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Untold Tales of the Mark: The Banishment of Éomer  by Katzilla

45: The Worm’s Lair

EDORAS

Éowyn had stood and watched as Gríma’s minion tortured her protector, the complexion of her face so pale and her bearing so rigid that she seemed more like a very good imitation of herself made of wax than a woman of flesh and blood. Before her very eyes the spiked leather-tongues ripped open Elfhelm’s sweat-glistening skin, leaving long swollen cuts on his body from which dozens of tiny red rivulets ran down his muscular frame and flowed together at the seam of his breeches, their number multiplying with each crack of the whip. Not once did she break eye-contact with Elfhelm in a desperate attempt to lend him strength, but at the same time, something inside her broke.

Thankfully, the warrior’s weakened condition allowed him to escape from torture into the merciful arms of unconsciousness quickly, and when no further reaction could be had from the prisoner, Gríma at last lifted his hand and bade Felrod to end the punishment. With his bloodied handkerchief still pressed to his hurting mouth, the Counsellor slanted a calculating glance at his captured trophy before he addressed the big Half-blood.

“Enough, Felrod,” he muttered, each movement of his injured lip torture. “Save your strength for later when he is awake again. For now, I only want you to lower him to the ground before you leave; far enough for him to sit… and for the rats to reach him. After the feast the White Lady granted them two nights ago, we would not want them to starve, now would we?” Again his pale eyes looked for Éowyn’s reaction, but where he had expected to see her flinch, the King’s niece stared through him with an emptiness to her gaze indicating that her mind wandered through an entirely different realm deep within herself. Or was she feigning not to have heard him? “Gúthlaf, Drâbok, Trollgâr, accompany the White Lady to my chambers and tie her to the bed, both hands and feet. Blindfold her, too… and apply a gag. She will not bite me again.” He stared into Éowyn’s emotionless blue eyes. Could it be that he had broken her at last? Had the punishment of her protector detached Lord Éomund’s haughty daughter from reality? He could not believe that her control went so far that there was not even the slightest widening of her pupils at his open threat, not even the slightest twitch of a muscle in her face. With a last glance at the unconscious Elfhelm, Gríma turned around. “Follow me.”

 

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She walked up the stairs with unseeing eyes. Like a puppet with no will of its own she moved when they steered her through the corridor and the hall, hardly even hearing their voices. Deep inside, Éowyn was aware that things were about to get even worse for they had not locked her into her cell again, but were taking her back to her tormentor’s chambers, but she registered that fact in a subconscious way, unable to act or even feel anxiety. Her mind was somewhere else, observing and entirely detached from her body as they crossed the hall.

Laughter and sniggering rose from the Dunlendings who occupied the Throne Room. Éowyn did not listen. She heard Gríma’s barked order to his guards as he held open the door for them, but the words made no sense to her. Back at the Worm’s chambers. They looked like they had left them: her chair still upturned, and the red glistening stain on the white table cloth where she had spilled the wine. ‘Elfhelm…’  He had tried not to cry out when the whip hit him, for her sake, but already the second lash had been too much in his weakened condition, and the sight of his torment had shattered Éowyn’s soul. All the blood running down his body, glistening in the light of the torch… she had to avert her eyes, could not bear to look at the stain. They pushed her into the adjourning room, toward the huge four-poster, the sight of which finally revived her fighting spirit. She knew what would happen once they succeeded in tying her to it.

“No. No!” She dug her heels into the carpet, but they simply shoved her forth along with it, the fabric folding around her feet. “Let go of me!” She fought against the guards, desperate to escape their cruel grasp, but her feeble attempts only amused them. From behind, Gríma sneered: “I was nice to you. You laughed at me, and you bit me. You reap only what you sowed, Daughter of Éomund.” He looked at the guards. “Tie her to the bedposts, arms and legs spread.” Yes, now at last she understood the situation, Gríma noticed with an satisfied smirk. The pain in his mutilated lip quickly caused him to abandon it, but he saw with delight how Éowyn turned linen-white and a violent shiver grasped her.

