A Morning of Pale Spring
Authress: Rachel Gardner
Authoress' note:-

This is my first venture into Lord of the Rings fanfic so reviews, comments and suggestions would be more
 than welcome (please be kind) - a BIG, BIG thank if you do choose to review ( This work is based loosely 
around some scenes in Peter Jackson's incredible film The Two Towers, rather than Tolkien's book although 
there may be slight references here or there. Some bits of dialogue from the film are also used here. All 
characters within this story, save those of my
 own creation are copyright J.R.R Tolkien and/or their respective owners.

This story is set well before the arrival of Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf upon the plains of Rohan 
and well before the death of Théoden's son Théodred who has not yet left the Golden Hall at Edoras to fight 
marauding orcs at the Fords of Isen. I have also chosen to portray Èomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, as a 
young man (as in the film) and not the older man in Tolkien's books.

Summary:-

King Théoden of Rohan, broken in mind and spirit, has at last succumbed to the poisonous whisperings of his
 traitorous advisor, Gríma son of Gálmód - the infamous 'Wormtongue'. With his new-found control over Rohan's 
decrepit King, Gríma plans to lure the kingdom into darkness and ruin, aiding in the destruction of the race 
of men, save one - the woman whom he desires above all things. Driven to possess her heart and soul, he will 
pursue her beyond all doubt, all reason, and even beyond all rational sense...

*
Chapter One - A New Dawn Rising

The sun had almost completely dipped behind the horizon, its waning light obscured by early evening dusk that 
fell in a heavy, dark pall over the plains of Rohan, etched with rough, uneven rocks that jutted out from beneath
 the hilly tuffs of long grass like murky stepping stones.

If she squinted hard she thought she could just about see the last of its faint orange glow as it slipped 
behind the ominous jet black storm clouds that every so often preceded the deafening roar of oncoming thunder. 
The sky cracked, reminding her of its power and the maiden shook her head sadly; it was far too early in season 
for rain.

The sunset had now disappeared from view and the billowing black clouds seemed to gather momentum, spreading
 out in great waves across the rapidly darkening sky.

She glanced back wearily at the great, golden embossed doors of the Meduseld, silently meeting the stony gaze 
of the chief doorward -Háma- armed with shield and spear; no doubt keeping an eye open to make sure that she 
didn't stray too far or throw all sense of caution to the wind. The other doorwards sat so still on their hewn 
stone seats that they might have been likened to statues save for the drawn swords across their knees. She 
sighed heavily; in the last few years Edoras had become more of a tomb to her than a royal residence, a place
 where she found solitude to be her only companion; gazing through a fretwork of glistening glided bars, adorned
 with precious stones and girt with silver and gold. Yes, it was by far among the most splendid of prisons, more
 than fitting for a woman of her rank and status, but it was a prison none the less.

She closed her eyes, exhaling deeply and almost fancied that deep down she could almost hear her heart breaking.

That was the way it had been for as long as she could remember, ever since the death of her parents; at first she
 had spent her tears over them, weeping alone in her chamber into her fur lined coverlet, inconsolable, but as the 
years passed she had learned to lay their ghosts to rest, learned that emotion wore many masks and that such a
 passionate display of feeling was no more than a sign of weakness. Her heart was that of a warrior but it was 
trapped, smothered within a weak and floundering body; her corn coloured hair, her graceful and shapely limbs 
of no more use to her than the sword that rested, untouched, by her beside. The women of her country did not 
wield swords - they would sooner die upon them.

Her fingers automatically reached for the iridescent pendant that hung hidden beneath the soft material of her 
gown. It had been her mother's pride and joy during her youth, a gift from an emissary of Gondor or so she had 
been told, and she hung onto it still, clenching her fingers around the smooth stone, wishing in vain for a way 
out of the impossible situation that she had come to find herself in...

As the first few spots of rain began to fall, the maiden outstretched her hands to touch the water droplets as
 they fell. She hesitated a long moment, wondering if Háma would permit her to leave the stone platform that 
greeted all visitors upon their coming to the Golden Hall. But then the hall did not welcome visitors of any 
kind anymore; only guests who spoke the native tongue of her people, the Rohirrim, and friends of the land were
 welcomed within Edoras' grand courts.

Cautiously she stepped away from the heavy, wooden doors of the hall, to descend the hewn stone steps at the 
foot of the platform. She saw Háma tense, saw him take a step forward, yet he made no move to follow her. Of
 that she was glad; she felt that she could no longer go anywhere without having an armed guard or escort by 
her side. To her it seemed as if she were trapped like a bird inside an ornate, golden cage who longed to escape...

She came to rest at the last stone step and went no further, for she knew that to distance herself from the
 sight of the doorwarders was to invite the intervention of her uncle's advisor, the creator of laws and decider 
of fates within Rohan. And he was one who was not so easily swayed by earnest pleadings or gentle endearments.

One rain drop after another she caught, as they landed on her palm and ran in rivers down her cheeks. She smiled;
 she could not remember how long it had been since she had last felt this peace... this utter serenity. The rain 
soon began to run in torrents, soaking the simple cloth gown she was wearing, making it cling to her body like a 
second skin. Her hair flew wildly about her, her golden curls matted and heavy.

She began to twirl, dance to a music that only she could hear. Around and around she spun to that music, her hair 
and her gown whipped up behind her by the howling wind. Again and again in an endless circle she waltzed, until 
everything around her became a blur, the shapes and the shadows all merged into one. Laughter escaped her lips 
in a delighted shriek, laughter that did not come so easy to her, and she collapsed in a heap of soaking cloth 
and linen. Pushing the hair out of her eyes, she shakily made a move to stand and sensed rather than heard a 
presence behind her, a presence whose eyes seemed to bore into the very back of her neck. She whirled around
 hoping to expose her shameless voyeur, only to face nothing, nothing but shadows, darkness and Háma.

"Éowyn?"

The warning note of impending anger in his voice jarred her senses, momentarily catching her off guard.

"Éowyn, where have you been? Théoden-King has been asking for you."

She blinked; green eyes wide and filled with shocked surprise.

"It appears I might have lost track of the time..." She remarked innocently whipping her hands behind her back
 like a guilty child caught stealing sweets.

Éomer stared at her quizzically; in all the years he had been Third Marshal of the Mark, his younger sister never 
ceased to surprise him. One day she would appear grave and irresolute, other days she would be awash with the utmost 
joy and laughter. But the latter were indeed so rare that even he had come to expect nothing more than a 
half-hearted smile at best. Her most recent melancholy of late had worried him greatly; it seemed that the day 
Théodred departed from the Meduseld had marked the beginning of the end for Éowyn. Her smiles had become less 
and less frequent, her lilting laughter suddenly stifled by a wave of sunken despair; even her eyes no longer
 retained their usual glow, they only mirrored the pain that she was enduring from the inside.

"I see you have been enjoying the fine weather we are having." He cajoled with good humour, hoping to raise her
 fallen spirits.

"Very much so..." Éowyn replied with a soft smile, "Rain is so very scarce in Rohan."

Éomer nodded in agreement, his fine features grave, almost as if they had been chiselled out of smooth granite.

"It certainly is a rarity in these parts. The rains for the Riddermark come in the tenth month of every season; 
it is very strange to see it so early on in the year, especially the storms."

He paused and his eyes drifted from Éowyn's face down to her the hem of her gown eyeing Éowyn's wet clothes as 
she stepped back into the shelter of the Golden Hall, hearing the creak of the bars for the dark doors being 
replaced behind them.

"You cannot stand for much longer in those soaking clothes, come, we will ask one of your handmaidens to fetch 

you some warm ones."
Éomer grasped his sister's fragile hand in his own rough palm and drew her across the length of the hall as one 
might usher a naughty child on her way to bed. Éowyn sighed inwardly; when would her beloved brother learn that 
she was perfectly able to perform tasks for herself?

"Must you forever treat me as a child Éomer?" She asked, with an odd assertiveness to her usually gentle tone 
that even she would have thought quite beyond her had she but cared to consider her words, "Even the very loveliest 
nightingale must have the freedom to sustain its song....."

Éomer smiled sadly at her comment; almost twelve years had passed since his father had entrusted to Éomer the 
care and protection of his younger sister, and now as Éomer beheld Éowyn, whose stern features were flushed with 
indignant anger and whose jaw remained locked in a thin, tight line, he became aware that she was the very last 
person in the world in need of his protection.

"Perhaps," He said kindly, deliberately selecting an evasive response, "but father would never have forgiven me
 if I let you catch pneumonia... especially not when such a malady could so easily be avoided."

When she did not respond to his comment, he playfully dropped a hand to gently ruffle her tousled hair, as he
 had done years ago when they were but children. She, however, only ignored his humour, feigning silent anger 
whilst hiding her smiling eyes behind long, dark lashes.

"Oh, Éomer you are an addled-brained fool!" She breathed in mock exasperation, "Father always knew far better 
than to quarrel with a woman from the House of Eorl."

For a terrible instant Éomer was convinced that he had, in some way or the other, displaced her gentle mood 
with his words, but then just as he thought to open his mouth to administer to her the most hearty apology he
 could think of, Éowyn's shoulders began to shake and the mischievous grin she had been hiding so painstakingly,
 crept forth across her lips, until she was smiling from ear to ear with obvious amusement at her brother's 
consternation.

Éomer taken aback by her light heartedness himself, grinned broadly in surprise and moved to catch her arm to 
draw her closer to him, but she darted away, beyond his reach, laughing irrepressibly.

"That is not fair game!" He yelled at her, drawing himself up to his full height, "You tricked me!"

Only laughter spilled from her lips in response, and her golden locks whipped around her face as she ran from
 one carved pillar to the next, hearing Éomer's hurried steps as struggled to keep pace with her.

"Éomer, you simply must learn to-"

The smile that hovered on her lips dissipated almost immediantly. He had halted in his steps, eyes glassy and
 staring transfixed upon the empty glided throne of Rohan's King.

"Éomer?"

