Disclaimer: 'taint mine, my lovelies; 'tis Tolkien's. And PJ's. And I guess Miranda Otto's and Brad Dourif's too – I blame them almost entirely for this ship.

A/N: Dedicated to Jareth's Genevieve, who requested the piece and who is doing a lovely bit of artwork for it. Also, any names of side characters you don't recognize from LotR are Anglo-Saxon names.

Sometimes Gríma could not help but think that Éowyn was mocking him. It was, perhaps, the way her eyes would pass right over him as she strode through the Great Hall searching for a dance partner; the way she seemed always to pause only a few feet away from him to accept the request of some bright blonde soldier, or to greet a friend of her brother's. Or perhaps it was the gowns she wore to feasts, the maddening gowns that both hid and revealed, granting glimpses of her long neck and silken shoulders.

The more likely answer was that he was going mad.

He often berated himself for thinking this way. Éowyn, his lovely princess, was utterly insensible to the deep and abiding passion he felt for her, and in her ignorance could not cast it aside as he often felt she did. She, unlike her brother and cousin, had not yet noticed the way Gríma's eyes followed her every move, the way his hands clenched and unclenched whenever she stood too close to him, as though he wanted to reach out and snatch her hand up in his. She flitted happily amongst the lesser mortals, a shimmering beam of sun oblivious to the base wishes of the man her uncle called counsellor.

He wished more than ever that she would finally recognize his love for what it was. In the cold of winter, his empty bed seemed all the more frigid; buried under the furs at night, he often dreamt that she laid beside him, tangled in his arms, her slim body imparting warmth to his. He whispered her name into her hair, and she nuzzled his neck; he imagined the feel of her lips pulling back into a smile, still pressed to his throat.

He wanted this vision to be real, wanted it so much some nights that he burned for it. His bedroom might be icy cold, but his desire sent heat raging through his blood. He would awaken from dreams with the furs kicked aside, he coiled in the middle of his bed and shivering. It was part fever, part slow death, this love he held. He feared it would kill him soon if he could not claim her.

Every day his position grew more tenuous. When he first fell in love, he had been certain of victory. It had seemed a simple matter: Éowyn was young still, and though she was a woman, the men were turning their eyes to older, worldlier ladies. There had been no one to compete with him, save Éomer and Théodred, who only wanted to protect her from the desires of men. They, he had thought, would be easy to surpass, once Éowyn saw his love.

The trouble was, she hadn't seen. A year and more he had spent quietly wooing her, bringing her small gifts, leaving her secret letters, encountering her – by chance, he would insist – in the halls of Meduseld when she could not sleep. Both their nights were restless, it seemed; he found her most often at night, while he too chased ever-evasive slumber. Better then, he thought, that they share their restless nights in one bed. Better they find warmth in each other's arms than wander these cold halls alone.

He thought his technique most transparent – pathetic, even. The guards who patrolled the halls at night had known at once what he was about, and had reported back to Éomer and Théodred, who had similarly recognized his game for what it was. Yet Éowyn, the only one whom he wanted to understand, was wholly ignorant of his intent.

Innocent girl. He loved her all the more for it.

So much time had passed, too much. Now Éowyn was beginning to understand how beautiful she was; and as that understanding came, so too did other men realize. A hundred other envious men were now coveting the prize he had long ago claimed for himself, all slavering greedily over her, desperate to win her affections. They disgusted him. What use had Éowyn for such men, soldiers gifted with strength and not much else? She deserved a man who understood her, who would listen to her in the lonely depths of the dark night, who would respect her need to be independent and free as none of these men – not even her brother cousin – could.

He was, he knew, that man. He just needed Éowyn to know, too.

He had considered a hundred times, perhaps a thousand, how he would tell her of his love. Since more subtle methods had failed to produce results, the telling was essential. Perhaps when he encountered her at night, the only time when they were ever alone? No, the darkness was never a good place for such confessions. Happy as he would be to gently pull her into the shadows and whisper soft words in her ear, he feared that she would be frightened and run.

