Chapter 39: “Cat and Mouse”

EDORAS

She had feared to hear the sound of the accursed footsteps, and yet at the same time, somewhere deep within herself, Éowyn had also longed for something to break the oppressive silence and distract her from the darkness and hopeless thoughts that assaulted her in her prison even at the price of more torment. She could also no longer deny that she was hungry and thirsty, ravenous in fact, and as the first wave of a delicious scent wafted into her cell, the daughter of Éomund of Aldburg felt to her dismay her mouth beginning to water and her stomach contracting into a painful, demanding ball of hunger. Pressing a fist against it to prevent that her body would give away her condition to her captor, Éowyn looked at Elfhelm to see how he responded to the prospects of another encounter with the Worm.

It had not escaped her attention that the warrior’s condition had greatly deteriorated since the previous day. Especially over the course of the last few hours, Éowyn had been forced to helplessly witness with increasing anxiety how the warrior descended deeper and deeper into a semi-conscious state; a state which revealed the true extend of his suffering although Elfhelm had been quick to assure her during his lucid moments that he felt not as horrible as it might appear to her. Even in the flickering semi-darkness of the torches, there was no question that her protector was running a fever. Whenever the Captain of Aldburg undertook the considerable effort to lift his head while he talked to her, the tale-tell shine in his eyes and the beads of sweat running down his face in tiny rivulets betrayed his crumbling state. At last, when Elfhelm had begun to experience trouble in speaking and finally lost most of his coherence due to the serious lack of water, Éowyn had understood just what was at stake: if her protector was denied drinking and sustenance for yet another day, he would not live to see the next morning. Not that they were able to see its light deep down here within the bowels of the lonely hill.

The tantalising scent of roasted meat and steamed vegetables crept into Éowyn’s nostrils and slid down her throat, then doing unbelievable things to her stomach although it was still more than questionable whether she would actually see any of it. Or would she? Would she be able to contain the hatred she felt for the Worm and keep her sharp tongue in check to insure that Elfhelm would not be denied the urgently needed liquid? Would she be able to swallow her pride and… beg? For Elfhelm’s sake?

Éowyn closed her eyes in a doomed attempt to calm down. Somehow, she would have to succeed in reining in her temper, even if Elfhelm had been adamant that she should not surrender to the enemy. But this meant that he would die, and addition to the devastating guilt she would feel over her responsibility for the warrior’s death, it would furthermore mean that she would be left all by herself in this dark, lonely corridor, a thought that was too frightening to contemplate further. Éowyn was certain that she would lose her mind if she were forced to remain in this cell with no living soul to talk to or to comfort her. It seemed that she had to choose between two evils. Which was the lesser one? Abandoning her pride and admitting defeat to her arch enemy to be allowed the continuing comfort of Elfhelm’s presence… or the conservation of her mental integrity at the price of his death?

Caught between the two contradicting choices, Éowyn’s gaze slid down to the almost empty bowl in front of her cell. It had been the rats who had enjoyed an unexpected feast last night; she had not touched any of it. Would Wormtongue see the difference? Would he know that she had not yet submitted? ‘So what if he does?’ the warrior inside of her, the side of her which had spoken too rarely during these endless black hours, sneered. ‘At least he will not be able to shove the rat-touched food down my throat!’ ‘But he can do other things,’ the fearful voice in the back of her mind, which had held the upper hand of her conscious for a while now, insisted anxiously. ‘Worse things than force-feeding me. Much worse things!’

It took an enormous effort to suppress the disquieting thought and calm down enough to mould her expression into the imperturbable mask of cool superiority she had reserved for the crooked minion of evil all her life. Sitting on her bare cot with her back to the wall with as much dignity as she could muster after more than a day of imprisonment, Éowyn braced for the confrontation just when the group of four came to a halt in front of her cell.

“Lady Éowyn,” her chief tormentor’s voice trickled into her ears, smooth like poisoned honey. She lifted her chin, succeeding in looking down upon the man even from her seat like royalty upon the lowliest servant, and not like the captive at her captor. “I am delighted to see that you apparently heeded my yesterday’s words…” Wormtongue regarded the bowl at his feet for a moment as if it were the most interesting item in the world, then his lips curved into an unpleasant, knowing smile. “Or did you leave the food to the rats? I cannot help thinking that it might not have been you who ate the stew.” The smirk broadened at something he seemed to see in her eyes. Fear, perhaps, for betraying the truth? The moment stretched until at last, Gríma averted his gaze in the seemingly most casual way. “And yet since I am in a forgiving mood, I will not dive deeper into this, my Lady. But look what I have here! Your meal… and the Captain’s, if you allow him to have it today.” With his eyebrows raised expectantly, he turned toward the warrior who hung in his chains and seemed to have barely enough strength left to lift his head.