Even without actually touching him, Éowyn could sense the dark veil of despair that had fallen over her brother's 
good nature and she placed a loving hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

"It will not be long before Théoden son of Thengel will again be able claim the throne of Rohan once more, come 
now, surely you must realise that."

Silence.

"Éomer, what is wrong?" Éowyn asked in concern, turning him to face her.

The heavy lids of his eyes closed and for a moment the darkness behind them seemed almost comforting, but then 
he heard her voice - strained and laced with mild agitation, and no longer did he feel as though he wanted to

 hold back the tide. He slowly met his sister's uncomprehending gaze for just a moment, before hurriedly averting
 his dark eyes.

"Nothing," He said hastily, "it is nothing to concern yourself with Éowyn."

He moved away from her, meaning to flee but Éowyn quickly reached out and caught his arm, holding him fast.

"No there is something," She murmured, "I see the fear flickering behind your eyes; has the illness progressed
 further?" Still he remained silent, the stubborn cleft in his chin deepening.

"Éomer?" She repeated again, confused by the look she found in her brother's eyes.

"Éowyn," He said slowly with the air of a man choosing his words carefully, his eyes betraying his true feelings,
 "please leave this matter to rest, it does not concern you."

Anger flared in Éowyn's heart at the apparent languidity of her brother's comment; never had she being excluded 
from matters concerning Rohan and certainly not from matters concerning the health of her uncle; Éomer was her 
kin, never before had he kept anything from her, save the news of the death of their parents.

"Of course it concerns me Éomer!" She snapped furiously, "I am a Shield Maiden of Rohan-"

"Yes, you are a Shield Maiden of Rohan," Éomer countered in an icy, controlled voice, "and as such you of all
 people should know your place within these walls!"

The words had issued from his lips before he could undue them and were spoken with such venom, such hatred, 
that Éowyn took a step back from her brother aghast. Men, her uncle, had made it quite clear to her what her
duty to Rohan was, but never Éomer, never her own brother.

"My place..." She murmured softly, "My place..."

Éomer looked at her in remorse and made a move to embrace her but she recoiled from his touch as if she had 
been burned.

"Éowyn, please... I did not mean.........those words were spoken in anger, nothing more......... please Éowyn...
 forgive me."

Éowyn did not respond to Éomer's pleadings as he had hoped she might, she simply turned away from him, leaning 
heavily on one intricately carved pillar.

The idea that her own brother sought to put her in her place sickened her, turning her stomach. She had always 
assumed that he would defend her position at all costs, even sully his own reputation for her, but now as she 
thought about it, she realised that Éomer was no longer the brother of ten years of age who had courageously 
slashed the air with a wooden sword and denounced the kitchen's cooks when they had refused to serve him hot 
broth on a day of rest. He had become her father, a man driven by ambition and a need to stake his claim on 
the world, but was that not every man's need? To prove that they could dominate and destroy without loss, 
without guilt, without feeling? Did not all of the male species wish to prove that they stood a step above
 women in both intellect and strength?

"Éowyn, please forgive my hasty words, I just... there are so many things, so many dark things happening 
in these plains that you cannot even begin to comprehend."

Éowyn spun round to face him, her cold green eyes feverishly bright, almost like a poisonous serpent ready 
to strike... and with a venom.

"What is it that I cannot comprehend Éomer? I see the bands of orcs venturing forward from the great tower 
at Isengard into our lands to gather at the borders of the plains just as you do..."

Éomer laughed dryly, an action which only served to infuriate Éowyn further.

"Orcs? You think that is it just orcs that threaten the safety of Rohan? No, there is yet a greater force.
 Sauron is gathering his dark servants to the tower of Barad-dûr and with the help of the White Wizard Saruman
 at Isengard, prepares to launch an attack on Rohan and claim leadership over these lands. These orcs that are massing 
at the borders are not just a mindless rabble that have strayed too far, they are deliberately advancing further and 
further into
 the plains of Rohan with one clear intention, Saruman has only to give the command and they will attack."

"Let them come," She hissed proudly, "the Rohirrim fear no man. We can fight them; we can push them back 
into shadow..."

Éomer shook his head, his deep eyes growing dark and dimmed by barely concealed pain.

"It is impossible Éowyn. We cannot fight both Isengard and Mordor combined......... we do not have the strength... 
Rohan will simply crumble like dust and mortar against the tide."

Crumble like dust and mortar against the tide?

"I will not let Rohan fall, not while we may prevent it..." She exclaimed fiercely, her green eyes sparkling 
with defiance, "The King... surely Théoden will help us; he knows the plight of our people, he will not let 
these lands fall prey to the forces of Isengard."

Eomer grabbed his sister's wrist roughly, pulling her close to him and lowering his voice to but a whisper.

"Théoden cares nothing of what is going to become of his people," He whispered tightly in Éowyn's ear, 
"not anymore. His mind is deteriorating Éowyn, he is but a shadow of the Théoden we once knew; he will let 
the orcs advance, destroying everything within their path - Rohan's villages, its crops, its people and even
 Edoras, until the kingdom falls within Sauron's power..."

Éowyn looked at him open mouthed, her face alight with disbelief.

"How can you say such things Éomer? He is your lord, your uncle-"

He raised a finger to his lips, beseeching her to lower the tone of her voice. Strangely enough the gesture
 reminded her of something Théoden had once told her, long before that foul, disgusting snake of a man had 
infiltrated their lives.

[i]"Even the walls have ears dear Éowyn..."[/i]

At the time she had understood, as his skulking councillor had stepped forth from the shadows, and now she nodded, 
promising to obey Éomer's silent request with only her emerald eyes.

"Éowyn, how long has it been since this mysterious 'illness' took control of his mind and body? Months? Years? He
 is not aware of our struggles, he is no longer aware of anything..."

She forced herself to keep her voice down, knowing full well that the shadows eavesdropped on their conversation,

"Are you saying that Rohan's King will willingly abandon his people to a dark fate?"

Again there was a darkness prominent in her brother's countenance, so unlike him that Eowyn herself felt the slightest
 stab of fear in the face of these new revelations.

"No assuredly not willingly," He whispered quietly, "but you have said yourself that he has not been himself these 
last dark days. This strange malady that has befallen Théoden shows no sign of deserting him Éowyn, he is slipping
 away... can't you see that?"

Slipping....yes, he was slipping away and she found herself desperately wanting to hold onto him, to keep him 
by her side, but her grip was weak, unable to clamp down upon him and he was fast sliding out of her reach, just 
as her mother and father had slipped away from her years ago...

"But we have court physicians..." Éowyn found herself saying hurriedly, "our uncle chose them from the Riddermark
 himself. They have been giving him potions, herbal remedies, for weeks...they must be able to do something."

Something. Anything. There had to be a cure...

"What can they do? Give him a cure for an illness without a name, describe the symptoms of an illness that cannot
 be explained?" He paused and looked around, listening intently to the hushed silence of the hall as if expecting 
someone to walk in on them in at any moment, "Théoden is past all help Éowyn... we must now look to ourselves for
 the future of our people."

Éowyn turned away from her brother, feeling the hot, blind sting of tears welling at the corner of her eyes as
 she fought the overwhelming urge to weep.

"Then..." she said slowly, her voice thick and heavy with sorrow, "Then there is no hope, there is truly no hope
 for him at all?"

She heard Éomer's deep sigh from behind her, tired and weary, almost as if he was an old man himself.

"If there is hope," He said quietly, "it is forsaken here."

A single tear crept forth from the corner of Éowyn's eye and threatened to fall, but she forbade it from doing so; 
emotion was something she could not afford to dwell upon.

"I must go to him Éomer." Her voice quivered as she addressed him and she swallowed, trying to moisten her already 
dry throat. "Tell the women that I will dress in my chamber, alone; they need not bring fresh clothes, I will take
 care of it myself."

She turned to leave; yes, a single tear could mean so many things, but to her only symbolised weakness...

"Éowyn..."

Éomer's soft voice halted her and could only watch as his sister turned to face him, the telltale red rings of misery
 evident beneath her lowered eyelids.

"I was wrong to say such things about you," He said pityingly, "you are indeed a true Shield Maiden of Rohan; 
please grant me your forgiveness if nothing else."

Éowyn forced a smile weakly.

"You are already forgiven." She said softly, before sweeping away out of sight. And Éomer watched her go, grief 
and pity burning within his chest.

When at last she had disappeared from his view he strode over to the glided throne and knelt on its dais.
 Fingering the hilt of his sword sadly, he watched the green stone nestled within it sparkle and shine in the bright
 beams of sunlight that fell between the dark eaves. The sword had once been a symbol of the greatness of Rohan, 
the greatness of its King, now it seemed that the only thing the sword had come to symbolise was death, both to his 
country and his kinsmen, and he sheathed it suddenly, anxious to put away, out of his sight

Éomer left the hall the same way he had entered it - silent and brooding, deep in thought. However his thoughts 
now were of Éowyn and of the comfort he knew he could not bring to her. So deep in thought was he that he did not 
notice the figure that slipped unnoticed from behind one intricately carved pillar of the Meduseld to the next, 
only to fall into perfect, silent step behind the White Lady of Rohan, careful to remain hidden in shadow. 

ch.2
The Gathering Darkness
Éowyn knelt by Théoden's bedside like a troubled pilgrim at the base of a shrine, hands clasped together firmly 
in a fervent prayer, silently beseeching whatever illness had taken over her uncle's mind and body so completely
 to relinquish its control over him and leave him be.

How had it come to this? She thought miserably, At what point during the last few months had she failed to notice
 that he could no longer lift a spoon to his lips to feed himself; no longer choose his finest robes to attire 
himself; no longer recall his own heir's name to give himself peace of mind?

She gritted her teeth firmly, unwilling or perhaps unable to weep at the sheer hopelessness of her situation.

Grief was a an emotion that she had experienced many times before in the past but she had somehow in those days 
she had always managed to distance herself from it, plaster a cool façade over her features and convince her 
shrinking spirit that truly terrible things did come to pass in the world, things that were wholly unavoidable,
 and that in such times one must only to have faith to be restored into hope and glory. She would fight this 
disease, if only to keep his body with her; she would fight and hold faith that he might recover yet... She 
would not let him fade away, abandon her and depart the mortal realm for the shadowy plains of her ancestors, 
as her parents had done almost ten years ago; she would not lose him...not now when the country was in so much 
turmoil, not now when her broken homeland was in such desperate need of a king...

