Darkness Unescapable

Theoden was thirsty. And hot. And cold. A thin film of sweat covered his brow and clung to his body. He wanted to be wiped down, for the damp chilled him. His stomach hurt.

And then, through a haze of pain and delerium, a golden-haired girl with cold hands and a soft voice seemed to appear by his side.

Was it his mother? Or the great Morwen, Steelsheen returned from the hall of his ancestors...or there to call him hence?

"Uncle, what has happened?"

Uncle? Ah....uncle...it was Eowyn, his golden-haired niece. But it was such an effort to say anything. Theoden could not move. But Eowyn would take care of him. Thank goodness for Eowyn - and Grima. Grima would help Eowyn, Theoden was sure of it.

"What is to become of us?"

The words seemed so distant, as Theoden drifted in fever and pain. He felt the urge to retch, but that would require effort. His head rolled to the side. Let him choke on his own vomit. Then perhaps he would find the peace of endless sleep, free from this mortal prison of pain.

~

Grima prided himself on the silence of his movements. Though, he reminded himself that there was little reason now for him to slink through the halls that he practically ruled.

But still, habit dies hard, and his footfalls were soft as he approached the king's chamber. Slowly, he pushed the door open a little and moved so that one eye could peer inside through the small opening.

The old fool was not yet dead. But he was weakened. Grima weighed and measured the moves and consequences like a master gamesman contemplating a devestating strategy.

And why was he not dead yet? Perhaps the reason sat by the dotard's bedside. Grima let his eyes linger for a long, delicious moment on Eowyn, watching her as he often did when she least suspected it.

Others might see the golden fall of hair, the steely grey eyes, the noble mien. Grima saw rather differently. His eyes followed the elegant line of her neck, the soft roundness of her breasts, the gentle curve of her back, and slender but strong hips.

He swallowed as he felt a wave of desire wash over him, leaving a tingling in his groin and his mouth dry from too much breath.

Soon...soon. His master would claim Rohan, and Grima would claim his prize - his prizes, he corrected. Not only would he take Eowyn to his bed, but he would be given regency over this land. Saruman would be only too glad to leave Grima as overseer of a grim plantation, as long as the spoils made their way regularly to Isengard.

And in truth, it was the idea of all that power that made him rise and caused his long white fingers to clutch more firmly at the door.

Eowyn sat lost in thought. But a small chill - perhaps from an undetected draft - caused her to break her reverie and look about her. And what she saw made her recoil in disgust. The Worm was spying on them!

She jumped from her chair and went to the door, fury blazing in her eyes.

"What business have you here in this sickroom, son of Galmod!" she hissed.

Grima watched her chest rise and fall with indignation, watching the lines subtly shift beneath the worn fabric of her dress.

He paused for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet the maiden's gaze. And he smiled.

"M'lady, I only seek to know that your uncle rests easily, that I myself might find some respite from my worry for him," Grima said in a whisper, his eyes riveted on Eowyn.

"You speak lies!" Eowyn whispered fiercely. "Thou art truly serpent, and would that I could fork thy tongue in truth to stop its evils!"

"Hasty words, Steelsheen!" Grima said, his tone turning menacing. He reached a cold hand through the opening of the door and took her chin in his hand. He stroked her jawline with his thumb and imagined the feel of her soft, fair flesh in his grasp, melting to him.

"The sooner you recognize me as a true friend to the king, the sooner you will see that I am a true friend to you as well," he whispered, threat in his eyes and promise in his tone. "We do not always like what is good for us, m'lady. But the sooner the medicine is taken, the sooner the malady is ended."

Eowyn's hand came up of its own accord and grasped Grima's wrist in a vise-like grip. Exerting all the strength of her shieldarm, she slowly removed his odious hand from her face and forced it down by his side, releasing it with exaggerated distaste.

"Any remedy you might offer is poison," she said in a low, steady voice, her jaw set. "And the only malady I can see is the plague of your presence!"

"Then I shall withdraw it, m'lady, lest it give further offense," Grima replied coldly, stepping back from the door. "I beg thee not to linger in this sickroom, lest the lady fair fall ill herself."

And with those words, he spun on his heel and silently slipped back into the shadows of the great throne hall, leaving Eowyn watching *him* through the small opening of the door.