The Wiles of a Woman, Part 1/3: A Grima/Eowyn fanfic
Cyprith prompted: (And finally, taking the "ask questions about my OTP" veeeeeery loosely in an I'm-actually-sort-of-prompting kind of way): Grima shows up at court and Eowyn is immediately all HOT DAMN WANT ME SOME OF THAT. And she's never been shy about what she wants. But every time she tries to pursue Grima, he's like, "Haha yeah, like you'd stoop so low. For shame, princess. What would your brother say?" So how does Eowyn go about getting her game on?
So here it is: Grima turns up at Edoras, and Eowyn is ridiculously attracted to him for reasons she can't explain and doesn't care to explain. This is their meeting. Part 2 will be Eowyn enthusiastically pursuing Grima despite his considerable reluctance to go for her; and Part 3 will be the glorious, glorious culmination of all of Eowyn's efforts.
ENJOY, MY LOVELIES. I hope this is a delicious and delightful taste of what is to come. ;)
The Wiles of a Woman, Pt 1/3 (4,327 words; rated PG)
When Éowyn blossomed into womanhood, her interest in men did not seem to blossom with her. She might perhaps have mustered up some ounce of enthusiasm for romance if all the men she knew had not reminded her so very much of her brother and cousin – if they did not all seem so much the same. She was tired of their feats of strength and their patronizing attitude towards her swordplay; tired of hearing the same lines of poetry and silly love songs sung to her at every feast; tired of listening to endless boasts and stories about this orc or that warg they'd slain in battle. She had long ceased to be impressed by skill in battle alone; and while she loved her brother dearly, his friends all talked only of whoring and fighting and their horses, and rarely let her contribute anything of interest to their conversations.
How was she expected to be interested in men, when they never much bothered to be properly interested in her? She would rather grow old and turn aged crone, surrounded by her swords and horses and perhaps the occasional cat, than feign delight in yet another exaggerated tale of some man's battle with a creature he had undoubtedly made up just to impress and terrify her.
Éowyn had all but sworn herself to a life of celibacy when Gríma son of Gálmód came to Edoras.
She met his voice before she ever met the man himself. His was not a loud voice, but it rang clear and insistent in the Golden Hall, echoing in the corridors just outside the throne room. He spoke each word with such intention, tasting it before letting it roll free of his tongue. His voice stopped her dead in her tracks as she made to bring a ledger to Ymma, the mistress of the larders and stores of Meduseld.
“My father expresses his deep regret that he could not attend you himself,” he was saying; but the words hardly mattered. Caught by curiosity and the strange spell his voice was weaving, Éowyn altered her path at once and slipped towards the throne room, the ledger sitting forgotten in her hand. “The wound he took was grievous indeed. We pray daily for his health. But he would not leave you wanting. He bade me bring you all that you required of him – details of the latest raids, and all the orcs took.”
When Éowyn rounded the corner, she paused, peering secretly from the shadows. There was a man kneeling before her uncle's throne – a man with black hair. She inhaled sharply, unable to stop herself from staring. She had never seen a dark-haired man before. A Dunlending, perhaps? But he had mentioned his father, and the raids... if he was a Dunlending, he would never have come to Théoden with such information.
He looked up as Théoden withdrew the documents from his hands. He was pale, if a little red around the nose from a recent sunburn; and his eyes were the brightest blue Éowyn had ever seen. His face was all sharp angles and long planes of pale skin – a proud, long nose and cheekbones that jutted sharply forth beneath his flesh.
He was by no standard in Éowyn's limited knowledge, beautiful; but she could not tear her eyes from him. She had never seen anyone who looked a thing like him, and the sheer novelty of him intrigued her.
Théoden, seated in his throne, was nigh impossible for Éowyn to see; but she could hear the shifting of parchment as he read over what the stranger had brought him, shifting in his throne to see it better. “These are well-kept records,” Théoden said. “Neatly kept and quite detailed. I had not known your father to be so thorough.”