It seemed that the pull of this elusive 'sickness' her uncle had so unwittingly fallen victim to was steadily 
growing stronger day by day, destroying the youthful vitality of the king and reducing his once proud and noble
 strength to that of a man thrice his age... His posture no longer resembled that of a line of kings, a man in 
the prime of his years; his entire frame was slumped and sunken by age; hunched and shrunken, he remained no more
 than a grisly husk of a man, bearing more resemblance to aged dwarf, than a man of Rohan. His speech had also
 slowed, now it was merely a jumble of incoherent thoughts and mutterings, many of which she could no longer
 even begin to comprehend.

Even the way that he performed simple daily tasks had changed over the course of the past few months, and of
 late he had begun to forget things. Things such as the names of close relations, places he had visited in his
 youth and great wars that had been fought. They had all simply vanished, wiped away like the crude drawings
 of a small child upon a board of glittering grey slate. It was as if great pieces of his life were disappearing
 and Éowyn had no idea how to stop the downward dizzying spiral of Théoden's body and mind.

Even as the illness grew more powerful and Théoden lost more of his body to the disease, he became weaker
 and painfully thin. He hardly ate, or when he did, managed to support very little food. But what hurt Éowyn 
the most was that she could do nothing to help her uncle, that she could do nothing to ease his suffering and 
apparent despair.

Reaching out across the fur lined coverlet she grasped the King's knarled and withered hands, pressing them 
to her lips in a fond caress.

"My lord..." She whispered softly, "Uncle?"

There was no answer from the lifeless, almost skeletal, figure in the bed save for the sound of Théoden's
 strained and throaty breathing as his chest laboured and fought for air with each new breath he took.

"My lord," Éowyn pleaded desperately, "will you not rise?"

Gently she took his hands in hers and held them to her tear stained cheeks, turning them over and over as 
if trying to transfer some heat and life from her body into his cold frame. The figure in the bed stirred 
slightly, opening his dry, split lips to emit a wheezy, painful, moan.

"Uncle?" Éowyn repeated, increasing the pressure of her hands on his, willing him to convey but one loving 
word to her.

The drowsy, heavy eyelids opened slowly, revealing glassy, almost opaque eyes that although looked directly
 at Éowyn, stared straight through her as if she was not there. No emotion of any kind was kindled within 
that empty gaze, there simply was nothing; it was as if his features were utterly devoid of any feeling.

"He cannot hear you."

The voice took Éowyn completely by surprise and she whirled around, her hand automatically slipping to grasp 
the hilt of her dagger which hung unsheathed within the golden coil of her belt. The voice chuckled softly;
 a dark, melodious sound that seemed to dance in and out of Éowyn's head before leaping back over the threshold 
of Théoden's chamber and into the shadows.

"You are easily startled Lady Éowyn, daughter of the mark; my humblest apologies...I did not intend to frighten
 you."

Éowyn chose to remain silent but her hand closed inexorably around the pristine silver blade of the dagger,
 poised as she was to slit the intruder's throat. Indeed, the voice seemed to consider this action for a few
 moments before passing comment,

"You must forgive my most abrupt intrusion," The voice continued in a low, hypnotic murmur that could have 
charmed the very birds from the trees, "but I could not help but notice how radiant my lady looks this evening;
 indeed a more lovelier jewel was never seen in Rohan."

Éowyn's lip curled and she bit back the urge to counter his false flattery with a Rohirric oath of her own.

"Tell me what business brings you here and then be gone, for I have no wish to dally in so meaningless a 
conversation when there is work to be done."

The voice made a derisive sound.

"Am I to assume," It mocked quietly, "that you are very much...averse to my presence at the present time?"

Éowyn scanned the dark beyond the doorframe with narrow, pensive eyes, unable to locate the owner of the voice. 
The darkness parted suddenly and the light at the edge of the threshold fell upon the shadows, rewarding her
 with a glimpse of black velvet before it slithered back into the shadows with its master.

"Rest assured Gríma," She retorted with cool civility, "that you are more than welcome to assume whatever you
 wish; after all, one can only make assumptions as to what your true purpose is in seeking me out in this most
 unbecoming fashion."

This time the shadows remained silent and did not think to stir in order to betray Wormtongue's presence,
 and Éowyn, unsure of his exact whereabouts within the darkness, could only forage a guess at where he lingered.

"Why, I come merely to... inform you of the King's present condition of course..." His voice rasped after 
some time, concealed within the darkness, and Éowyn shivered, feeling an icy, apprehensive chill creep slowly
 up her spine and snake its way around her heart.

"His condition is much unchanged," She stated coldly, steeling herself with an icy regard towards her uncle's
 odious counsel; wishing hope against hope that he might somehow take the incentive and return to his own 
chambers, "Lord Éomer has said it so himself."

"Lord Éomer..." Wormtongue's voice mused darkly, almost as if he was speaking to himself, "Lord Éomer is wise,
 but grows increasingly foolish day by day; can you not see that he hastens the severity of the King's illness
 by stirring up troubles in the West, hunting orcs that have no business within these lands for his own petty 
advancement?"

He watched as Éowyn's eyes inexorably flashed liquid fire, incensed by the nature of his words, and shifted 
position within the shadows slightly, rewarding him with a glimpse of her truly magnificent profile.

"Éomer speaks the truth!" She snapped indignantly, instantly furious at him, "I myself have seen the orcs 
approaching from Isengard, intruding upon the borders of Rohan without hesitation..."

There was a pause, and Éowyn heard Wormtongue's sharp intake of breath before continuing his speech in a
 steady, more sotto voice, that seemed completely at odds with the inexplicable tension in the room.

"Indeed...and you are so sure they come from Isengard? Saruman the White has ever been Rohan's friend and 
ally......... you are so sure he would betray us?"

Éowyn fell silent, unable to respond to his questioning. It was true that Saruman the Wizard had always
 been an ally to the peoples of middle-earth, had always been an ally to the people of Rohan, but she 
knew that lately, far too many orcs brandishing all manner of weapons had been gathering around the borders
 of Rohan and from what Éomer had reported, orcs that bore the sacred white hand of Saruman.

Determined that Wormtongue should not see her inner conflict she turned her attention the figure on the bed,
 hoping to deceive him with the nonchalance of her action. Éowyn heard the crude footsteps behind her before 
she had the chance to draw breath, heard the gentle hiss of his robe as it swept across the hewn stone floor.
 He stood only inches from her now and she could feel his laboured breathing close to the skin of her neck...

She bit her lip and twisted her hands into the smooth brocade of her gown. If truth be told she found Gríma 
the Wormtongue to be repulsive. She was truly loathe to look at him - in build he was a stooped, cringing man 
with pale, almost ashen skin, bloodless lips and dark oily hair that hung from his forehead in slimy black knots.
 But it was his eyes that frightened Éowyn the most - those haunted, heavy-lidded eyes that were consumed by a 
sparkling black malice and a raw, unleashed craving for destruction.

The tension in the air rippled and intensified between the two for a moment, before Éowyn drew away uncomfortable
 at the state of his nearness. His presence, his very manner, revolted and unnerved her, sending her fleeing 
his company for the safe, strong arms of her cousin Théodred and he knew... he knew that she abhorred and
 detested him, so much so that she would take great pains to avoid physical contact with him; her stony 
countenance telling him more than words ever could that she would rather spend an entire lifetime alone 
than suffer but a few years in his company.

And yet... even though she found him hateful and grotesque, he remained completely captivated by her. 
There was something about her that attracted him to her like a magnet seeking its pole, something in her
 nature that fascinated him intently; enthralled him to a point were words were unable to describe the depth 
of the emotion he felt for her. Perhaps it was the deep sorrow he knew lay buried just underneath the surface
 of her prickly exterior or her remarkable feats of courage that reduced the other Shield Maidens to simpering 
morons, but whatever the reason, he knew wanted her as he had wanted no other...

Of course she was a vision to behold, more beautiful in body than any woman he had ever had the fortune to lay
 eyes upon, which -of course- was only to be expected, but her lithe figure and delicate appearance meant nothing
 in comparison with her heart - the very nature of her being. Yes, it was her heart that he longed for above all 
things; her heart that he wished above all things, to capture and take as his own; her heart that he longed to 
warm with a thousand kisses and caresses, all borne out of his love for her.

He turned his attention back to his king, watching the graceful movement of her hands as she reached out to 
stroke the slack, age eaten skin of Théoden's right hand with a smouldering, unquenchable gaze of fire; unable
 to take his eyes off her.

"My lord, won't you say something?"

Wormtongue knew that she would receive no answer from the King; his mind was no longer present these days
 and he recognised no-one apart from his faithful servant, his life long friend - the loyal, but never too 
demanding Gríma. At this thought, a small, sardonic smirk rose to the corners of Wormtongue's mouth. For seven
 long years now he had spilled his deviations into the Théoden's ear, under the request of Saruman, crippling
 the old man's mind and body, turning him against his allies; he had successfully managed to isolate him from 
every good influence, in preparation for the turning of the tide...

Éowyn however was unaware of Wormtongue's various deceptions.

She felt helpless, torn between her emotions. Théoden no longer spoke to her as he once had; she doubted if he
 even recognised her as his sister- daughter, the child of his sister Théodwyn. He was present in body but not
 in mind and spirit, and there she noted in disgust, always in the background, was the Wormtongue.

"The King is very weak my lady, do not press him when it is so late an hour."

She heard his voice, his words, but she did not want to acknowledge or even comprehend them. All that mattered 
to her was to have her uncle back, the man she had known since childhood, the man who had cared for her for so 
long.

Wormtongue watched the play of emotions across her features from underneath his heavy lidded eyes.

Indeed, he realised as he stared at her, she was truly the only woman to have ever intrigued him in such a way; 
she fascinated him beyond all words and set his skin afire whenever she so much as glanced in his direction. 
Even when she spoke his name in that cool, collected tone that she so often used to address him with, spitting 
accusations and rebukes, it was so near intoxicating that it sent his pulse racing...

