Chapter 58: Besieged

MEDUSELD

Gríma Wormtongue awoke to another grey day. What little light filtered through the heavy curtains had a leaden quality and was barely sufficient to illuminate the outline of his chambers, and yet he did not have to see to know that nothing had changed. Dreading to look at the monument of his shame, but at the same time unable to resist the instinct, he craned his neck, and his gaze fell on the woman sharing the bed with him. A tight band pressed his lungs together as he regarded the once proud daughter of Marshal Eomund of Aldburg. What had he done to the woman he treasured more than life itself? Trembling she lay beside him, unaware of his presence, unaware of her own whereabouts; unmoving, and not a sound coming from her lips. The gentle rise and fall of her chest was the only sign that there was still life in Éowyn, apart from the occasional blink. With his greed and lack of self-control, he had reduced her to a living corpse.

Flinching at the sight, Gríma noticed that Éowyn’s once glorious golden tresses had become a stringy mess through sweat and neglect. They were plastered to an eerily waxen, pale face which, with its sunken cheeks and dark circles, hinted at the gruesome story of her torment. But it were her eyes which told the full tale, and Wormtongue’s courage ended when it came to them. He could not bring himself to look at the terrible emptiness in these once deep pools of blue. The flame of pride and will which had lived there since he had first laid eyes upon the White Lady of Rohan was gone, and it was he who had – unwillingly – extinguished it.

Like that newly hatched hawk he had once found, back in the distant dreary days of his youth. The little bird had fallen from the nest and he had taken it home, determined to nurse it to adulthood and at last have something that would stop the other children’s mockery. For once, he would have something they would admire. But then the bird had refused to eat the worms he had tediously dug from the dry earth during a spring with almost no rain, and no matter what it self-apposed saviour had tried, the little thing had refused to open its beak… until at last, Gríma had pried it open by force and shoved the food down the falcon’s throat. The next morning, the hatchling had been dead, and the children’s mockery worse than ever.

With a sigh from the very depths of his soul, Wormtongue shoved the unwelcome memory aside, but the bitter taste it had stirred up in his mouth remained: apparently, whomever he loved ended up dead; it was just a question of time. Éowyn had been right in calling him a poisonous snake. He needed no venom for his evil deeds; many times he had not even meant any harm, but the fact remained that his very attention was deadly for the objects of his affection. It was not the first time in his life that Gríma silently asked himself whether it would not be better to turn his dagger against himself. Even if his Master’s army arrived and everything would turn out as planned – what was there left for him to expect from life? The only thing he had ever wanted was destroyed, and he would hate himself for it for the rest of his miserable life. There was no love to be had for him in this realm. Soon, Saruman and the Dark Lord would rule over a wasteland covered in darkness, and he would be living with this corpse by his side in eternal night. It was something to dread, not to look forward to, so why should he prolong his life?

With infinite caution, Wormtongue’s fingers caressed Éowyn’s fair skin. Once it had been of a radiant, pearly sheen, but now it, too, had been reduced to a flat sickly white with a grey hue, and not even the sensation of her body close to him could give him comfort anymore. No, it was a shudder he felt instead. He shared his bed with a corpse; a corpse which would soon become a skeleton, he feared, for it could no longer be denied that the young woman’s condition was deteriorating quickly. What little sustenance he had managed to get into her since she had slipped into this horrible stupor had barely been enough to keep her alive, but it would not keep her alive for long. Éowyn was fading away right underneath his fingertips, and it was the ultimate act of defiance. Had she not told him repeatedly that she would rather die than be his? Now even with her mind destroyed, it looked as if Éowyn was determined to keep her promise.

Utterly terrified by the thought of waking beside Éowyn’s truly dead body on a not too-distant morning, Gríma rolled himself away with a jerk and came to his feet, suddenly eager to leave his chambers. Numbly he washed himself and slipped into his clothes, and then all but fled the scene of his shame. And yet he felt no relief when the heavy door closed behind him. Although it was still morning, the grey daylight barely penetrated the heavy twilight in the great hall, and the shadows weighed heavy on his mood, the walls of even the vast throne room closing in on him to the point where Gríma felt barely able to draw another breath.

“Master?” the guard in front of the door to his chambers inquired cautiously, his heavy brow wrinkled over seeing his chieftain in such a distressed mood. “Is something wrong? Can I help?”

