Chapter 46: A Cursed Life

EDORAS

“There must be a way! I do not care how, and I do not care how many men will have to participate in the plan, but it cannot be that the enemy holds our hall and the Royal Family captive within it, and we can do nothing!” Éothain shouted, at last at the end of his patience, and the others regarded him with silent frustration. Outside, dawn was already breaking, and after hours of intense discussion, they had not yet come up with a plan that seemed sound to all of them. “I say we take our chances with poisoning the dog. We prepare a bat or rat and leave it in the tunnel for him to find, and as soon as the dog is dead, I use the blanket to sneak by the guards and kill the ones in the King’s chambers while you dispose of those at the intersection. Then--”

“But what if the dog won’t touch the bait?” Aedwulf objected as he had when the plan had been brought up for the first time. “They smell poison. He won’t eat something that smells strange to him.”

“Then we must take a poison he can’t smell!” Éothain fumed. “Ask Yálanda! She is well-versed in leech-craft; shouldn’t she know how to make such a potion?” His friend raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Yálanda is a healer. I am pretty sure that brewing poison is not what she focused on in her journey to wisdom.”

“We will ask her nonetheless,” Gelbrand, one of the older warriors whose always calm and considerate demeanour Éothain had always greatly valued, let himself be heard. “But we should try to come up with something better, just in case.”

“We must get rid of the dog before we can concern us with anything else. I will gladly walk through all of Meduseld under cover of the blanket to search for the hostages, but for as long as the dog can pick up my scent, being invisible will not help me.”

The men regarded each other silently, aware that their young commander was speaking the truth. Over Éothain’s shoulder, Aedwulf saw the silhouette of the Captain’s mother leaning against the door frame in the beginning dawn. Shadows hid her expression, but the warrior had seen the wife of Céorl repeatedly over the last days and noticed with a feeling of utter helplessness how grief and fear had left their marks on the once proud woman. He did not know how much of their discussion Glenwyn had overheard, but it was time to come to an end now. There was no need to increase the woman’s aggravation by giving her the idea that her son would walk straight into the snake pit alone only protected by a magical trick no one really trusted. Acknowledging the Glenwyn’s presence with a small nod, Aedwulf rose to his feet; his glance bidding the others to follow his example.

“Then we will find a way to achieve that,” he said over the ruckus of sliding chairs and the rustling of garments as the Riders came to their feet, shifting his attention back at Éothain. “I will go now and see whether Yálanda is already up, and will be back for my report when I have spoken with her. Everyone else, however, should go home and see that they get some rest. This was a long night, and we will all need our strength in the days to come. I agree that the last incidents make it hard to sleep, but no one will be helped if we collapse from exhaustion.” He sent a particularly warning glance over the table and was glad to see the little acknowledging nod Éothain granted him in return before he turned to leave.

Éothain accompanied him to the door.

“Thank you, Aedwulf,” the younger man said lowly, laying a hand on his kinsman’s arm. “You are a very good friend. It is hard to listen to reason when your own father is in the hands of the enemy, and wounded, too. If it were not for you, I would probably have done something foolish already.”

“You do not have to apologise, Éothain,” the older warrior said, a compassionate expression on his weathered features. “I understand how hard it must be for you to wait. Patience is not one of the virtues we Rohírrim are famous for, but we have no other choice than to exercise it now. When we strike, our plan must be better than Gríma’s, and while I despise the filth as much as everyone else, I must admit that he is a brilliant strategist. It will not be easy to come up with something that will surprise him… but we will do our best.” He clapped Éothain’s shoulder. “Please, my friend, see that you get some rest; you look terrible. I will be back as soon as I know more.” He disappeared with great strides, and for a moment, Éothain stared at the space he had occupied with unseeing eyes before he closed the door and turned around. Glenwyn slowly walked into the room, her fingers clenched in the wooden shawl around her shoulders.

“Can your father still be alive?” she asked, her flat voice terribly bereft of hope. Éothain swallowed and in walking up to her, laid his arm around her shoulders.

“The Worm has taken these hostages for a reason, Mother, otherwise he could have simply killed them,” he said, desperately wishing to find a way to make his own voice sound more convinced. “They are his insurance against us, and he won’t touch them until he has achieved his aim. He would be a fool to do so.”

“And what is his aim?” No, his mother was not fooled so easily. “Why do they still sit in Meduseld? Why did they barricade themselves in the hall instead of leaving through that tunnel you mentioned under cover of the night? What are they waiting for? Their army to arrive and slaughter us?”

‘Aye, that is right, although I fear that it will be even worse. Dunlendings we could hope to defeat, but Uruk-hai…’ Éothain pulled his mother’s slender body closer instead of an answer. She had seen the preparations they had taken to secure the city; she knew the answer very well. “He will not win, Mother. I promise you this. Whatever the next days will bring, we will be ready for it.” The hopelessness in Glenwyn’s gaze said all he needed to know.

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MEDUSELD

It had taken Gríma endlessly to slip into a restless sleep after the incidents of the previous evening. Anger and pain – mostly pain – had kept him awake for a long time after he had retired to his bed for the remaining hours of the night, and not even the presence of his long coveted trophy by his side had calmed him down enough to find rest easily. After a mere few hours of a shallow, disturbed sleep, Wormtongue suddenly sat up with a sharp intake of breath, chased through his dream by the image of a dark shape with blazing eyes and a glistening sword in its hand which faded only reluctantly as he woke. The half-uttered cry stuck in his throat caused his injured lip to explode in agony again, and involuntarily, he touched it – and froze at the feeling of the bizarre form beneath his fingertips.