The stranger ducked his head again, a polite, subservient bow. Éowyn found herself catching her breath, waiting for him to speak again. “He is not, my king,” the stranger said. “He asked me to keep the records for him. I have done my humble best to mark down every detail that may prove of importance.”
“You have done well, then,” said Théoden, sounding impressed. “Rarely have I seen records so meticulous. These will serve us well.”
The stranger looked up again, a small, thin smile on his pale lips; but then, somehow, his eyes seemed to find Éowyn in the shadows of the corridor, and his gaze locked on hers, intent and piercing. The breath went out of her, and she froze like a rabbit at the site of a predator, mouth falling open.
“Something the matter?” Théoden said; then he rose from his throne and turned to look, an expression of concern in his eyes. The expression faded into fondness at the sight of Éowyn; and he smiled at her, a kindly smile, beckoning her to come forth. “Éowyn,” he said. “What brings you to the hall so early?”
Oh lord, what could she say that would sound reasonable? “I – I was just bringing some of the ledgers to Ymma,” she said, trying to hide the flush in her cheeks as she came forward. “I did not wish to interrupt. I'm sorry I troubled you at all.”
“You are never a trouble, Éowyn,” Théoden said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders when she reached him. He turned back to Gríma, eyes still on Éowyn, his smile fond. “Gríma, this is my niece, Éowyn. Éowyn, Gríma son of Gálmód. His father has been assisting in keeping our borders safe from raiders. He was meant to come to Edoras, but he has been taken ill with a terrible wound. Gríma came in his place to deliver a message.”
Gríma, Éowyn thought, turning the name over in her mind. Mask. Secret. Ugly. A cruel name, for his father to bestow upon him. “I am sure we are all much obliged for your courage, sir,” Éowyn said, dropping a small curtsy.
“I suppose any man of Rohan would have done as much in my stead,” Gríma replied, bowing his head in turn. “But you are kind to say so.” He paused, raising his head once more and looking up into her eyes. His gaze was unwavering and unnerving, stopping her heart dead in its tracks. “The people speak fondly of you, my lady, even in the farthest reaches of Rohan,” he continued, unblinking. “I am given to understand that you have been training as a Shieldmaiden. Perhaps one day we shall see you on the borders for patrol, as your brother and cousin sometimes attend us?”
Éowyn glanced between her uncle and Gríma, uncertain if the man was mocking her. But there was no trace of mockery in his expression; if anything, he seemed intrigued, eyes flickering over her face and body and back again. Éowyn had the distinct sense that she was being stripped bare beneath his stare, layer after layer peeling back from her until she was left open and bare to his scrutiny. “Perhaps one day,” she said, very carefully. “My uncle has kept me busy at other pursuits in recent days; and there are many who would have me remain here in Edoras.”
A flicker of sympathy danced across Gríma's face, just for a moment; then his expression was impassive once more, polite. A mask. “I have no doubt your people here would greatly regret your going,” he said. “You are much beloved.”
“They would have me believe that to be the reason, if they could,” Éowyn said. She was babbling now, saying too much; Théoden was staring at her in alarm, but nothing would stop her tripping tongue, not even her own internal screaming. Gríma was curious, and everything about his posture spoke of kind understanding, a welcoming of dark secrets and quiet inner thoughts never meant to be shared. “But truthfully they are threatened because I am a woman. The people say that my uncle forgot he was raising two boys and a girl, and thought himself the guardian of three boys; and only recently has he had cause to remember what I really am.”
“No one says that,” Théoden said, tightening his grip on her arm.
“Everyone says that,” Éowyn retorted, too sharply. Théoden cast her a reproachful glance, and she hung her head, abashed.
“You must be tired,” Théoden said, forcing a small smile. “There are a set of guest chambers in which you may rest; Éowyn can take you there, I'm sure.”
Éowyn had expected Gríma to turn to Théoden at that, but he did not; his eyes stayed with her, piercing to her core. He had not laughed, or looked uncomfortable, or shifted away when she had spoken; every last inch of him was focused on her. He had tilted his head a little to the side, as if a riddle had been posed to him and he could not find the answer. “I am much obliged, my lord,” he said, his eyes still on Éowyn. “The ride, I fear, is long and wearisome.”