Better to do it in the day. Yet it was the daylight that terrified him, the intrusion of servants or guards or brother and cousin or other jealous men, who would never let him say what he wished. The daylight left him open, all his flaws exposed; he could not hide himself from her eyes then. She would see all his imperfections, the years of life that surpassed her own, his dark hair, his mismatched eyes. He feared this more than anything, for servants and guards could be dismissed, jealous men dealt with, even brother and cousin sent out on an errand for the king; but no power in the world could shield him from her eyes when they stood openly under the sun.

He knew that despite his physical imperfections he was what Éowyn deserved, and he did not anticipate that Éowyn would be so shallow as to judge his merit solely on his face. But it could not be denied that there were men far more handsome than he wooing his lovely princess, and though they were not as clever, though they had never shared the midnight hour with her and talked of her nightmares and what haunted her sleep, they were well-spoken enough to make her blush, and bold enough to proclaim their love brashly, without the delicacy that such a declaration required.

Gríma was a man of subtlety in a world where 'subtlety' meant deceit and lies, a world where men were expected to be raucous and forthright in everything they said or did. He should not then have been surprised that Éowyn could not see his feelings for what they were. She would expect them to be proclaimed. That was what every other man who wooed her now had done.

It was Yuletide now. The winds outside Meduseld were howling through the mountains, snow falling in great flakes out of doors; but inside the Great Hall the doors were barred and a fire roared. Hot food was laid on the tables and drink was available in plenty to warm the blood. Yet inside his sable cloak, Gríma felt a horrible chill of which he could not rid himself.

The celebration had begun hours ago, with a feast. Feast nights never failed to discomfit him. He was perfectly capable of interacting politely with the members of Théoden's court, but they, it seemed, could never return the favor. When the hours stretched later and later into darkness and the mead had been flowing freely, tongues were loosened and men began to speak their thoughts unreservedly. And oh, they had plenty of thoughts for him – snide remarks about his foreign mother, his father's impetuous marriage, Gríma's too-quick tongue. "Pick up a sword," slurred Éomer once, "And be a real man. When was the last time you sparred, counsellor? When you were first given lessons as a boy?"

Anymore, Gríma usually retired early from feasts, and was for once grateful for the silence of his chambers.

Tonight, he lingered. He knew it was a foolish mistake, but he could not help himself. Éowyn had a new gown for the occasion, a deep forest green with a swooping golden girdle settled comfortably at her hips. The neckline nearly bared her shoulders; Gríma's eyes kept catching on her white skin, the tiny freckles he saw dancing up her back to her neck. He wanted to lay her out on his bed and count them – all of them. There would be more coyly hiding beneath the silken fabric of her gown and shift, and he wanted to know each one.

The vision would have pleased him had Éowyn been moving among the courtiers alone; but she was not speaking with court members, and she was certainly not alone. She was sweeping through the middle of the Great Hall in another man's arms, dancing to the softly hypnotic tune of a new song written especially for the occasion. And instead of the quiet pleasure Gríma might have taken in watching her, he was frozen in place by his own envious rage, staring in silent horror as the man smiled at Éowyn – and she smiled in return.

Gríma did not know the man, but that was immaterial to him. He would soon find out his name, where he lived, why he was present at court, and how best to force him to leave. No man who touched Éowyn's hand like that, who looked at her so softly, who made her laugh like that, could stay in court under Gríma's watch.

He lifted a hand and motioned sharply behind him. The head of his personal guard, Bardulf, appeared almost at once, arms folded across his chest.

"Who," Gríma snarled through gritted teeth, "Is that?"

Bardulf studied the man with Éowyn complacently. "A marshal from the East Emnet," he said. "Astyrian son of Andsaca, I believe he is called. He and Théodred are friends."

Gríma clenched his fists. A friend of the prince. But of course. This was Théodred's design, then – to lure Éowyn away from him. Well, he would not let such a thing come to pass, could not. Éowyn was his. All she need do was confirm it.

"Orders, my lord?" Bardulf said quietly.