He knew he would never grow tired of looking at her; her beauty invoked in him feelings that were completely 
unknown to him, feelings he had never known existed. Briefly he recalled the smile that had played upon her 
angelic lips as she experienced the first drops of rain upon her skin for months. She had looked so carefree,
 so... cheerful; in complete contrast to the grave and bitter Éowyn that he had come to expect.

"Please hear me uncle, our people need you..." She said quietly, speaking in a voice that was so hushed 
Wormtongue had to strain to hear it, "Rohan needs you."

Rohan? A soft laugh uttered with derision escaped Wormtongue's lips, far too quiet for Éowyn to hear.
 Rohan was beyond hope; the path to the kingdom's destruction had already begun, it was inevitable. Saruman's
 hordes would slaughter every man, woman and child within Rohan without mercy. Yes, the realm of the horse-lords 
would fall and soon, it was only a matter of time.

"My lord must rest, he is weary..." Wormtongue concluded firmly, jolting Éowyn from her deep reverie,
 "Many troubles he has been burdened with of late..."

His words invoked no response from his bedridden master, who simply stared into the far distance with open,
 unblinking eyes.

Wormtongue's own eyes lingered on Éowyn's face as she bent to kiss her uncle's forehead, captivated. Éowyn 
could feel the heat of his gaze upon her but chose to ignore it, carefully draping the coverlet over Théoden's
 gaunt frame.

"Uncle..." She whispered despairingly.

She felt fresh tears gathering at the corners of her eyes and turned away from Théoden lest he somehow see her
 pain.

Was there nothing she could do to help him?

Wormtongue noted the change in her demeanour with great interest. He could feel the dark sorrow that radiated 
from Éowyn like a great black tide and it filled him with excitement. If she simply gave in to that darkness, 
that despair, she would be his to mould, to shape to his will... she simply had to fall prey to her grief and 
he would have her within his power.

Éowyn met Wormtongue's searching gaze with a grief stricken visage, mistaking the longing in his eyes for empathy.
 Could he pity her situation?

Letting his instincts guide him, Wormtongue closed the distance between himself and Éowyn in one fluid movement, 
his presence enveloping her like a poisonous mist.

"So much pain for one so young..." He whispered close to her ear, letting his breath tantalize the wisps of blonde 
hair that fell loose over her face, "You bear much sorrow and yet there is no relief for you."

Éowyn felt his voice surround her in a comforting cocoon, nurturing the anger that nestled dormant within her.
 She looked away, unwilling to fall into the murky blue depths of his eyes but unable to pull away.

Gently he reached up with cold, trembling fingers and deftly caught her chin, turning her to face him. He was 
in awe of her, of how vulnerable she looked, more of a child than a woman, the expression in her emerald eyes 
impossible to fathom. The tremors in his fingers increased many times over as he reached out to cup her cheek 
with one hand, his touch no heavier than that of a butterfly's wing.

"Would you not welcome something to ease your despair, something that could heal you of all pain?" He murmured
 lightly, feeling his heartbeat falter and his breath quicken ever so slightly.

He knew he had remain in prospective, if he strayed but a little from his goal, it would shatter everything that 
he had tried so hard to achieve. He must remember how much easier this would make it for his master -Saruman- to 
gain control of Rohan. If Èowyn fell to the gathering darkness then his control would be absolute, nothing
 would be able to sway the power of Mordor and Isengard combined. Yes he longed for her, but to him she 
remained an unyielding, untouchable object of his devotion; a flower whose petals were yet to open, no matter 
how hard he tried to coax them into bloom.

He moved in closer, until they were almost touching, trying to read the expression on Éowyn's face, only to
 find that he could not.

"Would it not be gratifying to know that your troubles were easier to bear?"

Éowyn stared blankly at his face, betraying not a flicker of emotion, her mind screaming at her to break the 
spell he was weaving around her. She wanted to pull away, to tell him in an icy voice that she did not fear 
sorrow or pain and that he and his poisonous whisperings were not welcome around her, but she said nothing, 
choosing instead to remain silent.

Wormtongue's pale, cracked lips creased into a small smile, he had underestimated her. She was much stronger
 than he had imagined her to be, using what little strength and energy she had to fight against the power of
 his voice, his silver tongue.

"Surely," He crooned softly into her ear, "you are desirous of such a gift..."

He watched as her eyes slowly slid shut, savouring his words and drawing them into herself, feeling a flood 
of foreign emotions rushing through her blood. Éowyn knew he was toying with her, toying with her as a cat 
toys with a mouse, awaiting the final pounce.

"No..." She whimpered quietly, knowing that this could not be - that it must not be. It was an enchantment,
 a bewitchment designed to coax her senses into submission to his will; she would not bow to his heinous wishes.

The word spoken aloud gave her the chance she needed, and her mind automatically clamped down with a will
 of steel over her treacherous body. Her eyes snapped open and she whipped out the dagger from her belt,
 positioning it at Wormtongue's throat before he had the chance to react. Wormtongue froze, letting his 
hands drop mechanically to his sides as she tilted his head back with her blade.

"You... misunderstand me... my lady..." He wheezed painfully, the cool metal pressing down on his windpipe.

Éowyn regarded him wearily for a few moments. If she withdrew her blade would he try to insinuate his leech
 craft into her mind once more? Would he try to seduce her with his offers of a life free from pain? Perhaps... 
but what could she do otherwise? Have him arrested? Kill him? All the soldiers in Edoras were loyal to their
 King, they followed his commands and Théoden's commands were Wormtongue's commands; she knew she could not 
rid herself of him that easily.

Not taking her eyes off him, Éowyn withdrew the dagger from Wormtongue's throat. It was like cutting off 
some unseen electrical current and the spell he had cast over her dissolved into nothing more than memory.

"Go." She said as evenly as she could, her fingers tightening menacingly about the smooth metal of the dagger's 
blade; she knew she would not hesitate to use it if need be.

Wormtongue looked at her for a moment with wide eyes, eyes that were full of doubt and apprehension, eyes 
that regarded her cautiously like a predator watching its prey. Éowyn stared back at him for as long as she 
could manage and a heavy silence fell between them before Wormtongue, satisfied at last that Éowyn would not 
draw her dagger upon him again, turned on his heel leaving his last words to echo about her.

"As you wish........."

And Éowyn was left alone, hearing his footsteps fade away into nothingness. When at last she was sure that he
 had gone, she let out a long, trembling sigh and sheathed her dagger with shaking hands. She had almost fallen 
into his whisperings, almost but not quite. Wormtongue was dangerous, poisonous and innately terrifying and
 Éowyn despised him for making her feel that way, the way in which she could never go anywhere without looking 
over her shoulder uneasily, or sidestepping parts of the hall that lingered in darkness. She hated him and hated
 his touch upon her skin, which made her flesh crawl and the hair at the back of her neck stand on end. She knew
 he secretly enjoyed tormenting her, plaguing her with his presence and his insidious words.....making her feel...

Oh, but such things were to be expected from a scheming viper such as he.

She composed herself, straightening her gown and wiping the salty tears from her eyes, giving Théoden a single,
 fleeting glance before reaching for the candle snuffer to quench the burning flame.

"Goodnight my lord, sleep well..."


She closed the door lightly and moved away down a shadowy passage to her own dimly lit chamber, careful to both
 lock and bolt her door. Only when she was sure that the door was secure did she begin to relax and let the 
tension in her shoulders slowly ebb away.

The mirror on her vanity reflected her image, the image of a Princess of Rohan - a woman born into privilege, 
duty and propriety. A woman dressed in rich velvet robes with hair drawn so firmly back into a high braid that 
it gave her air of cool dexterity. Éowyn realised that no-one upon seeing this image in the mirror, would doubt
 that that the woman was indeed the White Lady of Rohan. However she looked so stern, so composed, so cold, that 
she might have almost been mistaken for an Elvish maiden, not a mortal woman.

Was this, then how others saw her? The unwavering, unforgiving, unfaltering Lady Éowyn, sister-daughter to the 
crown of Rohan.

Slowly she reached up behind her head and unpinned her hair, letting her long golden curls fall free. The icy 
façade of the woman in the mirror melted away revealing a much freer, much more loving soul, whose cheeks were
 painted with a rosy hue and whose bright green eyes sparkled and danced in the candlelight. Éowyn reached out 
to touch the smooth pane of glass fondly; could this really be her? This woman who looked so free, her heart so
 unchained and unburdened with troubles?

Was this the real Éowyn?

As she gazed, mesmerized, into the mirror she felt fear snake its way around her heart and quickly turned away
 from the resplendent glass.

No.

She would never be that woman again; she refused to be chained and shackled by the fate which had befallen so
 many other women before her. The Éowyn reflected in the mirror was dead, gone, lost to a graveyard of buried 
memories and wistful dreams.

She alone made the decisions for her life now.

*

On the other side of the Golden Hall and along a passage cloaked in shadow, a single candle burned with a
 bright flame.

Alone in his chamber Wormtongue sat listening to the sounds of the night, to the music of the midnight chorus. 
Just as he had predicted, Éowyn had spurned him and his heart ached deeply with the knowledge of such a loss. 
But then he had always known that she was unlike the other women of Rohan; she had a free spirit, an untamed 
soul and was wise beyond her years, so how could he ever have thought...

However it mattered not that Éowyn had rejected his offer of absolute power; he, after all, need only concern
 himself with the obligations at hand - in but a few weeks the House of Eorl would be torn apart by a thousand
 blood stained hands and Rohan would fall -crushed beneath the heel of Saruman's great army- leaving behind 
nothing but mortar, dust and shattered illusions. 

ch.3

Chapter Three - The Bearer of Ill News
The riders came forth from the West, their brilliant banners rising and falling against the gentle swell of
 the cool summer breeze in an extraordinary whirlwind of colour and embellished silk. Bruised and bloody, 
covered with ugly weals and deep cuts, they urged their horses onwards, tearing up the sodden ground with
 a sound that could only be likened to that of the harsh crack of sheet lightening. At length the leader of 
the group raised a hand to halt his comrades in their tracks, his eyes scanning the inertia swept plains of 
the Riddermark that lay undefended and open to attack. He was young and fair of face, and though smeared with
 patches of dirt and trails of dry blood, the man held all the bearing of Rohiric royalty. Broad shouldered 
and stiff necked, he sat straight backed and proud, mounted on a bay coloured horse, an image of kings undimmed
 by age and the passage of time.