“If you touch me, whoever will catch you in the end will skin you alive,” the shieldmaiden brought out although there seemed to be hardly enough air in her lungs to form the words. The room spun around her and a deafening buzz sound built between her ears as a chill so cold that it froze her very core grabbed her. Desperately she hoped to feint, already sensing the cold fingers of unconsciousness touching her, and yet she tethered on the edge, unable to cross into protective darkness as her worst nightmare turned into reality.

Through his handkerchief, Wormtongue uttered a dry laugh.

“Don’t tell me that you still believe in a rescue, Lady Éowyn. We both know that you are alone now. Nobody will help you, and nobody will come for you, and you will be mine for as long as I decide to let you live. And I intend to make that a very long time span indeed. I don’t know whether you will enjoy it, but I will. I know I will.” A curt nod, a quick shift of his attention to the guards. “What are you waiting for?”

 

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THE TUNNEL

All sense of time and direction had long left Éothain as he moved through the darkness like in rat in a subterranean maze. For a while, the narrow tunnel had climbed steeply over stairs roughly hewn into the rock, and although he held both hands outstretched against the walls to steady himself, Éothain had stumbled repeatedly, once only narrowly avoiding a long fall to the bottom of the stairs. With a shudder, he imagined how his fate would turn out if he broke his leg in these hostile confines, envisioning himself trying to crawl back to the exit before he was discovered by the enemy.

Suppressing the thought with enormous effort, Éothain forced himself to concentrate even more on his senses and on using the information they gathered: the cold draft of air blowing into his face, the dripping of water through fissures in the bare rock, everything could tell him something of import if he only listened. At last, the first disturbance of the thick silence that enveloped him except for the sound of his footsteps and suppressed breathing reached his ears. His heartbeat in his throat, Éothain stopped and closed his eyes; both hands pressed against the wall to his left as he strained to hear.

There were several voices, deep and guttural, exchanging ‘pleasantries’ in the rough language of the Dunlendings. Impossible to determine how far they were still away, but they sounded at ease, sniggering and belting out the dirtiest rhymes Éothain had ever heard until suddenly, excited shouting erupted between them which was abruptly ended with a pained yell and a sharp admonishment. In the darkness, the young Captain curled his lip in disgust. They were fighting over food like a pack of wild dogs. And the people of Gondor regarded the Rohirrim as savages? Carefully, he moved on. Further ahead, the tunnel performed a sharp left turn, and suddenly the scent of roasted meat wafted toward Éothain. What was that? A secret chamber deep within the heart of the hill? It sounded as if the Dunlendings were camping in the tunnel, and a weak flickering light indicated indeed that a fire had been lit up ahead. Éothain’s tensed as he proceeded with even greater stealth, and involuntarily he tucked the blanket firmly around his body.

He should have known better than to hope that Gríma would leave the defence of the tunnel to chance, counting on its secrecy. Well, he had not assumed that the crook would leave it entirely unguarded, but that he would leave an entire host of his people to guard it… The path lead him around another curve, and suddenly the fire was so close that Éothain could see his surroundings for the first time since he had lowered himself into the hole it. The voices of the hillmen were very close now.

Nervously, Éothain’s fingers dug into the blanket. It was one thing to find such a magical thing and be astonished by it; it was an altogether different thing to entrust ones life to it. But this was what he had to do now, there was no room for doubt. With a deep intake of breath, he rounded the corner – and instantly dropped into a crouch as he beheld the shapes of several hillmen gathered around a fire. The light stung in his eyes, and yet Éothain saw that the nearest foe sat about ten steps away at an intersection where the path split into three tunnels, his back turned toward Éothain and his teeth closed around a greasy piece of meat he held in his hands. There were eight more of his kind assembled around the fire, eating like pigs with little chunks of food in their wild beards and the folds of their garments, quarrelling among themselves for the best pieces. All of them carried swords, spears and bows and quivers of arrows of Rohirric make, and they were clad in mail.