‘What in the name of…’

His heart in his throat, Gríma all but jumped from the mattress and hurried toward his mirror, and the sight of his own face stunned him. Despite his efforts of cooling his mutilated lip all evening, it had now taken on the shape of a balloon, the sensitive skin so tightly stretched over the swelling that it looked about to burst. The raw bite marks of Éowyn’s teeth were surrounded by an angry red hue that had developed around the black stitches, and a clear liquid seeped out of them. The entire left side of his mouth hung down and looked as if it were about to rot off his face. A cold chill paralysed the Counsellor, but then a sudden fit of red-hot fury washed it away.

Turned on his heels, he glowered at the prone figure on the mattress. Éowyn was still oblivious to his upset state of mind; if anything, it had taken her even longer to finally fall asleep until at last by the first light of dawn, utter exhaustion had overwhelmed her and taken her away into its dark realm. Just looking at her made Gríma’s insides churn. This had been the second time in a few days that wench had marred his face, and this was the moment he had chosen to make her pay for it!

As fast as his feet carried him, Wormtongue made for the other room and thrust open the door, startling the guard in front of his chambers, who jumped and only narrowly avoided getting hit in the head.

“Lord Gríma? Is there something—“

“Bring me a bucket of cold water, quickly!”

Frowning at the strange request but knowing better than to ask when his master was in such foul mood, the guard hurried to supply the Lord of Meduseld with the item he had asked for, and for all his effort, did not even receive thanks. As the door closed into his face behind Gríma, the Dunlending stared at the wood in utter bewilderment, until at last he shrugged and blamed the strange incident on the Counsellor’s wound. Gríma’s mouth had looked nasty, and surely he was beside himself with pain from his half-separated lip. Involuntarily, the guard’s mouth curled into an amused grin. Bitten by a woman while attempting to steal a kiss. A woman who had been tied to her chair, even! No wonder his master was furious. It was a tale to share with the others by the fire once he would be relieved of his duty.

Inside his chambers, Gríma stood before the bed with the heavy bucket in his hands, still fuming as his furious gaze wandered over Éowyn’s unmoving shape. For a moment he hesitated, but at last anger triumphed and with a single move, he ripped away the woollen blanket with which he had covered her the night before. The draught of cold air upon her skin was enough to make the young woman stir, but before she had a chance to wake completely, Gríma dumped the contents of the bucket upon her.

“See what you have done to me, wench!” he shouted into her face, spittle and blood showering her cheek as the stitches in his lip tore entirely. Beside himself with pain and fury, he ripped the blindfold from Éowyn’s head and shook her, oblivious to the stark terror in her eyes. “Look at me! I swear, you will pay for this, wench! You will pay for this!” He thrust her back onto the mattress, not even remotely satisfied by having utterly terrified his hostage when he was still in a world of hurt and would probably be disfigured for life. Involuntarily, his hands curled into fists by his sides – and then he hit her with the bucket. In a half-circle it spun through the air and forced an anguished yell as the hard rim connected with Éowyn’s ribs.

Stunned by his violent outburst, Wormtongue froze. The scene before his eyes was that of a nightmare: his beloved Éowyn, the noble White Lady of Rohan whom he loved so much that it hurt, lying on his bed where he had wanted her for all these years of longing – but everything about it was wrong from the way her eyes were squeezed shut and the moist trails of tears running down her face; her teeth digging into the gag in her mouth and her jaw clenched and trembling with terror, all the way to the ties on her bloodied wrists and ankles and the drenched shift plastered to her body which shook in terrified sobs. This was not what he had imagined in his dreams; this was a madman’s deed. And still, as Gríma’s horrified gaze glided over Éowyn’s bare legs and then further up over her flat stomach and on to the gentle mounds of her breasts underneath the drenched shift, he could not deny an urgent stirring in his loins. Gods, that woman was so beautiful! Why did she have to be so stubborn? He would never have turned to Saruman if she had loved him! It was she who was responsible for his treason, why would she not see that? And yet, perhaps it was not too late yet for a change; perhaps if he—

His train of thought died before it could fully develop. No, things had definitely gone too far to turn away from his new master now and commit yet another breach of trust by returning to his service for the sons of Éorl. He knew all about Saruman’s plans; perhaps his wisdom would put the Rohirrim into a position to withstand the wizard’s forces if he shared his strategic knowledge with them, and perhaps, if he saved her people and redeemed himself, Éowyn would forgive him?

With a disillusioned snort, Wormtongue shook his head. No, what was he thinking? It was far too late for that. Too late for regrets, and too late for love. While the prospect of serving the Lord of Isengard for the rest of his life frightened him to the core, it was clear to Gríma that his betrayal against the Horselords could never be forgiven, and that he would die the ugliest death imaginable if he only gave them the faintest chance at vengeance. No, he was doomed to wander the earth alone and unloved; the pawn of a master who despised him despite everything he had achieved, and the nightmare of the woman he loved with all of his heart instead of being her lover. Her body was his for the taking, but the one thing which had drawn him to her from the beginning, that wonderfully wild and proud spirit no one but he understood, would never be his. It was time to come to terms with that realisation now.

For the longest time, Gríma stood unmoving beside the bed, torn between his contradicting emotions while blood ran down his chin. He wiped it away mechanically as he stared at Éowyn with endless sorrow in his eyes. When she opened her eyes again and her anguished gaze found him, the bottomless terror in the wide blue pools was more than he could bear, and abruptly, Gríma turned on his heels and fled the scene of his shame.