"Edoras, the great courts of Rohan..." He breathed in awe, his gaze fixed on the vast rocky outcrop not more 
than a few miles away, masked by the magnificent snow topped peaks of the White Mountains and to the East the 
dark, solid walls of Emyn Muil that rose up from the shadows to kiss the bright skyline. But for all the Riddermark's
 natural beauty, there was something about the serenity of the landscape that caused him deep uneasiness, 
something that pervaded the tranquil plains as distinct as a sour smell...

"My lord shall I give the order to push the horses onwards?"

Distracted by the voice of his captain the man turned from the sight of his homeland and in doing so wrenched 
his attention from the dark thoughts which were gathering at the corners of his mind like some great, creeping 
shadow. He twisted his head at an ungainly angle to glance back at his men who sat slumped over their steeds,
 gripping the course manes of their stallions with dirty, calloused hands. They seemed frail, bodies broken
 with exhaustion and lack of food, as if they had gained a full hundred years to their names...

A sudden pang of intense remorse hit him swift and hard in the pit of his stomach. This was not the way that 
it was meant to be; his men had wives, children, and although he knew little of such things, he knew enough 
to see that the endless regimes of relentless exercises and patrolling were crushing their spirits and slowly
 smothering them. Day after day his men had fought at his side, loyal to the end, each one willing to take their
 own life rather than have him suffer at the hands of the enemy and yet gradually, like water breaking upon rock, 
they had been beaten down and left disillusioned. Thin and as pale as paper white parchment, dark ringed shadows
 reflected around their rims of their eyes, they continued to strive forward for the good of Rohan, for the good 
of their King...

"Yes," He said sharply, perhaps more brusquely than he had intended to, "and we must make haste, for I am 
anxious to notify Théoden-King of the recent happenings within the plains."

He closed his eyes slowly and inhaled the dense air, savouring sultry scent of mountain dew upon the damp grass;
 it reminded him of happier times, the days of his childhood, days that seemed forever lost to him now...

"But what of the orcs my lord? What if they should return in greater force?"

Orcs? He did not want to even consider the possibility that the repugnant vermin might return. But return they 
would, this he knew all too well and perhaps in greater numbers than the first, to wreak havoc upon Rohan's 
unsuspecting villages while its people fell prey to axe and sword.

Unconsciously he bit the corner of his mouth until blood began to well in thick, dark spots on his lower 
lip and he wiped it away with one sweep of his hand, staining his weathered skin crimson.

He knew there were but few options left open to him. He could depart with his men for the Golden Hall as 
had been his previous intention, rise early the next morning, gather his men and continue to patrol the borders
 and the surrounds for invading orcs yet retain some distance... or he could still depart for the hall but have 
some of his men keep permanent watch throughout the day and night on the areas most susceptible to orc attack
 and destroy the beasts before they could report to their master.......... at least that way he could be sure that
 both Edoras and the borders were reasonably safe.

"My lord...?"

"Captain, post scouts along the borders," He said decisively, "tell them to keep a clear watch. If they should
 find anything amiss tell them to ride fast and hard to the Meduseld... I will bring the remaining men and slay 
the foul creatures where they stand."

"Yes my lord."

The man sighed, he could almost hear the note of weary resignation in his Captain's voice; his men were all
 losing faith far too fast and far too soon.

"We must have faith men and hold steady for the sake of Rohan." He railed at them, hoping to lift their dampened
 spirits. "Come forth Éorlingas and take comfort, for we shall soon be home and you may at last rest your heavy 
eyelids and aching feet. But be prudent for there is something within these plains that sets its will against us."

Yes there is evil at work here, a voice inside him continued inwardly as he firmly dug the heels of his boots 
into Brego's side, feeling the horse rear and quicken its pace into a gallop, and I will seek it out...
*

Sun beams streamed down through the windows, cracks and loopholes of the Golden Hall to pierce the darkness behind
 Éowyn's closed eyelids, drawing her from her deep slumber with bright, myriad patterns of leaping flames and fiery 
demons. She squinted hard, screwing her eyes up against the light and raised a delicate hand to her face to shield 
herself from its hot, white glare. Muttering a few incoherent curses to herself, she pushed back the heavy folds
 of her woollen coverlet to languidly drop her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the pleasant chill of the 
cool wooden floorboards greet her cautious toes on descent. Her eyes darted to the heavy door of her chamber and 
the bolts that remained drawn, a mute testament to the sense of horror and revulsion she had experienced the night
 before...

Éowyn raised her arms above her head in a stretch, hearing her bones creak and groan as she fought against the
 obvious exhaustion of her body. Unbidden, a small yawn escaped her lips and she contemplated burying herself 
back underneath the vast layers of sheets and blankets to gain another single hours rest.

Come now Éowyn, she chided herself roughly, pushing all thoughts of self- doubt to the side, there is work to be
 done, duties within Edoras that you must attend to.

She turned to face her vanity and the omniscient mirror that stared straight back at her, reflecting her mussed 
image within its shining silver slivers. She looked terribly bedraggled she noted idly, hardly a princess by any 
standards, but now was not the time to be concerned with such things; she needed to find Éomer and discuss with 
him what action could be taken to defend the plains against further attack. Wandering over to her armoire she 
retrieved her morning robe from amidst the mass of sumptuous gowns that hung fresh and immaculate within the 
wardrobe, wrapping it around her shoulders in a protective cocoon before sliding the black iron bolts on the door
 aside. She had put not but one foot out of the door, when she was immediantly greeted by a sharp blast of cold
 air as the door swung outwards, revealing the perpetual gloom of the corridor that wherein rested the blood 
line of the House of Eorl. Cautiously she let the door swing back into its original position, hearing the squeak
 of the pivot as its hinges connected back into place.

Wrapping her arms about herself tightly, she made her way down the corridor with fairy light steps. She must
 be cautious and swift and above all... careful not to wake the snake with her wanderings. Fleetingly she wondered 
if perhaps he hovered in the shadows, his eyes following her every move, preparing to corner her like some wild 
thing... but then again, the rational part of Éowyn's mind whispered, if that was indeed his intention, he surely
 would have approached her by now.........

In any case, she thought icily, I care not. I am a daughter of kings. Let him observe me as he will, as if I 
were no more than a priceless trinket or precious bauble, but it will avail him naught; he will soon learn that 
I am no mere china doll...

As she swept down the long, endless hallways, Éowyn's first instinct was to go to her uncle and convince him to
 eat some breakfast so as to build his strength... perhaps some porridge made from freshly ground oats or some 
nice hot broth that would coax a little colour back into his pale cheeks. After all, that was all she could do 
now, the only small service she could perform for the King of the Mark that befitted her 'station' in life; a
 meagre and thankless job that was supposed to come naturally to the women of her country. She wrinkled her nose
 in disgust at the mere thought of herself bent over a stove or sweeping away the dust with a long broom of horse 
hair; she would not be bound to such a fate.

Barefoot and shivering in the long corridor that separated her bower from the throne room she listened intently 
to the hushed silence of the hall, hearing sounds from kitchens, serving men's laughter and something else... the
 sigh of raised voices perhaps, faint but undeniably present in the air. At once she berated herself for the 
imprudence of her actions. What a sight it would be to see the Lady Éowyn eavesdropping on private conversations!

And yet...

She froze in place, one hand resting on the fine wrought iron handle of the door to Théoden's chamber. Suppose...
 suppose it was one of Théodred's men - a messenger from the borders who had come to deliver news about the state 
of Rohan's provinces. If that was indeed so then surely she also had as much right as any other in the Golden Hall 
to hear the tidings that would issue from his lips.

For a moment she simply wavered with tortured indecision.

Of course, said another nagging voice inside Éowyn's head, the right course of action would be to enter her uncle's 
chamber and help to rouse him from his stupor, even administer him with a calming draught to ease his terrible cough 
and air out his robes... but now her curiosity had been inflamed and she knew that no matter how hard she tried, 
until she discovered the reason behind the raised voices, the nagging voice of doubt would not leave her mind in
 peace. She had made her choice, she would not crumble in her decision, and all thoughts of query and anxiety ceased
 as she stealthily glided away towards the entrance of the Meduseld; her fine, voluminous skirts of luxuriously smooth 
velvet and stiff brocade caressing the hewn stone floors in rich, luminous waves as she swept through the deserted 
halls, not caring in least that she should be seen.

As she neared the throne room the voices became clearer and the words more pronounced; stepping lightly to the side 
to avoid the shadowed parts of the hall as had now become custom for her, she saw that it was indeed two men sparring,
 one of them undoubtedly Háma looking at the great emerald train of his cloak and the other unknown to her, partly 
hidden by the great oaken doors of the hall.

"I cannot let you enter the Golden Hall so armed." Háma's voice was as flat and as unyielding as a cold stone wall; 
there was no remorse in that voice, just unwavering duty and it worried her greatly, stirring up the black tide of 
fear in her mind that had been gathering there for some time. "I must ask that you remove your weapons and lay them
 by my side."

Éowyn stood unmoving and uncomprehending, brow furrowed in confusion, wondering if she had heard Háma's words 
correctly. She had long since known that visitors to Edoras, or indeed even the Golden Hall, would inevitably 
receive a hostile reception. Outsiders were generally frowned upon and she knew in these dark times, when Isengard 
and Mordor drew ever closer, she could not afford to take risks that would mean destruction for her people. 
But never in all her years at Edoras had she heard of weapons being removed from visitors; perhaps a few weapons
 such as long knifes that might be concealed beneath the folds of strangers clothing, and therefore seek to do ill,
 but as rule visitors to the courts keep their weapons with them at all times so that they did not feel threatened 
by a superior measure of power. Superior measure of power indeed! Éowyn would have laughed out loud if not for the 
hand that lay clamped over her lips, stilling her words. There is but one who wields such power in Rohan, she thought
 icily, and it is not Théoden-King...