Gríma stared at Éowyn. Her skirt swirled playfully around her ankles as she spun with Astyrian. She was so graceful, so elegant. She was radiant tonight, her fingers lightly touching the stranger's, her golden curls sweeping down over her back and spinning with her. She was still smiling, a brilliant smile. It had been long since Gríma had seen her so happy.

He wanted her to be happy. Of course he did. But no matter what she thought now, this stranger – this intruder – was not the man who could bring her true joy.

"Get him out," Gríma hissed. "At all costs, get him out."

Bardulf bowed. "My lord," he said, and he was gone again.

Gríma settled back in his chair. His rage was assuaged, but not fully gone. Embers of it burned in the pit of his stomach, the taste of bitter bile in his mouth. He grabbed for his goblet and took a long draught, never breaking his gaze away from Éowyn.

"The hall is beautiful tonight, is it not?"

Gríma set his goblet aside hurriedly and rose, bowing deeply. "Théoden King," he murmured. "Indeed, the hall is, as always, quite lovely." He glanced quickly and unwillingly towards Éowyn, but Théoden did not notice.

"Yule is my favorite time of year," Théoden said, settling down into a chair near Gríma's. Gríma sat too, hurriedly; it was in bad taste to stand taller than the king. "Outside all seems dead and hopeless, but within this hall…" He motioned widely, a proud smile lighting his eyes. "Hope lives on for a warmer season."

Gríma glanced quickly around the hall. He saw only the same drunkards and fools that appeared at every feast, grasping at serving maids and whispering tales of questionable propriety to one another. They sickened him. "The joy our people share in this season is, as always, a balm to my heart," Gríma said.

Even Théoden, normally oblivious to his counsellor's bitterness, heard the derision in his tone. "You are troubled tonight," he said, frowning.

"No, no," Gríma said quickly, shaking his head. "No, my liege, I am well."

Théoden was studying him, eyes narrowed in thought. Gríma squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. "I worry for you sometimes," Théoden said finally.

Gríma opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.

"Your father entrusted you to the care of the court many years ago," Théoden continued, "And I know your time here has not always been easy. I know even some I call family have not been kind to you."

Gríma did his best to keep his face impassive. "My lord, you and yours have treated me with all the kindness I deserve," he replied.

Théoden eyed him scornfully. "You think I do not notice the enmity harbored between you and Éomer – between you and my son?" he said. "I am no fool. I do not understand their feelings, nor yours, but I have tried over many years to join you as friends and every time I have failed." Théoden leaned closer in his chair, staring earnestly into Gríma's face. "What do you do when you are not in court?" he asked.

Gríma frowned. "I don't understand."

"When you are not at my side, or working on some duty for me, who do you spend time with?" Théoden asked. "What do you do in your spare hours?"

Gríma shrugged. "I have none, my liege," he said. "A duty such as mine is not one that ends as soon as the sun sets. My work absorbs me." He did not mention his late-night wanderings, his writings, the time he spent praying for another encounter with Éowyn.

Théoden sat back in his chair, shaking his head. "You," he said, nodding decisively, "Need a wife."

Gríma inhaled sharply. "My lord – " he protested.

Théoden held up a hand to silence him. "You cannot expect me to believe that all this time you have not been searching," he said.

"I – I do not, my liege, but – "

"Your work is not your life, Gríma," Théoden continued. "Not your life in total. Would you have children, a house of your own?"

Gríma dropped his head. Children, his and Éowyn's. Oh, he would have them. He would have them all. "Of course," he said.

"As I thought." Théoden looked around the courtroom. "There must be some lady in whom you have an interest."

Gríma could not look at him. "Perhaps now is not the best time – "

"Nonsense," Théoden said. "It is the perfect time. You are able to show her to me without the attention of the court on you."

Gríma felt his heart hammering madly against his ribs. What would Théoden say if Gríma revealed his heart's desire? Would he recoil and refuse? Gríma had no royal blood; the match would not be politically advantageous. Yet Théoden had always treated Gríma almost like a son, defending him when others insulted him, complimenting his talents and finding him work when others would have let him rot in some menial servant's position. Perhaps he would agree. Perhaps he would even facilitate Gríma's confession to Éowyn.