A silent curse left Éothain’s lips. So Gríma had emptied out their entire weapons chamber to supply his army with it, and yet the question remained how skilled the Dunlendings were in the use of anything different from a club. Still it quickly became clear to the son of Céorl that it would be next to impossible to storm Meduseld by using the tunnel, magical blanket or not. The narrow path would force them to move in single file, and even if the enemy was not well-versed in the use of a sword or bow, they would be hard to miss as they squeezed through the fissure, unable to defend themselves.

He had not yet completed his evaluation when a shout from the darkness of one of the connecting tunnels claimed his attention.

“Leave something over for you?” one of the Dunlendings rumbled, and the others laughed. “You know how it is, Dorlâk: you come too late, you get nothing! It’s not my fault you have to sit with the old skeleton tonight. You left me nothing when it was my turn, so what do you expect?” Grinning, he ripped another chunk of meat from the bone in his hands and washed itte down with a swig from his water skin, spilling half of the liquid over his face as he did so to end his statement with a resounding burp.

Éothain narrowed his eyes in disgust, not delighted by his discovery that the filth had apparently set up an elaborate chain of defence to alert everyone of possible intruders long before these could ever hope to make it into Meduseld. Even if they somehow succeeded in disposing of the eight Dunlendings down here – they could hardly hope to achieve this deed without a sound, and a single shout would alert the men at the other end of the tunnel. And who had that beast called an ‘old skeleton’? The King? His friend Éomer had once mentioned the existence of the tunnels to him, and while he had said nothing about their exits and entrances, it had been clear to Éothain then that the endeavour behind building these escape ways had solely been undertaken to save the Royal Family in the event of an attack. Thus the three tunnels connecting here. One from the King’s and Queen’s chambers which were connected, one from Éomer’s room and one from Éowyn’s. Éomer was not here, and Éothain did not think that the hillmen, however rude their appearance seemed, would call the golden-haired daughter of Éomund an “old skeleton”, so it had to be Théoden-King indeed the man had talked about. Gods… what had they done to him?

At least he is still alive’, Éothain primanded himself not to lose focus, when suddenly, a low growl reached his ears and something he had taken for a shabby old pelt on the Dunlending’s legs raised its head. Luminous eyes sparkled in the fire as the dog held its nose into the cold draft. Éothain froze.

“What is it, Scatha?” the beast’s owner asked and squinted with narrowed eyes straight at Éothain. “Heard something?” Shoving the hound from his shins, the guard laboured to his feet while the others now also turned their heads. His heart pounding like a hammer in his rib cage, Éothain crawled speedily backwards until the rock shielded his retreat. As fast as possible without making a noise, he fled down the precarious stairs, an itch building between his shoulder blades where a deadly arrow would go.

“It’s just another bat the old fleabag smelled,” one of the hillmen yelled from the fire. “Or a rat. Should have left him at home. It’s getting tiresome!”

Halfway down the stairs, Éothain heard the man round the protrusion behind which he had lurked and hunched down with the blanket covering him in the fading light, not moving a muscle.

“Come back, Wolf!” another man called. “It was nothing!”

The broad shape stood rigid at the end of the stairs, intently staring into the growing darkness where Éothain crouched and waited with baited breath for the man to leave. After what felt to him like an eternity, the tall Dunlending grunted something unintelligible and turned away. For another moment, Éothain could not move. He pressed his eyes shut as a painful wave of relief washed over him. There was no doubt that he would have stood no chance of escaping a group of Dunlendings in a wild chase through the mountains heart. With a last glance back, he finally rose to his feet again to make his way back to where his men were waiting, and his expression was grim. His foray into the enemy’s territory had brought only the realisation that Gríma Wormtongue had indeed thought of everything. No matter whether they attacked the barricaded doors of the Golden Hall or the tunnels underneath, getting to their adversary’s hostages before they could be used against them seemed impossible… and yet somehow, they’d have to find a way.