"Háma, this is absurd. By the Valar... you must realise that I intend the King no harm."

His sombre voice cut through her like a piece of jagged metal, ripping her heart in two and compelling her into a 
stunned silence, unable to go to him or even form his name on her lips. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought
 that she would see him again, certainly not so soon and with such haste. Her mind had conjured up all manner of 
thoughts and nightmares - wild, vivid nightmares that had haunted her sleep and waking thoughts. How many nights
 had she been tormented and plagued by visions of his death, his skin pierced by orc arrow or spear? He was alive 
and yet, in her mind's eye, she could see still those images that had skittered across her vision...

However he was here, at last everything would be all right and perhaps some degree of order could be restored to 
Edoras. For the time being she could be assured that the Golden Hall was safe from invasion.

"Heed my words my Lord Théodred, you must cast your weapons aside or face the King's great wroth........"

For a moment there was no reply and Éowyn wondered if Théodred had simply accepted the doorwarder's commands and
 relented, seeking no further conflict. But sure enough Théodred's voice spoke out, clear and resonant against the 
chill air.

"And you would speak so to the right hand of Théoden-King, to the heir of the throne of Rohan?"

Théodred's words quivered with barely restrained anger, pulling taunt every syllable he uttered and it seemed to
 Éowyn that he was fighting the fury that was rapidly gaining momentum

ch.4

Chapter Four - Ultimatums and Decisions
"Do not think to play games with me foul creature! You know as well as I what it is that I would request!"

Éowyn's lips moved to form the words but no sound emerged, and the scalding rebuke that lingered like acid on 
the tip of her tongue died unvoiced at the back of her throat. To insult him would be folly; she knew this all 
too well. Men had been executed for much lesser crimes than a simple difference of opinion with the King's chief 
-and only for that matter- councillor within the Golden Hall. In any case, the rational part of her mind told her,
 it would only serve to anger him further ... fanning the precarious flames he held in his dark hate for Théodred.

How she wished she could have prevented her cousin's hasty words!

Although it grieved Éowyn bitterly to see the Second Marshal's departure from the Golden Hall but a few nights 
since, in the long term his absence had almost been a blessing, albeit one fraught with anxiety. For like Éomer,
 Théodred was head-strong and held a regard as stern as steel; he would sooner die upon his own blade than bend 
his knee willingly before any more, save his father - Théoden-King. And as much as she might readily wish it, 
he would no sooner submit to snake than the councillor's commands. How soon it seemed to Éowyn that the tables 
had turned and how quickly it struck her that the just had fallen from favour. A man could one day be sharing a
 glass of fine mead wine with the King, toasting the fortunes of the House of Eorl, and then the next, imprisoned
 within a damp cell, awaiting the call of the gallows. Such seemed to be the justice within Rohan those days; when 
both man and beast fell foul of Wormtongue's spite.

And now, now she was here by her own will, trapped by her own hand, into an audience with him! How could she have 
let such madness progress so far?

At one time she had looked upon the wise Gríma -her tutor in her childhood- with considerable awe; a man cultured
 both in high politics and the arts, with an insatiable lust for knowledge. He would devour books page by page 
until at last his thirst for information was quenched and his knowledge satiated. This was, Éowyn suspected, the 
reason why he had chosen his enforced solitude, with books, ink and quill his only solace. He was unlike the men 
of the Riddermark in that respect, not least in appearance and thought. Raven haired, pale skinned, frail of body
 and brittle boned, he sought the darkness of the library or the council chamber in preference to the harsh light
 of day as it broke upon the battlefields; quiet and studious Éowyn remembered his instruction with pleasant 
fondness. He had awakened her imagination and with it thoughts and desires she had never dreamed possible. And he
 would walk, walk with her for countless hours throughout the long, winding corridors of the Golden Hall, 
commenting on the tapestries or describing the arduous history of her ancestry... and Éowyn for her part, was 
always, always, willing to listen, his spellbinding voice transporting her to newfound places of magic and mystery.

Even at night, when the rest of the house thought her to be asleep, she would welcome his presence in her chamber
 to tell her stories, fairytales, and sometimes allow him to administer her with a sleeping draft to soothe her
 back into slumber after a particulary vivid nightmare.

Yes, he had almost been a friend to her in those days... the days before darkness had come to Rohan.

A dozen long years in his company had passed peacefully enough before she shed her childhood and looked on in
 silent horror as the seasons grew colder, gripped amidst an icy, invisible chill and the Riddermark fell pray
 to the bitter sting of Mordor's great oppressive shadow...

Her night terrors became more frequent, as did the practice of sliding the heavy wrought iron bolts upon her
 door, but no loving tutor came to her aid, no friend from years past. Before her very eyes she saw her uncle 
turn frail with age, consumed by an unknown illness, and watched helplessly as all seven of her uncle's eight 
councillors died traitors deaths. Only had one remained, one that had skilfully managed to avoid the bloodthirsty 
massacre - the worm with the silver tongue. Her tutor had become that creature, a creature that spoke only in
 riddles and inhabited the darkness; an omnipotent, omniscient being whose eyes and ears were everywhere and whose
 shadow lingered in deserted corridors, waiting for his prey... watching her every move with hungry eyes ablaze with
 longing...

She shuddered involuntarily.

How had he become that shadow of a man? What could have turned him towards such a horrifyingly bleak existence?

"The storms seem to have passed, for a while at least; it appears they have moved Southward towards the White
 Mountains..." The words were forced, nothing but meaningless chatter yet Wormtongue did not so much as bat an
 eyelash at her comment, appearing to be lost deeply within his own thoughts.

"Yes, it is nice to see the Sun after so many days lost to darkness." Éowyn continued quietly, hoping to evoke 
some sort of response from him, to which he only remained silent. He was irritated that she should detain him 
with little less than idle talk; yet, he was intrigued with the idea that she would seek his reviled company 
against the explicit wishes of her cousin. He replayed his confrontation with Théodred over in his mind,
 hearing his own words echo throughout his mind and began to assess the situation with new eyes. Her unexpected
 intervention between councillor and prince had both surprised and bewildered him. The very idea that she would
 rise to the defence of one she hated so vehemently was preposterous, yet not wholly impossible.

During his years at Edoras he had seen many an act of her boundless compassion - collecting kindling for a old, 
toothless woman, so twisted with age that she was unable to stoop to gather the twigs that littered the ground;
 administering the needy and less privileged with Rohirric spring water and bread baked from the King's finest 
wheat; tending the wounds of soldiers cut down and scarred in battle with gentle, loving fingers - simple things.
 Things that appeared to come naturally to her and invoke within her, her innate sense of tenderness. But to see 
her speak so in his defence, braving her own cousin's anger, was much more than he ever dared to dream of...

Perhaps then, she did not despise him as much as he originally thought, perhaps for the briefest moment the barrier
 of ice that held her heart to its sway in an cruel, icy grip, had been melted by the force of such compassion and 
the Éowyn whom he had comforted in her childhood had emerged; the Éowyn whose soul he had long ago enchanted and 
charmed with his tales of old. Absently he let his mind begin to ponder this startling realisation; perhaps all 
sense of hope was not lost to him quite yet. Perhaps, whispered a secret part of him, perhaps she reciprocates my 
feelings, perhaps she can learn to love me as I would love her...

"In time she could..." He murmured softly to himself, all but forgetting Éowyn's presence; eyes locked in a glassy, 
distant stare, he allowed his secret wish to take shape, bursting forth with a thousand twirling images of his white
 lady with skin the colour of the Simbelmynë and eyes alight with warmth and love. The wraith-like images blurred
 his line of vision, obscuring all rationality, and conjuring all manner of thoughts within him; what a proud and
 respected man he would be with such a beautiful, no more than that... such a captivating creature on his arm. 
It was a fantasy, but nonetheless a fantasy that he coveted more than all the riches and jewels in the world. 
It had been that very weakness which the White Wizard of Isengard had preyed upon, exposing Wormtongue's deepest
 desires; playing upon the little man's repressed yet unrequited affection for the Lady Éowyn as one might manoeuvre 
a pawn in a deadly game of chess; corrupting, shaping, moulding Gríma man of Rohan to his will.

<i>"You Master Gríma, will be her heart's desire, her only desire... She will belong to you, no other, until the
 ending of your time upon this earth."</i>

So the wizard had promised the son of Gálmód his great reward and Wormtongue for his part, with nothing else left
 to gamble, had earnestly agreed, effectively sealing his fate, the fate of his people, and the fates of all those
 entwined within the blood line of Eorl. He was a Rohirrim no longer; too long had the bright, shining, flaxen
 haired riders reigned, dispelling the shadows, and from the ashes of the old kingdom would rise a new order, 
one in which he would master so much more than a decrepit King, a war ravaged land and a group of dirty, penniless
 peasants...

But they are your people, a voice inside his head reminded him, you would truly leave them without hope, defenceless
 against the mighty wrath of the Dark Lord of Mordor? What will become of the women Gríma... the children... 
what will become of them when Rohan falls? You know don't you Gríma, of course you do... you've always known...

Instinctively Wormtongue shied away from the voice, trying in vain to shut it out of his mind... but this presence, 
this inner demon, would not be beaten. It was a strong one this one and held onto him with a will of iron, mocking
 and goading, weaving its way around his heart.

You are a traitor Gríma, it taunted mercilessly over and over again, traitor...traitor...traitor

The words seemed to eddy round his brain, replacing the apparitions of Éowyn with haunting visions of countless
 helpless Rohirric men, women and children awaiting Saruman's promised destruction.

They will all perish in fiery flames of Mordor, it seethed cruelly, all but her...all but her Gríma... you must
 protect that which you love so dearly, you will spare her from the horror that would befall her people. You must.

And somewhere deep inside him, he felt himself accede to the voice's request, he could do little else...