Still struggling to fill his lungs with air, Gríma turned to him. Gods, he could not afford to lose it right before his minions! Those Dunlendings, they were like wild dogs. As soon as they sensed a weakness in the other, they attacked without mercy. With an effort, he squared his shoulders.

“Did anything happen during the night? Anything I should know about, or which requires my attention?”

The guard shook his head.

“Not that I know of, Master. I heard that they quarrelled again in the tunnels last night, but nothing serious from what I gather. There were only words.”

“I decide what is serious and what is not,” Wormtongue barked at the dumbfounded man and shot a sinister look at the door to the King’s chambers. “I will go and see for myself. In the meantime I want you to send someone to instruct the kitchen to prepare a meal for the Lady Éowyn: tea and porridge with plenty of honey. I will pick it up myself when I return.”

“Yes, Master. Certainly.” The Dunlending nodded eagerly, hoping that the ill-mooded man would soon be gone, but once again he found himself suddenly the focus of these threatening pale eyes.

“No one, and I repeat – no one - will enter my chambers while I am gone! Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course, Master. I will see to it myself.” The guard had no idea what had put their leader into such an ill mood; whether it had been a dream of something else, but with growing duration of the siege, it could no longer be denied that his brethren grew less and less enthusiastic of serving Gríma son of Gálmód. With each passing day it became harder to find volunteers for the guard position in front of the counsellor’s own chambers, and it was obvious that something was troubling the once cunning and confident halfblood. They did not know what it was yet, but it frightened the hillmen. What if their plan had failed and now the Rohirrim were on their way to Edoras to avenge themselves? With a cold feeling spreading in his stomach, the guard lowered his eyes in submission, hoping to be left alone.

With a last threatening glance, Wormtongue left the man standing and strode over to Théoden’s chambers, but contrary to the previous days, he did not look forward to having to speak to the captured King. In the first days of the siege, it had been a very satisfactory reward to let the old fool wake from the poison-induced stupor in which he had kept him for the past years, and to rub the extent of his failure into Théoden’s face: how his people had paid with blood for their King to put his trust in the wrong man, including his own kin. In all detail had Gríma described the circumstances of Théodred’s death to the grieving King, and how by his own words, he had sealed his nephew’s fate. The unfathomable pain in the lined face had been a sweet delicacy; adequate compensation for the cruelty of the Éorlingas of which Wormtongue had been the target since his early childhood days.

But he had committed one crucial mistake: in the first wild surge of victory, Gríma had announced the arrival of Saruman’s army to the feeble King, and how he would lead him out onto the terrace to witness the slaughter of his kinsmen before he would be killed as well… but his Master’s army had still not arrived, and with each passing day, the triumph in the old ruler’s eyes became greater whenever he asked his tormentor for its whereabouts. As if the fool knew something he did not. But it was obvious now to Gríma that something in the West had not gone as planned, and he anxiously awaited the return of the two Dunlending scouts he had sent to the nearest settlement under the protection of Saruman’s cloaks last night to see what had happened to his spies.

Grinding his teeth as he steeled himself for yet another confrontation with the ruler of the Horselords, Gríma silently opened the door to the royal chambers; actually hoping that Théoden-King was still asleep and he could sneak past him without having to listen to the old man’s mockery. He hoped in vain.

“If that is not Gríma Wormtongue, my trusted counsellor!” he was greeted as soon as he stuck his head into the room. It was only a weak shadow of the King’s once powerful voice, but it sounded amused – a condition in which Wormtongue certainly had not wanted Théoden to be at this point of his plan. “And how considerate of you to try and avoid all noise! Is it because you did not want to disturb my sleep, or were you just trying to tiptoe past me because the army you promised me has still not arrived?” Gríma could not entirely suppress the twitch at this gleeful remark, and he knew that the King of the Rohírrim had seen it, because although still bound to the bed, a triumphant sparkle now awoke in Théoden’s eyes which he saw from the corner of his eye. “I must say that I am beginning to doubt its existence, old friend. But then again, I suppose I should not be surprised, because lies were all you ever told. If your promises were empty, so seem to be your threats.”

With a deep breath, Wormtongue forced himself to turn to the old man, and a malignant smirk contorted his mutilated lip as he lifted his chin in feigned superiority which required the last of his willpower.