Gríma looked up and finally met Théoden's gaze. "My king – " he started, stuttering over the words.

And then she was there, his vision, Éowyn. She smiled warmly at her uncle and kissed him on the forehead, and nodded to Gríma. "Uncle," she said. "Counsellor."

"Éowyn." Théoden smiled at her and lightly touched her hand. "You have been enjoying the new music our bard has prepared for us?"

"Very much," Éowyn said. "But I need a moment to catch my breath." She looked between them, one eyebrow arched curiously. "You both seemed very serious," she said, "I hoped to lighten the mood. No king nor counsellor should discuss court business on a night like this."

"Indeed not," Théoden agreed. "Nor should either be sitting here when there are ladies to be danced with. May I have a dance, niece?"

"Of course," Éowyn said, holding out her hand to him. She looked over her shoulder at Gríma. "Shall I find you a dance partner, my Lord?"

Offer me yourself, and yes, a thousand times yes. "I think not, my Lady," Gríma said, rising and bowing to her. "There is unfortunately still some work to be done before my day is ended. I think I shall attend to it."

"Gríma," Théoden said sternly.

"Good night, my liege," Gríma said. "My lady."

He turned and hurried away from them, avoiding the eyes of the many courtiers who turned to stare. He fled the light and warmth of the hall and slipped back into the comforting silence of the corridors, where at last he could be alone. He slipped into his chambers and closed the door, grateful for once that Éowyn was not there with him.

It was foolish to hope that Théoden would approve of Gríma's marriage to Éowyn. It was foolish to even assume that Éowyn would approve. He was ugly, and those she loved hated him; what had he to recommend him, apart from his many years of service to the king? And those would mean nothing to Éowyn, who no doubt thought him dull for all the time he spent in his study. She would be pushed into a marriage with someone like Astyrian, someone who was the ideal man of Rohan. She would wed that man and be forced to live the life of an ordinary wife, and she would grow to hate her husband and herself.

Not if she had Gríma. No, never, if she had him.

There was a knock at his door. Gríma started, leaping away from it as though it were a warg come out of the shadows to tear out his throat.

"Counsellor?"

His heart stopped. It was Éowyn.

"My lady?" he said.

"May I come in?"

Gríma glanced around his bedchamber in a panic. Everything was, as always, in order; Gríma was very particular about his things and where they went. This… this could be very dangerous, he thought, glancing towards his bed.

He stepped towards the door and opened it.

Éowyn was no less radiant in the shadows. What light there was made her hair sparkle and cast shadows that caught her curves. Gríma did his best not to stare. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

She bit her lip. "My uncle sent me," she said.

Gríma felt bitter disappointment welling up inside him. "But of course."

Éowyn seemed to notice the change in tone. "It's just that you left so abruptly," she said. "We were worried."

He arched a brow. "We?"

"My uncle and I," she said. "Do you really have so much to do?"

Gríma hesitated. "My duties require much of me, my Lady, and – "

"Can it not wait until tomorrow?" Éowyn said. "The night is still young."

He looked over her face, unsure. Was she asking him to join her? Or was this entirely at the command of her uncle? He would not come if it were not she who wanted him.

"At least dance with me once," she pleaded, catching the uncertainty in his eyes. "Surely you can afford your princess that?"

Gríma stared at her incredulously; then a slow smile blossomed, so broad he feared his face might split. "If you will have me," he said, bowing to her. He straightened and frowned. "Only…" He paused. He could hear music drifting from the hall, faintly. "I am afraid I do not know this dance."

Éowyn smiled. "Easily dealt with," she said. "It is not difficult. Here."

She reached out and grabbed his hands, stepping unaware into his room. He stepped back to allow her entrance, staring at their twined fingers.

She unlaced their hands and pressed her palm flat against his, lifting his hand towards the ceiling. "Your hand begins here, against mine," she directed, adapting a regal tone, "and then we make four circles."