Her insides clenching into a painful knot, Éowyn followed Gríma’s gaze…and looked Elfhelm straight in the eye. He was pleading with her, silently, to remember her promise. Fevered, pained and as weak as he was, he did not want her to succumb to their enemy’s evil scheme, but how could she just let him die? How could he expect that of her? Éowyn’s throat tightened dangerously, and she had to avert her eyes in order to collect herself.

“Yes,” she then said lowly as she turned to her waiting adversary, hating the sound of her own defeated voice even as she spoke. So, even if Elfhelm regarded her as a traitor, she could not do it. She could not cause a dear friend’s death and then endure the oppressive silence and darkness of the dungeon all alone. With growing certainty over her decision, Éowyn lifted her head and summoned all that was left of her dignity as she met the silently amused gaze of which she was the focus. “Please, give it to him. He needs it.” The counsellor’s brows rose even higher. The surprise on his face seemed genuine and shamed her greatly. So even her tormentor had expected more resistance from the White Lady of Rohan than she had left within herself. Perhaps he would lose interest in her now. And yet she didn’t believe it. Gríma was too satisfied with himself to not reap what he had sown years ago. He revelled in his triumph and would enjoy every little aspect of it.

“Did I hear you right, my Lady?” Wormtongue asked her again, thus confirming her assumption. “Are you actually asking me to give this to the Captain?” His eyebrows twitched. “Would you beg me for it, too?” A brief gesture pointed at the tray in his henchman’s hands. Éowyn took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye. What use was resistance in her situation? She had not much strength left in her and had to pick her battles carefully. Rising to his teasing was definitely not worth wasting any energy over.

“If that is what it takes, then yes, I beg you.” She inhaled deeply and then added calmly, with as much dignity as she could muster: “You have won, Gríma Wormtongue, at least for now. I am not so foolish to deny it. Whether you will be victorious in the end remains yet to be seen, but for now, power is yours. Like the power to let him live...” She nodded at Elfhelm “...when I know that it is me you want. It would be useless to torture him further, for there is one thing about me that you must understand: if you kill him, I will never be yours.” An expression of utter intrigue crept into Wormtongue’s features.

“You want to set conditions? Even though you are behind bars?” Her audacity greatly delighted Gríma. So she had not given up at all! In the wake of what had happened, she had been shocked and stunned as was only natural considered the violent change of power in Meduseld, but now she had recovered, and she was still the brave shield-maiden he had admired for so many years. What a glorious woman she was! Scratching his chin as he feigned having to contemplate her words first, the new Lord of the Golden Hall turned on his heels to cast a long, pensive look into the other cell, where Elfhelm looked dismayed over the last developments. With a smug smile, he then shifted his attention turned back at Éowyn.

“You want to barter, you say. Fine, let’s barter. This is my proposal: your friend gets both food and water, and you will have your evening meal, too - if you agree to have in my chambers, together with me.” Ah, this she had not expected! After all these years, his skill to unsettle the haughty young woman was still as powerful as ever. And yet Gríma had to admit though that his female opponent and object of desire regained her composure remarkably fast. With an apologetic glance at Elfhelm, Éowyn nodded.

“Provided that it is I who will give it to him, and that you allow me to treat his wounds!”

Ah, such pride! Wormtongue knew that it was ridiculous, but he felt proud of the woman he had loved ever since he had first set eyes upon her. Even under the grimmest of circumstances, she refused to give up her dignity. Well, perhaps it was the key to her acceptance if he allowed her to keep it intact. Surprising himself with this sudden benevolent thought, Gríma inclined his head just the slightest bit to indicate that her proposal met with his agreement.

“Very well, my Lady, I accept. I will let you feed and tend the Captain afterward, but only if your behaviour during the meal leaves nothing to be desired, that much must be clear. Even the faintest escape or assault-attempt, and poor Elfhelm of Aldburg will have to sleep with an empty stomach yet again.” With a meaningful glance at the warrior, Wormtongue lifted an eyebrow. “It is your decision, my Lady.”

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She had walked up the stairs on legs that felt like two wooden sticks after the long time she spent in the draughty coldness of her cell, the memory of the despair in Elfhelm’s eyes as they took her away a pain as sharp as a wound inflicted with a sword. Éowyn had tried to lay it all into her gaze when she left: that she would be back. That yes, she was doing this for him, but just as much for herself, too, as she would go mad if she’d be forced to spend the days in this black pit alone. That she simply could not let her pride be more important than his life, the life of the last friend and protector she had left in this world. She saw the understanding in his gaze before she turned around, and yet the expression of defeat in Elfhelm’s fevered eyes was unbearable. The Captain of Aldburg, her brother’s mentor who had always believed in their victory even under the worst circumstances, had given up hope.