Théoden released Éowyn, patting her lightly on the shoulder. “The guest chambers should have already been made ready,” he said. “You know where to find them. You don't mind, do you? I will take the ledgers, if that will be simpler.”
Éowyn handed them over with some relief; Ymma was one of her least favorite people in the whole of Edoras, and she had not particularly wanted to see her today. “Yes, thank you,” she said. She turned back to Gríma, her skin prickling when she met his eyes again. “If you'll follow me?”
Gríma bowed, a sweeping gesture, and followed her as she gathered up her skirts and led him back into the sleeping quarters. He was silent as they walked off, but she could feel his stare, unnerving her further. “So,” she said, too brightly. “Where is it that you rode from?”
“The Westfold, my lady,” he said; “A settlement near the Isen.”
“That is a long journey indeed,” Éowyn said, slowing her pace so that she could walk beside him. She was not quite comfortable having him behind her; she wanted to look at him, to read his expression as they walked. “I am sorry to hear of your father's wounds.”
“You are kind to say so,” Gríma said, glancing at her warily. “It is hoped that he will be well again soon, but things are still dangerous for him.”
“Then I will pray for his good health and safety,” Éowyn said. Somehow that did not seem enough. Gríma was still coldly polite, bearing all the formality of a visiting lord keeping to courtly traditions. She wished there was a way to express her curiosity about him politely; but the only thing she could think to do was to tell him something of herself, in the hopes that he would reciprocate. “My father was lost to a raiding party of orcs when I was a child,” she said, and hated herself almost immediately for it.
Gríma cast her a strange look, arching a brow. Oh lord, I have offended him. “So I had heard,” Gríma said. “I am very sorry.”
“I was very young at the time,” Éowyn said, with a small shrug. “I hardly remember him, or it, truth be told.” The words were coming without any control now, confessions and dark memories she had not ever thought to speak of. “I remember my mother's death more plainly; but that was only of sickness and despair. She let herself waste away over him. I tried to help her, but she would not listen to me, or pay me any heed. She stopped eating and laid in bed all the time. I think perhaps it was better for her to have died, if she could not withstand the grief.”
She had expected Gríma to look horrified at that last confession; but instead he merely looked intrigued. Some of the wariness had gone out of his eyes, and he was studying her with a faint but ever-present smile. “Life is often full of sorrow, I have found,” he said. “Some are better built to live with it than others.”
“I suppose.” Éowyn frowned. “But would you have given up, if there were two children left depending on you?”
Any of the wariness about him seemed to dissipate at that. “It is hard to say what any would do in such a situation, my lady,” he said, his voice gentle. “Some people are not made to live in this world alone. And some are selfish, and blind to anything but their own despair. Some people collapse under the weight of one sorrow, while others carry their tragedies with them in the quiet darkness of their hearts and let them build over time, pretending they do not exist until the weight becomes too great. Some people would call that strength; but it can be a weakness too, when the weight is too heavy to bear any longer.” He shrugged a little. “Perhaps your father was the one great sorrow your mother could not take; or perhaps he was the greatest sorrow among a collection of sorrows, the one that tipped the scale.”
Éowyn had not considered that before. “But if there is even one thing left to fight for,” she pressed, “Is it fair to give up, no matter how great the sorrow?”
“I doubt fairness has anything to do with it, my princess,” Gríma replied. “It is not about what is fair and what is right. The world is not a fair place; and people are not designed to think in terms of what is fair and just. People think in terms of what it is that hurts them most, or pleases them best. And people, above all, respond with feelings first and logic next; and if the emotions are too strong, they never come to any logic at all.”
Éowyn frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose that's true,” she said. She tilted her head, examining him. “Do you think your father will survive?”
Something interesting happened then. Gríma had been studying her openly, but when she spoke of his father, everything about him seemed to close off again, a mask slipping into place over his face. It was an instant shift, so quick that the change could hardly be tracked with the naked eye; and Éowyn began to wonder if he'd ever really been open to her at all. “He has enough strength of will to do so,” Gríma said, his voice polite and restrained once more. “But the wound is very grievous, and he is old.”
