Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) Title: Hands (#3720) Author: NeumeIndil Chapters: 1 Archive: Tolkien Category: Lord of the Rings (Movieverse) Description: Part 15 in my series, "Nights in Rohan". Many thanks to Katzilla for making me wonder if I could come anywhere near the depth with the character of Grima that she has reached. Published: 21 Feb 2008 Updated: 21 Feb 2008 Warnings: some lustful thoughts Type: Angst Characters: Grima Wormtongue Chapter 1 - Hands “Bring me a basin of water, very hot, and the lye soap.” The maid was obviously not pleased to attend him, but Gríma was used to that. In the last few years, the servants’ collective attitudes toward him had gone from tolerant to outright hateful. So much the better. More fodder with which to gain Théoden King’s sympathies… and his compliance. The faintly bog-like smell of the potion had almost left the chamber, so he closed the window and drew the drapes, shying away from the blush of summer sunlight just emerging over the mountains. Enough for another week, if he was careful… and lucky. Gríma’s dependence on luck seemed to grow stronger daily, though with both Théodred and Éomer patrolling for orcs now, he almost thought he could relax. Almost. But there was still that part of her, his lady, that would never rest until he was dead, that seemed to see every black mark on his soul and reacted to his tainted stench across a room, or a golden hall, some instinct that convinced him she could cut through every protection he had as the king’s high counselor, as a sorcerer’s apprentice (for that was what he was in those times he indulged in his fantasies of glory) and even as a man. And man he was, though cruel jests about worms reached his ears often enough. What man could help but be entranced by her, the lady Éowyn? Hair the gleaming blonde of purest gold, eyes clear and bright as aquamarine and cold as a mountain stream, a face enchanted with such beauty and grace even the elves would envy it. And a smile like daggers heated white-hot in a forge, for that expression from that face was never meant for him. Her brother, her cousin, and even now her uncle still beheld openly the splendor of that smile when it chanced to flash upon her pale cheek, but it had been many long years since the White Lady willingly spared Gríma so much as a cursory glance, let alone the tilt of rose-petal lips that shot sliver sparks into her eyes and preceded a laugh that could stop a man’s breath- and often did. The maid returned with the basin and left as soon as she possibly could, her nose and brow wrinkled in distaste. Let her sneer. None would be spared, save one, the only woman in all of Rohan who would never appreciate the gift his devotion would bring. They would all perish, every haughty, base-born maid reeking of kitchen fires and grease, their dull braids matted with dirt and their own blood, while his lady would gleam brighter than dwarfish silver, the only cleanliness and purity left in his master’s world. His reward. With a satisfied smirk, Gríma picked up the soap and wet his hands, scrubbing at knuckles and fingertips where the residue of the potion, a greenish-black stain, clung. It must be removed, scrubbed away so no one would know. The scent of herbs on his robes and hair would fade as he walked and moved, but that stain, that telltale tint, required special attention. Skin prickling faintly from the astringent lye, Gríma rinsed away suds tinged green and soaped his hands again. All of it must be gone, every trace, before Théoden King began his day. No one must know what really went into the medicine that kept the King both alive and enslaved, least of all she. Éowyn, the White Lady who gleamed like adamant in his dreams, his prize, his truest joy, must never know. Gríma felt that she could tell, even after days had passed since the making of the serum, and the coldness in her bearing was merely restraint from calling him to question for his deeds, to punish him in the way he loved best, with her scorn, her hatred, her malice. They were all he had ever known of her intimately, and so he cherished them more dearly than mementos of his childhood. He paused thinking to rinse and scrub again. But sometimes, in those moments when the promise of a task well completed teased him with sweet reward, she forgot her revulsion, allowed gratitude for his sacrifice and long suffering love- for indeed, this could only be love- to rule her thoughts and her heart. She would thank him when all was said and done. It would take time, he knew and smiled as he rinsed and soaped his hands again. If- no, not if, when Rohan fell and when Saruman gained control of these lands, when Gríma had earned his reward, she would thank him… be touched that his greatest wish had been her, her safety, her life, her body as well but also too her indomitable spirit, the one thing Saruman had not promised him for such complete and black treachery: her heart must be won on his own. He had not wished to have his mother back, no, for why would he wish for a woman he had hardly known? Nor had he wished for the praise and attention of a father so distant and cold he too might as well have died. Gríma’s greatest reward would be the White Lady, tall and lithe as an aspen, standing at his side when the world as it was gave way for the new power, the great power, the darkness that he strove to spare her from even against her own will. But she must never know, never see the stains his work left behind on his body or mind, for she would never grow to love him in return if the extent of his treachery emerged. And she could, he was sure of it, eventually grow to love him, for he was not purely evil. He paused and rinsed his hands again in the basin already growing cool and murky with spent soap, but once more he lathered and scrubbed raw knuckles and finger tips. She would know. She would see. She must never- Hot and thick, something dripped into the basin - never know- Grey-white water matched his skin’s familiar pallor with the faintest twinge of pink. Never know. He rinsed and scrubbed yet again, finding comfort in the routine, in the assurance that if he was careful, if he removed all trace, she would never know. Never… Never see the stain on his hands. Never know. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) on Sun Nov 15, 2026 1:01 am