"Does something trouble you councillor?"

He didn't seem to hear her words or the brisk term of address she used to call him to her attention. Then as
 he inexplicably drew his mind back into the present, the voice died away and he saw the ice maiden that 
stood before him as if for the first time, shivering in her night garments, regarding him with hard,
 unfeeling eyes.

"My lady is cold..." He breathed lightly, in words no more than the loftiest whisper.

Éowyn wordlessly pursed her lips into a thin, tight line, considering this statement. Only moments ago he had 
seemed confident, smug almost, so assured in the knowledge that he was able to intimidate her, make her cower 
before him... and now beneath her gaze it was he who seemed to have been reduced to little more than a snivelling
 animal grovelling at her feet. She felt a harsh pang of emotion within her gut, guilt perhaps but pity for the 
most part, that almost made her reconsider her past harsh words to him and for a fleeting instant, wondered if 
she had been too hasty in her presumption that he would wish to do Théodred mortal harm - but only for an instant.
 Nevertheless the apparent concern that laced his voice of snake oil both unnerved and horrified her.

"It is the early morning air I believe, that is all."

The tight lipped response spilled from her lips in a heated, defensive gush that caused Wormtongue to recoil, 
eyes like slits, drawing back into himself and reclaiming his air of offended dignity once more.

"Is that so?" He purred softly, secure in the knowledge that he had overcome his moment of spineless self-doubt,
 "then perhaps I should send for a serving man to light a fire, the cold can become quite... unbearable at times
 and I would not, my lady, have you take a chill."

He slid closer to Éowyn, cautiously putting one foot in front of the other, coming to rest but a few paces from
 the white lady; the black mantle that cloaked his form trailing about him and falling in a deep, dark pool at
 his feet.

"Your concern is greatly appreciated," She bristled indignantly, refusing to let herself become intimidated by
 his nearness, "but is unnecessary, I assure you that I am fine."

There was something... unsettling about his manner that Éowyn could not put her finger on and she disliked 
the feeling intensely.

She knew, had always known, that he seemed fascinated by her presence and when she had left the childish 
dreams and fancies of girlhood behind, she had begun to see that in his own way he too was rather captivating..... 
Often she would glance at him, as he would steal glimpses of her, their eyes meeting for the briefest second before
 she would turn away, blushing profusely. But even as she retreated from his gaze, his eyes still lingered upon her
 form, retaining what Éowyn felt to be their usual electric stare. At the time she had thought little of it; perhaps
 simply that it was an innocent affection to be indulged privately during moments of intense loneliness. She had after
 all been so desperately lonely in her childhood. Éomer and Théodred had always been off somewhere, meeting some fellow 
or other, challenging each other to gallant swordplay or riding out on patrols; she had had no-one. Lost and alone was 
the proud Lady of the Rohirrim, surrounded by men who sought to put her in place...and always prepared by her peers to 
be the perfect, diligent little housewife, a proper Rohirric wife and mother.

And then, in the very mist of her misery, there had been him.

It was only in her older days -the days of her adolescence- that she had begun to open her eyes and notice him,
 really notice him, for the first time. Gríma, or so Éowyn believed, had never been treated with so much as an 
ounce of kindness in his entire life; he seemed condemned to be met with hatred everywhere and as a result had 
resorted to cutting himself off from the majority of his kinsmen entirely. Yes, she had pitied him then - when 
his heart had remained tender and loving, unscathed by deception and evil. The very first time she had touched
 his hand, treated him with kindness, a smile had emerged, tiny and shaped like the crescent moon but unquestionably 
a smile and as he timidly raised the back of her hand to his cool lips, she had felt that dizzying spark as surely
 as he had, almost as if she were floating on some great euphoric wave. Over time the spark between them blossomed
 into something else, something more and Éowyn had started, timidly at first, to see her tutor in a different light.
 They would joke with one another, share opinions on both the political and economical state of the kingdom, even 
lament to each other the minor tragedies that had befallen them that day... and Éowyn found herself snatching more
 and more glances at him when he thought her to be concentrating on her philosophy or studying the geography of her
 native lands...

Yet for all their gentle humour together and the kind words that were expressed, she had never really considered or
 even entertained the possibility that she might have been in love with him. For Éowyn he had been simply a friend,
 albeit a close one, whose companionship and gentle words were the only things she desired to hear more than the 
voice of her mother and father. Love was completely foreign to her, she knew nothing of the emotion; she had simply
 assumed that friendship was love and that since Gríma was her friend, the two feelings were entwined. But then by 
the time she had entered her womanhood Théoden had fallen hard and fast into grief, a stupor from which he was either
 unable or unwilling to break free of and her tender affections for Gríma became strained; the tell-tale tensions
 beginning to weigh heavily upon their honest friendship.

He no longer looked at her the way he once had and as the vulnerable side to him began to slowly decay, evaporating
 as quickly as the early morning mountain dew, so too did her longstanding affection for him. Gríma of the race of
 the Rohirrim had died that day and the poisonous Wormtongue had emerged, snake-like and cunning with a silver tongue
and the King's ear. He still looked at her, secretly, when he thought her eyelids to be closed or her head turned
 in the opposite direction, but tenderness no longer graced his gaze, all that she saw when she looked deep into the 
depths of his eyes was uncontrollable longing...longing for her, his secretly coveted prize...

Their gaze met and the corners of Wormtongue's mouth twitched in amusement, affording Éowyn with a glimpse of his long,
 pale tongue as it flicked across his bloodless lips.

"I am inclined to disagree with you my lady," He drawled slickly, his eyes never leaving her face, "but even now I see
 the colour begin to steadily creep back into your cheeks.......it appears that you were correct after all, I do 
apologise." He withdrew with painful swiftness, lowering his head in the proper assent before gathering his voluptuous
robes about him and taking a step back from the princess, leaving the palpable tension in the air to crackle and hum
 about her.

Éowyn's cheeks burned crimson with humiliation and inwardly a voice screamed at her to throttle the very life right 
out of him, just as Théodred had sought to do so, but she caught herself -as any high ranking lady surely would- 
and plastered her lips with a hollow smile that hid well her conflicted emotions.

"If I discern correctly, you wished to discuss matters regarding the King, did you not?"

Éowyn nodded dutifully, the smile still present on her lips, praying to the gods that Wormtongue would not divine 
her true purpose in requesting such a meeting. Of course she had always known that Wormtongue loathed her brother 
Éomer with a black passion; they sparred with words, bickering tirelessly over King and country in private councils
 where a lady was not expected to grace her presence. However lately, quarrels between Éomer and Gríma had become 
more frequent. Éomer insisted that Rohan was under threat from Isengard, whilst Wormtongue beseeched Théoden that 
Isengard was, and always would be, a great ally to Rohan and its King. In the end her brother had stormed out of the 
council chamber, enraged by the King's decision to remain in passive resistance against the orcs that lurked on the
 borders... yet now that Théodred had returned to the Golden Hall, Éowyn hoped that he would be able to persuade his 
father into the right course of action; Théoden was devoted to his son and rightly so, Théodred was a noble warrior 
- a proud Marshal of the Mark and one of a fine lineage.

But equally Théodred also despised Gríma, for reasons both known and unknown to Éowyn. Although Wormtongue did not 
display as much open malice for Théodred as he did Éomer, the two had often crossed each other in matters of state. 
Théodred saw Wormtongue, like Éomer, as a poisonous serpent that manipulated words to his will and twisted truths 
until they were so distorted from their former selves that the King was quite unable to decipher the validity of them.
 In turn Wormtongue saw in Théodred a procrastinator, a prince whose slavish obedience to his father clouded his mind
 and all rational judgement.

"I merely wondered if it would be permissible to allow the King to take some air..." She explained, clambering for
 a suitable excuse whilst glancing at Wormtongue all the while, trying to gauge his reaction. Finding only a stony 
visage and a non-plussed expression she hurried on thickly, "For you see the air is so very close in here and I thought
 it a kindness; he has not gazed upon our plains for so very long and I know that it would please him greatly, could he 
see but one dawn rise over these hills."

Wormtongue stared at her with that same terrifying intensity for a moment longer before lowering the heavy lids of
 his eyes and passing a pale hand, the colour of smooth ivory, across his face in exasperation.

"How very...thoughtful of you my lady, your concerns are -as ever- a true asset indeed, deserving much commendation," 
He paused, admiring the engraved floor beneath his feet, tracing the patterns of the runes with one deft foot, 
"however, as regards to the welfare of the King, I fear that in his present condition such an activity might.over
 exert our lord, sap his spirits if you will, and we cannot have him take such a risk in which it may well prove fatal
 to his health. After all these are dark days in which we find ourselves and it would not do to have the opposition 
exploit the King's weakness in favour of their own order..."

The hair on the nape of Éowyn's neck began to prickle and feeling the façade that she had so carefully constructed
 begin to fade away, she lost her nerve and quickly looked for an appropriate loophole in the conversation in which
 to extricate herself from her silver tongued captor.

"I see." She said sternly, "Then it appears there is nothing further to discuss, I shall take up no more of your 
time."

She knew how he would react, how he would prevent her from taking her leave and yet she still vainly hoped that
 he might, just this once, let her slip away from his presence without interjection. But even as she turned to 
flee she felt his long, icy fingers enclose about her wrist, pulling her back to face him with a strength that 
she scarcely would of believed possible of such a gaunt creature.

"Time is of no consequence my lady," He whispered silkily, "you yourself know that it bears little relevance to one 
such as myself; surely then, there is a more pressing matter that you would find quite agreeable to discuss, something 
that is of far greater importance perhaps....."

Éowyn winced inwardly and tried as best she could to distance herself from him. His stick-like fingers reminded her of
 some horrendous biting insect on her wrist, pinching the skin gently between forefinger and thumb, compelling her to
 remain riveted to the floor.

"I am afraid you are mistaken, I cannot think what issue could be of greater importance than the health of Théoden-King.
 As his most trusted advisor you are aware, are you not, that it is the keeping of his health that is our first and 
foremost priority?"