Éowyn blushed, embarrassed by her question now. Ymma had always told her she was tactless. “I'm sorry,” she said. “You must be worrying for him – I did not mean – ”
“Don't apologize,” Gríma said. “He does not need my pity or my worry. So he tells me almost every day.”
The words were so harsh that Éowyn nearly drew back. The mask had slipped away again, and there was something like anger smoldering in Gríma's eyes.
Well, whether intentionally or not, she had uncovered something about Gríma; but now she had no idea what to say to ease the anger from him. “Harsh men are bred on the empty plains of Rohan,” she said, uselessly. She hoped it might convey some sort of sympathy, but he seemed entirely unmoved.
Gríma smiled thinly. “So they say.”
They walked in silence for a moment; then Éowyn stopped before the door to the guest chambers, turning several shades of pink for no reason that she could fathom. “These will be your chambers while you're here,” she said. “I hope they will be suitably comfortable.”
“I am sure they will be more than satisfactory,” Gríma said, looking up into her face. His gaze was sharp and piercing, and made Éowyn blush the darker. “Thank you for walking with me. It was – an experience.”
Éowyn bit her lip and shifted awkwardly. “If you should need anything – ”
He smiled. “I will ask for it.”
He went to bow to her, a short, brief bow where his gaze remained unbroken; but at that moment, Éomer rounded the corner, and seemed to stop in his tracks at the site of the guest. “Gríma?” he said, his voice alarmed.
Gríma stiffened at once, every muscle in his body tensing. Éowyn looked between her brother and her guest, startled at the anger already palpable between them. “Éomer,” Gríma said, turning to Éomer with a frosty smile. “What a... pleasant... surprise.”
“What are you doing here?” Éomer asked, taking a threatening step towards him.
“He's here delivering the reports in his father's stead,” Éowyn said, stepping up to stand beside Gríma. Her brother could be a great dumb ox sometimes, and she did not like the way he was looking at Gríma. “His father has been wounded.”
Éomer frowned. “I had thought Gálmód might send Horst, or Anláf,” he said. “Don't tell me they've been wounded too.”
“They are busy manning the patrols,” Gríma said flatly. “Father thought it best for me to come.”
“Aye, to keep you out of the way, I suppose,” Éomer sneered. “How convenient.”
“Éomer!” Éowyn exclaimed, glaring at him. “There is no call for you to be rude.”
“You wouldn't know, sweet sister,” Éomer replied, looking Gríma over disdainfully. “You have never been to settlement at the Isen, where orcs and Dunlendings are thick and it is a fight to survive every day. Men like this one, who scamper and hide whenever there is danger afoot, have no place in such a dangerous outpost.”
Gríma clenched his fists and opened his mouth to say something in response; but Éowyn stepped in before he could. “Men who cannot hold their tongues and be courteous to guests have no place anywhere,” she retorted, stepping forward and facing her brother down. “You apologize for your behavior and then go on your way.”
Éomer's mouth dropped open in shock. “I have said and done nothing worthy of apology,” he said. “You do not know this man as I do – you have no concept – ”
“Apparently I have more concept of his worth and talents than you do,” Éowyn said, folding her arms across her chest. “Those detailed records you've been using to plot your strategy and praising up and down the halls of Meduseld are his work. I had thought you would wish to thank him, actually, for his meticulous hand.”
Éomer looked as though he had swallowed something very hot, something that was burning all the way down to his stomach. “I – but – ”
Éowyn's glare was unwavering and, apparently, unnerving. Éomer ground his teeth, and finally spat out an apology. “I – am sorry for my words,” he growled, “And grateful for the records you keep.”
Éowyn's glare did not cease.
Éomer looked between her and Gríma for a moment; and as a final parting shot, he raised a finger and pointed at Gríma. “Don't even think about it,” he said. “She's my sister, and she'll have far better men than you.”
“Éomer – ” Éowyn started; but he raised his hands, turned on his heel, and left before she could say more.