 

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MEDUSELD

Éowyn did not know how much time had passed since they had tied her onto Wormtongue’s bed. It seemed like an eternity since Gríma’s henchmen had blindfolded and tied her to its posts, her arms and legs spread as their master had ordered. She had fought at first, waking from the stunned shock in which the torturing of Elfhelm had left her in time to make the men’s task more complicated, but at last having to surrender to the hillmen’s brute strength. Her arms hurt where their fingers had dug into her flesh in an iron grasp, leaving hideous black bruises upon her fair skin. Her head still throbbed from the Worm’s punch like a rotting tooth, and yet all was nothing against the abysmal fear she felt over being at her enemy’s mercy, the helpless subject of his sick desires. When would he come to ravage her? There was no one left to protect her now, not even Gríma’s pitiful urge to try and win her heart despite of everything he had done to her and her family. At last, it seemed that he had understood the true extent of the contempt she felt for him, and that the only way he could ever have her was by force. So he would take her by force. It was only a question of time now.

A frightful whimper wanted to leave Éowyn’s throat, but with a last exercise of her will, she swallowed it, not wanting for Him to hear the sound of her fear, even if she didn’t think that he was in the room. It had been silent since the guards had left, and she had heard her tormentor’s voice from the adjourning room sending them away with further orders before the sound of the closing door had ended their conversation. She had not heard him coming back yet, and yet more important, she did not feel his prying eyes upon herself; something for which she had developed an accurate sense in the course of the years. No, she did not think that he was in the room with her, silently sitting in the chair by the window staring at his helpless victim while he contemplated the many ways he would demonstrate his power to her. The thought chased another chill down her spine.

The sound of the door opening cut through her contemplation like a knife. Éowyn’s muscles tensed as she involuntarily held her breath, and frantically she tore at her bonds even though her wrists and ankles were already chafed bloody from her last futile attempts of freeing herself. It was the desperate fight of a wild animal caught in a sling at the sound of the approaching hunter. A moment later, the bedroom door opened, and she heard someone halt in the entrance. His accursed breathing, the sound of the wood groaning underneath his weight as he stood and watched her, the sensation of his gaze made her flesh crawl. Another whimper rose in Éowyn’s throat, and this time, all attempts to hold it in proved vain. She could almost hear his cruel smirk at the sound of it.

“Afraid, my Lady?” Gríma said, taking another step into the room. It did not escape his attention how rigid she lay on the bed, not even her chest moving because fright had robbed her breath. “Do you not wish now that you had behaved differently toward me? You did this to yourself with your foolish pride. Just like your brother, you do not learn until it is too late.” His tone was condescending and superior, but his words were slurred because his injured lip was giving him trouble speaking. Under different circumstances, Éowyn would have felt comforted by the sound of the Worm’s pain, but the only emotion she was capable of now was primeval, bone-chilling, heart-stopping fear as she felt her adversary advance.

With a half-suppressed sigh, Wormtongue sat down on the mattress right beside her, and she squeezed her eyes shut like she had done that terrible night of her childhood when a great host of orcs had assaulted Aldburg while her father’s éored had been on patrol. All night they had heard the beasts scurry around the houses, trying to break in while the few warriors left for the defence of the city fought a loosing battle. Trembling in her mother’s embrace, she had pressed her face into the silken softness of Théodwyn’s night robe when the grunting noises from outside came closer and closer and the sound of heavy footsteps approached their door, hiding within herself in typical children’s behaviour: if she could not see the monsters, then perhaps the monsters could not see her? The night’s horrors had abruptly ended with the return of the éoreds, but who would come to her aid now?

Cold fingers touched her face. Unable to breathe while a dull sound built between her hears and promised the end of the ordeal by taking her into the realm of unconsciousness, Éowyn clenched her teeth around the gag in her mouth.

“So afraid are you of me… and yet I only want to help you. For now.” The fingers rested on the lump which had formed on her temple, and caressed it with a butterfly’s touch. “I did not want to hit you, Love, but you left me no choice.” Something even colder than his fingers was pressed against Éowyn’s skin, and she flinched. It was a piece of ice, wrapped into a cloth. Gently, Gríma circled her temple with it – and then lowered his face to kiss her cheek. She shuddered in helpless fear. His voice sank to a confidential whisper and his warm breath was on her skin as he said: “We have all the time in the world now, my Lady; there no need for us to rush things. We will be together for a very long time…”

 





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