Wormtongue's thin lips stretched into a small, predator-like Éowyn suspected, smile, almost as if he seemed pleased by 
her evasive response and he released her wrist, watching her recoil as if she had been branded by some unholy demon.

"Indeed," He agreed, committing the feel of her lily white skin to memory, "it is the strength and will of the Lord of
 the Mark that binds Rohan so closely to the hearts of its people. The salvation or ruin of a kingdom can be determined 
by the health of the reigning monarch, they say."

Éowyn met his gaze levelly and this time her eyes did not wander astray, they glowed with a new found feeling, a 
feeling that seemed to obliterate her surroundings entirely, a feeling that welled up within her chest; this time 
she would not be the one to falter, this time she would stand tall.

"The King will regain his health."

Wormtongue seemed to ponder her statement for a moment and his eyes flitted hesitantly from side to side, delving
 deep into the recesses of his mind to seek a fitting response.

"Oh I do not doubt it my lady," He said at last after many minutes silence, "I am sure that it is just a temporary...
malady that will fade in time."

"Yes so you say," She countered objectively, "yet no healer or physician within these courts can diagnose its cause-"

With one neat and perfectly accented slice of his hand, Wormtongue stilled Éowyn's voice and concerns into silence.

"With respect my lady," He retorted, drawing out every word, every syllable with false cordiality, "the healers
 within these lands are not well known for their talents...one might gain a true enough diagnosis if one cares to
 bribe them heavily enough with gold."

This was true enough. The healers within the Riddermark were not like those of the elves whose selfless nature
 compelled them to offer aid to those who were sick or wounded without question, they preferred to receive payment
 for their so called 'expertise' beforehand and if a conclusive diagnosis could be brought then be piled with more
 coins so as to 'secure' the accuracy of such a diagnosis.

"Well if that be the case then fear I have lingered here too long...I would not want to delay the healers from 
the refilling of their coffers." She remarked coolly, her eyes straying over Wormtongue's left shoulder to the
 corridor beyond.

Carefully she put out one foot and then the other, willing her legs to make the transition. Slowly, face fixed 
with unwavering determination, she began to walk towards the passage that led to the serving men's corridor; 
only lightly brushing past Wormtongue yet able to feel the slight tingle of the velvet of his outer robe as it
 slid past the smooth skin of her arm.

"Surely you would not leave so soon my lady? And with such a question left unanswered upon your lips?"

His tone was deliberately insinuating, masked by a veil of feigned concern and Éowyn froze in place, feeling
 the blood begin to pound hotly in her veins. She had never been reduced to begging for a life, certainly not 
the life of one so dear to her, and to show her most hated enemy, her loathed adversary, such weakness would be to 
tarnish the namesake of the House of Eorl.

"I know not of what you speak." She said calmly, choosing to maintain her ignorance rather than to confess her 
true purpose; better to have Théodred remain alive yet shackled inwardly by his own stubborn pride than to have 
him imprisoned within the cells, facing death at the hands of the Wormtongue.

"Do you not?" The councillor intoned casually, addressing the air, "Then why is it you tremble within my grasp 
like a leaf caught amidst the high breeze and why your eyes, so consumed by fear, plead for absolution, even as
 your heart grieves so openly within your chest?"

It took barely even a second for Éowyn to comprehend his words, or rather his insinuations, and she whirled around,
 eyes blazing upon him, the white linen of her nightdress fluttering about her like a dozen winged doves ruffled by 
the great North Wind.

"Do not speak to me thus Gríma son of Gálmód! Think you I am your familiar? That I am a simple serving wench obliged 
to follow your every beck and call? I am Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, niece of Théoden-King, and you seem to forget that
 I reside above you in all matters; you cannot capture my waking thoughts as you have so forcibly captured the minds of
 so many others around you. I doubt that even Théoden-King has forgone your insidious influence, for you will have made
 quite sure of that, I am certain!"

She had advanced on him in a red fury, until they were almost touching; Wormtongue shrinking before her dark gaze and 
wringing his hands together fervently within the cavernous folds of his cloak, almost as if he were repeating softly 
to himself the mantra of some sort of desperate prayer. Again they faced each other, two warriors on the battlefield 
of the world, and to each their own choice of weapons...

Éowyn was breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and trembling from the intensity of her outburst whilst Wormtongue cowered 
beneath the materialization of her sudden anger with wide eyes; fairly shocked himself that she had been able to bring 
about the force of such a passion. He wondered if he simply should not lay himself prostrate at her feet and beg her
 forgiveness; he had angered her with his cutting words, struck deep and hit a chord within her heart, a chord that
 undoubtedly seemed to ring true to her.

"You are mistaken my lady," He said cautiously, chastising her in the simplest of tones, as one might a small child,
 trying to abet her anger, "I am but a humble servant to the crown.......I merely advise the King, provide him with 
guidance and trusted foresight, I cannot control or mete out power, that is the acquisition of the King. I would wish 
no ill upon our lord nor any other man."

She was silent, staring at him as one might stare at an ugly black spider that has just crawled uninvited into the
 bower of an unsuspecting maiden, her face an odd mixture of contempt and disgust. She loathed him, for his words 
and for what he had become and in a wild flurry of black velvet and heavy dark drapery, Wormtongue turned his back 
on the princess and, without even waiting to be dismissed, had crossed the wide expanse of the hall, heading for the
 great oaken doors of the Meduseld, where beyond Háma stood still, looking out across the green plains of the Riddermark.

If truth be told the tension in the room had begun to suffocate him and Éowyn's strangling indifference towards him
 was slowly crushing him; if only he had not voiced his thoughts, if only she could see him as so much more than a 
devious, shrinking servant, if only he could grasp the power his master had promised him, if only-

"You claim that you bear no man ill will, but tell me Gríma what of Théodred?"

Wormtongue visibly stiffened, his body tensing almost immediantly and for an instant he closed eyes, savouring the
 darkness behind his lids. Then slowly and in a graceful mockery of the movement Éowyn had performed earlier, 
meticulous to the last detail, he turned to face the young princess, feigned confusion and surprise knitting his brow.

"Lord Théodred, ah yes, it is... unfortunate that he is unable to accept the decree of arms. I myself am surprised 
that he chose to contest such a law; I would have thought that he would welcome the King's decision. After all we 
cannot jeopardize the safety of his father, who knows what manner of people may enter this halls intent on causing
 him a most grievous harm... but I understand his concerns; he is young, life holds many carefree pleasures for him 
and to see such pleasures abruptly halted cannot be...easy for him."

Pleasures? Éowyn scoffed to herself. It seems the King's advisor is more naïve than he himself has been given credit
 for; he knows as well as any man of the Riddermark that Théodred does not ride early every morning in pursuit of 
wild boar or forest deer...

"Théodred is a Marshal of the Mark; I doubt there has been very little carefree pleasure in defending our borders 
against encroaching orcs."

The words were designed to draw the conversation to a close and allow Éowyn to escape the battle of wills which 
would inevitably ensue, but as soon as the words had left her lips, the lady realised that she had made a very 
grave mistake.

"Perhaps..." Wormtongue said softly, dropping the emphasis on the word into a gentle hiss, "but are you sure so 
that it is only in defence that Lord Théodred seeks out such creatures?"

"What is your meaning?" She challenged, striving to keep her tone level.

Wormtongue inclined his head slightly and his dark, lank locks of hair fell across his face, obscuring the two
 glittering blue orbs that watched Éowyn intently.

"Lord Théodred is liable to become brash and impetuous in such matters, of this the King is all too aware; no 
cares or troubles burden his shoulders such as they do they do my lady's; he is a crown prince, the Second Marshal
 of the Mark, and so rightly seeks the attention and approval of his peer, however when the King proves to be
 otherwise occupied in matters of great significant importance concerning the state, regretfully it seems that
 Lord Théodred turns to the fabrication of certain acclaimed 'truths' in order to seek the admiration of his father."

Éowyn shook her head in disbelief, convinced that he was lying but unable to offer up any irrefutable proof to
 suggest so. She could not believe, would not believe, that Théodred would place the lives of his family, the 
lives of his people, in danger in order to secure the attention of Théoden- King.

"That cannot be; Éomer has been witness to the same dreadful events as have befallen Théodred, they have both 
witnessed the devastation inflicted by the orcs..."

"And would not your brother be prepared to follow Lord Théodred -blindly- through fire and death, even at a 
considerable risk to his own life, at considerable risk to Rohan?" He gestured with his hand to the surrounding
 hall and the tapestries that hung suspended from the eaves depicting the royal line of the King's house, "Would
 not Lord Éomer stand loyally by the prince's side until the end, regardless of the consequences? Would he not
 think to protect Lord Théodred at all costs?"

The speech had Wormtongue's desired effect, seemingly preying upon Éowyn's deep uncertainty and rendering her
 utterly defenceless within a choking, word-induced fog. For a moment she looked like a lost child, dragged deep 
beneath an ocean of confusion and doubt.

"It is true that Éomer looks upon Théodred as a brother and would suffer no man to harm him," She mused dreamily, 
"but Théodred would not exaggerate our troubles in the West and neither would Éomer defend Théodred's position if
 such a thing were true, I am sure of it."

"Most assuredly my lady," He affirmed, struggling to maintain his well constructed pretence, "but of late the King
 has begun to question the motives of his son. There have been whispers -rumours- that denounce the prince, rumours
 that claim the King's heir has been conspiring with rebels."

She did not react quite as he had expected, but the blood quickly fled from her cheeks to be replaced by a deathly 
white pallor and she swayed ever so slightly on her feet.

"You know as well as I that such accusations are false and without basis." She hissed in a low voice, inching nearer 
to him, "Who dares accuse him of such crimes? Tell me that."

Wormtongue lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant, careless shrug, displaying none of his previous animosity and 
appearing only the very epitome of innocence.

"As I say my lady they are but rumours...but such whispers relayed to the King's ear do have lethal potential; 
Lord Théodred has even threatened death to the King's must trusted counsel within his own hall and such an action,
 as well you know, bears the penalty of death."

Death...

For moment Éowyn's world narrowed and she felt as though she might faint.

"What must I do?" She whispered hoarsely.