As she approached the door to the Hall, Éowyn involuntarily straightened. What would she find once she entered? The pride of the Éorlingas brimming with Dunlendings desecrating its ancient sanctity and all members of the Royal Household killed? She steeled herself for one of the most unsettling experiences yet, determined to keep the mask of indifference on her face for as long as a single enemy was around to see it. Even if they were defeated, the Gods forbade that she would grant their enemy the satisfaction of seeing her despair. No matter what Gríma Wormtongue would conceive to get to her, she would be at a place he could never reach.

Upon the Counsellor’s call, the door was opened and she stepped into the hall and into the first daylight she had seen in two days. It was muted as it filtered through the high windows into the vast room, and obviously the sun’s last greeting as it went down for the night, and still it felt like balsam on her scorched soul, only for a brief moment but immeasurably precious because it lifted the shadow from her heart.

Then she saw them. Staring at her and greeting her with mocking shouts in their hard, strange language, Wormtongue’s Dunlending brethren sat, lay and stood around in the ancient throne room wherever there was space. In between their lairs of blankets and sheets and ancient rugs they had gathered from the other rooms, Éowyn noticed stacks of boxes and sacks and vessels, and she understood at once that the enemy had barricaded Meduseld against the citizens of Edoras to wait… for the White Wizard’s army. So it he expected it soon. The revelation of what it meant was a punch to her gut and robbed her of her breath. When would they be here? Where they already on the way? Were kinsmen right now slaughtered by the hundreds in the Westfold? Her knees shaking, Éowyn stumbled on as Felrod prodded her toward Gríma’s private chambers.

“Oh look at her! Isn’t she a price indeed?” a deep voice rumbled, then exploded in laughter. “Now I understand why he has done it!”

“It was I who led you undetected all the way through the Mark,” the man next to him, a short but heavy-set and hairy brute said. “I think that I earned a reward for that deed! Perhaps the Counsellor will allow me a night with her when I ask him.” More laughter.

“Ah, but you would break her with your clumsy hands,” the first man retorted. “The Counsellor doesn’t like his possessions damaged. Better take one of the kitchen wenches instead, or he will be mad at you!”

The banter went on while Éowyn concentrated on not listening to their horrible suggestions. Her heart pounding like a trapped animal against the walls of its cage, she barely heard Gríma when he hastened to open the door of his chambers for her.

“Here, my Lady. Please enter!” He looked at Felrod, who seemed delighted by his appointed task to steer Éowyn inside. “Seat her in one of the chairs by the window while I’ll have the table prepared! And watch her closely!” And with a glance which could not have been more serious, Wormtongue left to instruct the kitchen for the meal that would mark his victory.

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“So, you see that I am not so evil after all. I hope you enjoy that meal. Is it to your taste, my Lady?” Wormtongue took another sip of the King’s best wine which he had ordered to celebrate this special occasion and kept it in his mouth for a prolonged moment to savour its exquisite taste before he swallowed. All the while his eyes feasted, too, on the most beautiful woman he had ever been granted the grace to met no matter where his journeys had taken him in his youth. The woman who now sat on the other side of at the table now and shared the evening meal with him, something of which he would not have dared to dream only days ago. All was happening so fast now, his triumph was so complete tat she still seemed to him an apparition rather than of flesh and blood, and the urge to touch her and determine whether she was real was almost overpowering, but Gríma reined himself him. This was only the very first, hesitant step toward the highest goal he had in life. Defeating the Rohirrim on their own turf and handing over the Mark to his true master was nothing compared to winning the woman he had longed for ever since he had first laid eyes upon her seemingly an age ago. He did not want to ruin with impatience what he now had.

And what exactly was it that he had, Gríma mused while he observed Éowyn as casually as he could, still revelling in her beauty and grace even after two days spent in the dungeon. They were alone in the room and dining together, yes, but only a fool would ignore the fact that she was not here of her own, free will, and that underneath the table, her feet were tied to the heavy chair on which she sat. She ate with a spoon, for he had not yet dared to give her knife and fork, knowing exactly what he had to expect if he granted her anything she could even remotely use for a weapon. The meal had been accordingly adjusted to a plate that held bite-sized pieces of roasted meat, two slices of freshly baked bread together with an assortment of cheese and a few slices of last autumn’s apples and pears. The cup in front of her held the best wine the Mark had to offer. Compared to what people usually had to eat in the cold season, it was a feast, but of course Éomund’s daughter cared little for the precious food under the given conditions. She was here because she wanted to help Elfhelm. Gríma understood. And still Éowyn’s rigid bearing and the way she ignored him by concentrating on her plate bothered him too much to remain silent.

“Look at me!” he demanded as he sat down his cup with more force than necessary, and the next moment, those unbelievably deep blue eyes were directed at him, their expression void. “I asked you a question. Wouldn’t you deem it polite to provide me with an answer, my Lady?”