Gríma followed her orders, staring intently at her face. She was focused only on making certain he did as he was told. They circled one another slowly, heads turned towards each other. "And if we were in the hall, we would switch partners here and do the same," she said, moving away from him. He reflexively reached out for her hand, but snatched it back just in time. She turned back to him and caught both his hands, placing one at her waist and encircling his waist with her arm. "And here you come back to your original partner, and put your hand here," she told him, looking up at him. "It's the same circular pattern, but your partner is closer to you."

"I see," Gríma murmured huskily as he guided her in a circle. "And do we change partners again?"

"Not yet," Éowyn said. "Four circles, and I spin away." She did so; her skirt sailed delicately upwards, exposing her ankles. It floated down around her as she came close again. "Here," she said, guiding his arm to her waist. "You'll have to lift me for this next part." She reached over for the hand at her waist and then grabbed his other hand. He swept her off the floor and spun her in a small circle, lightly letting her down a moment later. "And now we'd switch partners," Éowyn said, "And the dance continues." She stopped and turned to smile at him. "Do you think you can manage?"

He wanted to touch her again, more than anything – wanted to close his fingers over hers in the still silence of his room and feel the brush of her skirts as they swept against his breeches. He wanted to look into her eyes and know there was no one else there to distract her from his gaze. "I don't know…" he said. "Perhaps I…"

"Here." She stepped up to him again, pressing her palm to his. "We'll try again, without instructions."

He wanted to close his fingers over hers, but he kept them flat. They circled one another again; he kept his eyes steadily on her face. She looked away from him, then back again, and away. Was she nervous? Frightened?

"You danced very well with the prince's friend this evening," Gríma said, keeping his voice light. "What is his name?"

"Astyrian?" Éowyn said. "Oh, yes. He is a good dancer."

Gríma clenched his free fist at his side. "You are friends, then, too?"

She frowned. "I wouldn't say so, no," she said. "I hardly know him." She looked up at him curiously. "Why do you ask?"

Gríma shrugged. "The way you smiled at him," he said, "I assumed perhaps you already knew him well."

Éowyn's eyes narrowed a little. "He told me an amusing story," she said. "That's all."

Gríma stepped away from her; their first circle had concluded. "Forgive me, my Lady," he said; "I did not mean to offend you. I know your uncle has been inquiring after a husband for you, that is all."

It was true; Théoden had held a counsel meeting with Éomer, Théodred, and Gríma only a few weeks previous. "Éowyn is old enough now to marry," he had said. "If you know of anyone worthy of her hand, I ask you to recommend him to her, and to me. I know all of you hold her interests close to your heart."

Closer than Théoden knew, Gríma thought bitterly.

Éowyn stiffened. "I don't need a husband," she said coldly.

Inwardly, Gríma cursed. "I do not disagree," he said, bowing slightly. "But I thought I ought to inquire after my Lady's opinion on the subject. Théoden King has asked me to advise him in this matter."

Éowyn stepped eagerly towards him, and for one wild moment Gríma believed she would embrace him. "But this is perfect!" she exclaimed. "You can tell him I do not wish to be married. He trusts your word." She took his hand and squeezed it briefly before slipping it onto her waist. Gríma wanted to pull her closer. "I grow tired of these suitors," she confessed. "I would at least like to prove my valor on the battlefield before I choose a husband."

Oh, sweet princess, they have other plans for you. At the same counsel, Éomer and Théodred had raised the issue of Éowyn's swordplay, and had spoken with dread of the time when she would ask to be tested on the battlefield. "It will not be long before Éowyn asks for armor, and begs to join us on patrol," he'd said, wearing a dark frown. "We cannot permit this, uncle. She does not understand the gruesome spectacle of battle; I fear any test will drive her mad."

"You cannot think your sister so delicate, after all these years of training," Gríma had protested. "Surely her lessons will prepare her – "

"What would you know of it?" Théodred had retorted. "When was the last time you joined us on patrol, counsellor? When, indeed, did you last lift a blade?"