“You may of course do whatever pleases you, my liege. If you think that there is still hope for your people, it will be an even more crushing experience for you to see them being slaughtered. The reason why my Master’s army is taking so long is easily explained though: they are thorough. It takes time to burn every single house and kill every single man, woman and child on their way here. Our army waited long for this victory, and now that it is in our hands, it is only natural we want to savour its taste.” He licked his lips and then stepped closer to the bed, resting his hands on the foot end. “Saruman’s Uruk-hai will not simply put your people to the sword, my Lord. No, they will make them suffer before they will allow them to die, and that will only be after the last drop of their blood has been drained from their white, gutted bodies. Creative slaughtering takes time. They will be here soon enough, believe me.”

The mockery vanished from Théoden’s expression, and yet the gaze of the old man’s grey-blue eyes was as steel as he met his captor’s challenge, and for the first time ever, Gríma felt vulnerable under the King’s scrutiny. Unexpectedly, a very thin smile appeared on the Rohír’s lips.

“Your plan has failed, and you know it. You can no longer fool me, Gríma Wormtongue!”

Flinching at hearing his despised nickname from the King’s mouth for the first time, Gríma straightened.

“Believe whatever you want, old man. The western sky is already black with the smoke of your burning settlements, and your denial will not rescue your people. I give them two more days until this hill becomes their funeral pyre.” He all but fled to the tunnel’s entrance, neither listening to what Théoden shouted after him nor acknowledging the questioning stare of the guard positioned there. “Come with me!”

Raising an eyebrow at his master’s distressed tone, the Dunlending did as bidden and almost crashed into Gríma as he unexpectedly stopped and turned around in the middle of the tunnel to ask in a strained whisper: “Has your brother reported back yet, Gâlâf?”

The man from a little settlement in the Misty Mountains understood that his master had wanted to get out of the King’s earshot for his question, and he wondered what this discovery meant. When they had seized control over Meduseld, Gríma had promised them that it would only take a few days until Saruman’s army freed them. But the days came and went, and all that happened was Gríma getting more and more anxious and his brethren more and more aggressive. Apparently, something had not gone as planned, and no one was being filled in. And yet as he saw Gríma’s hard expression, Gâlâf did not find the courage to ask, so he just shook his head.

“But Master, he only left last night…” ‘-how could he already be back?’ he had meant to add, but swallowed it when he was pierced by a sinister glance.

“Tell him to see me immediately once he’s back!” Gríma hissed, his eyes threateningly narrowed. “Is there anything else that requires my attention? I heard there was another quarrel last night?”

“Yes, but I don’t think-“

“Yes or no, Gâlaf? I alone decide whether it is worthy of my attention, not you!”

A deadly chill settled in the Dunlending’s stomach, and his hands began to tremble under the other man’s unrelenting scare.

“Wolf’s hound died last night, but I don’t see how this should—“

“How?” The pale blue eyes were now only slits, sparkling with dread and aggression at the same time as Gríma leant toward his kinsman. “How did it die, Gâlâf? Was it shoot, by any means, or knifed? What happened?”

Gâlâf’s heart began to race. Gods, what was the matter with their leader?

“Wolf says that it was the food,” he somehow brought out. “Gûndarg gave him some leftovers from their chicken, and shortly afterward, it was in horrible pain. Must have been a bone or so; they are dangerous. Wolf put him out of his misery himself.”

“And there was no further disturbance? Nothing unusual at all?”

“No, master.”

“The blanket was in place?”

“Yes, Master. I know what you suspect, but nobody was in here. Nobody but us. They cannot find the tunnel; we hid it too well.”

“Hmm…” Looking over his shoulder although there was nothing to be seen on the other end, Wormtongue paused for a moment that felt like an eternity to the anxious guard. At last, he turned back. “I want the guards doubled for the nightwatch. And I want two men to guard the cave below the entrance from now on. They will be relieved every two hours. It may have been just a coincidence… but if it was not, we’ll be prepared.”

Deciding not to retrace his steps through the King’s chambers and thus risking another exchange with Théoden, Gríma turned toward the intersection. Very well. He would take the tunnel to the dungeon and first see how his other captives were doing and then head back to Meduseld through Éowyn’s chambers… and he would take an escort, just in case. Something smelled rotten in the Golden Hall, but no matter what was going on, if they thought they could surprise him, they would find themselves severely mistaken.