned? Or must she act alone, if anything were to happen—once and for all?
To take a life was no light thing, and might bear grave consequence. But she was well prepared. What stayed her hand was neither revulsion nor fear of retribution, but a colder, more measured thought. She had not his craft, nor the healing arts he claimed to possess. The King seemed hale enough for now—yet she had seen how swiftly such strength could fail. If she struck down this serpent, what then? Would there be time to send word to Théodred—to entreat aid out of Gondor?
She felt powerless—as she had but once before, in the years of her youth—for she had come to understand that there was evil in the world that could not be met by the sword alone, and that she was bound, willing or no, in a cage forged not only of tradition, but of love as well.
A glint caught her eye. She turned, and there lay the silver comb that had once belonged to her grandmother, shaped like the wings of a bird in flight. She reached for it, felt its cool weight in her hand, and closed her fingers about it with quiet resolve.
Steelsheen,she said to herself. Steel would endure—pressed, but not broken. She would endure. She would defend herself. The man was no match for her in arms—that much was plain. If need arose, she would guard herself—and the King.
Fortunately, it did not come to that. Naught befell until Théodred's return. Yet in time, she began to hear other murmurs—of orders issued out of Edoras, bearing the King's own seal, yet bypassing the Prince; and of marshals and captains who had begun to slight the authority of both the King and his heir. Her brother's name, unsurprisingly, stood foremost upon the list.
Théodred must have read the trouble in her face, and as ever, he knew her mind. So he sought her out, and asked her to sit with him upon the terrace where Meduseld stood, as they had often done in her younger years. And he spoke to her with naught but quiet affection in his eyes: "If a man must mistrust even his own kin, sister, then what remains worth living for?"
She was a little ashamed that she had ever doubted him. She wished to speak an apology, but he only smiled and waved it aside. "Save it for when I start growing suspicious of the stable-cats," he added lightly.
Then for a time, it seemed peaceful—as far as peace might be reckoned in those days—until the morning she stepped into her cousin's chamber for the daily brief, and knew at once that something was amiss.
"I have grave tidings, sister," he said, looking up at her. His voice was steady, but low; the ever-present glint of jest was gone.
"Elfhild has fallen. Her brother is, even now, bearing her home."
Notes
Per Unfinished Tales: "But it may well have been induced or increased by subtle poisons, administered by Gríma." As the ideal state of such poisoning is not death—for Théodred, a man in his prime, would have been far more difficult to manipulate as King—I believe Gríma would have needed to test his dosage over time to reach this optimal balance. In doing so, the King's condition would likely have fluctuated, with many ups and downs along the way.