"Théodred!" Théoden said harshly. "Gríma's duties keep him here, as you should know." He had sighed and rubbed his eyes, looking older every minute. "I do fear for her," he confessed. "I do not want her to battle with the men. I allowed her to train so that she might lead our people, if the three of us should perish – not so she could ride to battle while we still lived. And we must make that distinction clear. I only wish it had been done sooner."

Now, beside him, Éowyn was lost in dreams of battle, her eyes shining. Gríma almost hated to crush her hopes."Are you entirely certain Théoden king will permit you to go to battle?" he inquired, tightening his grip on her waist.

She looked up at him sharply. "Of course," she said. "He has permitted me to train, hasn't he?"

Gríma lowered his eyes. "I suppose that is true," he conceded.

She stepped away from him. "What have you said?" she demanded.

Gríma started and turned to stare at her, wounded. "What have I said?" he repeated. "I have said nothing against you, my Lady, nor will I ever. If you seek to lay the blame for this marriage business on anyone, put it where it belongs. Your brother and cousin spoke out against you at the last counsel and demanded you be forbidden to continue your lessons."

Éowyn froze, then shook her head quickly. "No," she said. "No, it cannot be."

His gaze softened. "I am sorry, my Lady," he said.

She looked away from him, staring blankly at the floor. Gríma wanted to run to her, take both her hands in his and kiss her forehead – but no, she would not want that. "But why?" she asked, still incredulous. "They have given me a sword, and taught me how to fight. Surely they expected – "

"As a last measure," Gríma said, "They hoped to train you in battle lest Théoden, Théodred, and Éomer all fall against the hordes belonging to the Shadow. They never intended you to ride with them."

She could not have looked more startled had he slapped her. "But – then what is to become of me?" she asked.

He hated the words he spoke, hated how he was slowly smashing each of her dreams to bits. But in her pain he saw his answer – it was not he who had decided these things, but those whom she had trusted and who hated him. Surely through this she would realize that he was the only one who had seen her desires, the only one who could grant them. "You are, as expected, to marry and rule in their absence," Gríma said. "At least, that is their plan for you. You will have all the power of the kingdom, but you will be safe here."

"Safe," she repeated. The word sounded like poison coming from her lips. "But of course." She dropped down onto the chest at the end of his bed, as though a great weight had suddenly dropped onto her and knocked the wind from her. "Why?" she asked. "Why would they do this?"

Gríma hurried to her side and knelt next to her, reaching out for her hand. "They guard what is dear to them," he said. "But so do I."

She looked down at their hands, his closed firmly over hers. Her eyes widened a little, and Gríma saw a flash of understanding there.

Finally, finally, she knew.

"Éowyn," he said, daring to address her by her name, "I swear to you that I will defend you in every way I can. If you ask for the right to join your brother and cousin on the battlefield, I will make certain you have it. Théoden will listen to me, as you said. And I will keep the suitors from you, too – all of them."

She looked up at him. "Even yourself?"

He balked. "What?"

She drew her hand out of his. Gríma felt an ache building inside him, an already acutely painful whisper that would soon grow into a scream. He tried to ignore it. "Gríma," she said, "You have done much for my uncle and for this kingdom, and I appreciate it."

"I have done much for you, too," Gríma said.

"I know, and I… am grateful."

He met her gaze. "Grateful," he repeated coldly.

She closed her eyes and turned her head. She could not even look at him. "I am sorry if you thought I felt something else," she said.

The ache gave way to a searing pain, almost blinding in its intensity. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. This wasn't what she was meant to say. She had seen; he had recognized the flash of understanding. She knew what he felt. Why then would she treat him this way, tossing aside the careful love he'd held for her for so long? "You – you cannot – " He choked on his own words.

Éowyn stood and brushed her skirts off, nervously brushing her hair back from her face. "I am sorry," she said. "I should not… if I had known…"

"You should have known," Gríma spat, violent anger getting the better of him. He rose and took a step towards her. "Nigh two years I have spent devoted to you, leaving you gifts, comforting you, listening to you when no one else would. Why then do you turn from me when you finally recognize the truth?"

She turned to him, eyes wide. "I thought we were friends," she exclaimed, her cheeks tinged pink in the candlelight.