Éowyn let out a breath and turned back to Gríma, biting her lip hard. “I'm sorry for him,” she said. “I take it you have some history.”
Gríma glanced at her, but there was something hunted about his expression now. He regarded her like a rabbit regards a fox, shrinking back from her when she made to hold out her hand. “Some,” he agreed, his voice guarded. “But it hardly matters. Thank you for seeing me to my chambers. You are free to go.”
Éowyn opened her mouth to protest, but he had already slunk back through the door, closing it in her face.
*
It had seemed at first that Gríma would only be staying for a few days before returning to his home village; but in the time that he remained at Edoras, Théoden developed a great fondness for him. They spoke for long hours, sometimes late into the night, regarding politics and strategy and philosophy. Théoden asked for Gríma's opinion regarding the record-keeping in Meduseld, and Gríma had much to say on how it would best be improved. Ymma was in a rage for weeks about it, cursing about the dirty-blooded half-breed. Éowyn always corrected her, harshly and swiftly, when she spoke thus.
Éowyn did her best to be friendly to Gríma, going out of her way to bring him things, pausing to talk to him in the halls. Whenever she saw him alone at dinner, she made an effort to sit near him, trying to coax him into conversation. But since the incident with her brother, he seemed wary of her, and kept his answers brief and his mask of courtly politeness firmly in place.
It frustrated Éowyn to no end, for reasons she could not quite fathom. Never had she so desperately attempted to be friends with someone in her life. In the past, if someone had put her off so forcefully, she would have taken the hint and walked away. But there was something about Gríma that drew her to him. She could sense his loneliness and despair; and time and again, she thought back to their first conversation, of sorrows carried and sorrows hidden. One day, the weight of his despair would break him, if he did not let someone in; and Éowyn meant to be that someone, for better or worse.
She did not understand why she was so determined – not until Théoden announced that he meant to keep Gríma on at Edoras as his counsellor and adviser in all matters of state. Then rumors about Gríma began to truly fly. If there had been whisperings before, they were nothing compared to what the courtiers were saying now.
One particular whisper was brought to her attention by half the court, in so many forms that Éowyn began to believe in its veracity after a time. “It seems our errant counsellor is plagued with dreams,” one of her ladies had told her at a feast, casting a suspicious glare in Gríma's direction. “Loud ones. Sometimes he cries out in the dead of night – the guards have overheard him. And sometimes...” She lowered her voice, wearing an expression of utter disgust. “Sometimes, it is your name upon his lips, my lady. Pathetic, isn't it? You had best watch your step with him.”
“Must I?” Éowyn wondered aloud, staring too intently at him from across the room. He seemed to feel her eyes on him and looked towards her. For an instant their eyes locked, and Éowyn saw the tumult there, wanting and fear fighting a battle at his core. Then he looked away again, grabbing for his wine glass and taking a long, long drink.
The rumor of his dreams affected her more than she cared to admit. Soon she found herself plagued with similar dreams, brief, flickering visions of Gríma's hands on her hips and his mouth pressed against her throat, tongue and teeth teasing until she nearly screamed. She awoke sometimes tangled in her own sheets, sweating and gasping; but if she ever called for him, no one ever told her.
At first she was embarrassed by the dreams, and dismissed them as bizarre fantasies, or perhaps a metaphorical indication of her desire for his approval. But whenever she saw him, heat surged in her veins, and a wanting unlike any she had ever known seared her from the inside out.
It was not just his approval she wanted. She wanted all of him, body and mind and soul. She wanted to know him in every sense of the word, intimately and always, as she had never wished to know anyone else. And the ache for him was growing.
Éowyn was not altogether accustomed to waiting for what she wanted. Over time she had learned that if she desired something, it was her duty to pursue it, fiercely and relentlessly, until it was hers. She had had to fight for her swordplay and her own horse; had had to fight for lessons to read and write; had had to fight for the freedom to ride whenever she chose. This, as far as she was concerned, was much the same. He was afraid, which she supposed she understood; but she would not sit idly by and wait for him to change his mind.
She would change it for him.
*