Her face a bland mask, Éowyn said tonelessly, discarding all snide remarks that danced on her tongue for a heartbeat: “Yes, it is to my taste, my Lord.” ‘Elfhelm! You are doing it for Elfhelm!’ she reminded herself forcefully. “You have come so far, now do not ruin it!’ Once more she lowered her gaze as she helped herself to another piece of bread to gather the remains of the spicy meat sauce. Only why did she suddenly see Éomer’s angered face in front of her inner eye?

‘What are you doing, Éowyn? You are taking your meal with the man who ordered Théodred’s and my death? You break bread with the man who betrayed our trust to wipe out our entire people?’

She swallowed and felt her eyes beginning to burn and heat flushing her cheeks in a scorching bout of shame, the emotion so strong that she had to put down the bread and lower her head in hope that the curtain of her tangled hair would hide her distress. Just to do something that would not prompt her host to proceed with his conversation, she picked up the cup and took a sip of the wine. And the entire time, she felt Wormtongue’s attention focused upon herself. At first, he had tried to only occasionally look at her, but now he was staring at her like a hawk at the mouse the moment before he folded his wings together to drop from the sky.

“I do realise that it is hard for you to sit here under the given circumstances, Lady Èowyn” her adversary now began, as if he had looked inside her head and read her thoughts, and his voice sounded disgustingly compassionate and did not fit to his intense stare. The last thing she wanted was the Worm’s pity, whether feigned or genuine. “You are only here because you want to help the poor Captain of Aldburg, and not because you want to be here. Do not believe that I do not understand you. And yet I am wondering whether it is really such an unbearable thing to have your meal together with me.” Her eyes met his fleetingly before she resumed staring at the mysteries on her plate, and behind her façade of feigned detachedness, Gríma saw disbelief at his question. He dismissed it with a gesture. “Don’t be afraid, I do not expect an answer, as I know that your tongue has been tied by the circumstances. I do not want to pressure you into saying something you would regret later. But think about it when you are back in your cell. It doesn’t have to be this way. You don’t have to suffer in the darkness. It is not my wish to lock you up, any more than it is yours, but so far, you left me little choice.”

She knew what he was steering at, but remained silent. Gríma would view it as encouragement if she participated in his – so far – one-way conversation, and answering him would endanger her goal of helping Elfhelm. It was easier to remain still than to watch her words, and the way frustration, shame and rage boiled within her over being forced to this parody of a meal among friends, made it foreseeable where an attempt to enter into a conversation with Gríma would end. With a last bite of bread, Éowyn laid her hand upon the table to indicate that she was finished, and looked up.

“I fulfilled my part of the bargain. Will you honour yours now, my Lord?” Her heart sang at the sight of Wormtongue’s disappointment.

“So you do indeed prefer your cell to my company, my Lady?” He took a deep breath, and his eyes narrowed. For a moment, Éowyn feared that she had angered him after all, but then he nodded and slid back with his chair. “Very well, have it your way. I know that Captain Elfhelm is waiting for you to return, even if it was not his wish that you shamed yourself like this.” He came to his feet and slowly wandered around the table to her side. She tensed. “Think about it, Éowyn.” His mouth was now close to her ear in a confidential whisper, saying her name without the title for the first time ever, and the next moment, she felt his fingers glide through her hair. She shut her eyes, clenched them shut, in a desperate attempt to endure his touch. It was almost over; she could not ruin it now at the last moment! And he knew it, and was taking advantage of that fact! Curse him!

“All that I ask for is your presence, my dear, and nothing else. We could take all our meals together from now on. And perhaps, if things go well, I will even allow you to stay in your chambers instead of your cell, how would that be?” It sounded like Heaven, except… it would leave Elfhelm suffering alone in the dark. She could not do that. Again his fingers glided through her golden tresses in an awkward, gentle caress that sickened her.

“Please, let me tend the Captain now,” she forced herself to say, her voice husky, and the next moment, his hand was gone.

“As you wish, my Lady. Felrod?” All suggestive play, all confidentiality suddenly vanished from Gríma’s voice as he turned around to face his henchman when he entered the room upon his master’s shout. “Take the White Lady back to the dungeon. I will send someone after you with healing supplies for the Captain. Watch her while she tends and feeds him.” He looked down at her. “Oh, and just to make myself clear: Elfhelm remains chained at all times. I do not trust him. It would be just like him to play the weak, wounded warrior only to do something stupid once he sees a weapon within reach. I would hate having to kill him, and I am sure, the Lady Éowyn would hate it as well.” With a last meaningful glance, he turned away from her, not bothering to look as the Halfblood untied the King’s daughter from her chair and led her out.