Damn her. She was still beautiful, even now.

"I am your friend - the only friend you have in this entire kingdom," Gríma snarled. "No one loves you as I do! No one ever listens to what you want, save me!"

"That's not true!" Éowyn cried.

"Isn't it?" Gríma said. "Who spoke on your behalf when your brother and cousin would have denied you the right to be a shield maiden? Who comforted you after every nightmare, and listened to you name your fears? Who promised to do what he could for you when you said you wanted no marriage? Not your uncle, not your cousin, not even your own brother, but me. Do you deny it?"

Éowyn shook her head. "I… I don't know," she said. "I was never there at the counsels."

He took a few steps towards her, then froze in horror when she backed away. "Yet still you run from me," he said through clenched teeth. "I, who have loved you and cared for you as no one else has or will."

"You cannot know that," Éowyn said scornfully. "You cannot see into the minds of men."

"No, but I can judge them remarkably well," Gríma said, "As you should already know. Many times you have come to me for advice on how to deal with this servant or that lord, and have never come back wanting. I understand people, Éowyn, you most of all."

"No, you don't," she said. "If you did, we would not be having this argument."

Gríma took a step back, stung. "Would you have me apologize for loving you?" he demanded. "Would you have me lie to you and pretend to smile and delight in your marriage to some other man?"

"I would have no marriage at all!" Éowyn cried. "I don't want it. I don't want the suitors my brother and cousin find. I don't want the men who try to woo me at court, and I do not want you!"

He stared at her, unable to formulate any response. He would rather she stab him than speak those words.

She looked at him and her expression softened. "Gríma, I – "

"Get out," he spat.

She drew back, startled, but she soon recovered and took a few steps towards him. "I'm sorry," she said. "I never meant – "

"Get out," he snarled, pointing to the door.

She stopped, clenched her jaw, and nodded shortly, turning swiftly on her heel and marching out.

When she was gone, he slammed the door closed and barred it, sinking down to the floor and leaning heavily against it. Crumpled in a heap, he gave a furious scream of rage and beat the floor with his fists until they bled freely. His rage vented, he leaned back against the door and breathed deeply, trying to recover himself. Perhaps if he collected himself, reconstructed his argument, maybe then she would see. Perhaps if he promised her that she could fight with the soldiers, if ever the opportunity arose. Perhaps if he told her he would not marry her, simply guard her – oh, but he wanted to marry her, more than he could possibly express. Yet he was willing to compromise, if it meant keeping her at his side. He would do anything, just so long as she promised to be his in some form.

He opened his eyes and looked around his room. Everything was still in place, as perfect and pristine as it had all been before Éowyn entered, yet the whole room seemed different. He had touched her hand, had slipped an arm around her waist. He had confessed his love, and he had lost his temper.

The things he'd said – would she ever forgive him?

Would he ever forgive her?

He stood shakily and made his way towards his table, covered in neat stacks of parchment. He wasn't certain what he meant to do, but he knew he needed to rebuild his strategy. He needed to think. There must be some way to win her back to him. He had been so close –

He paused. There was a bit of parchment on his bed. He had not seen it there before. Had he been working on something the night previous? Whatever it was, it must not be important. He changed direction and made his way to the bed, grabbing for the parchment. He wanted to tear it in half, rip it to tiny, useless pieces and then watch those bits burn.

Something caught his eye – his name, penned in an unfamiliar hand. No one he knew in court could write. He looked around, but only shadows and candles met his gaze. He stopped, curious now, and unfolded the parchment the rest of the way.

Gríma son of Gálmód, it read, you cannot trust to the hearts of women, for they are fickle and foolish. The words she spoke were lies born from fear; she recognizes that her cousin and brother will never approve, nor her uncle the King. She has done what she must to save you from their will, but there is another path, if you will but follow it.

Gríma's hand crept towards his knife. Someone was in his room. He jerked the knife free and turned this way and that, hunting for the intruder – but there was no one. He was totally alone.

He looked down at the parchment again. A long line of ink dripped from the word 'follow,' trailing down the page until it stopped at the edge of the page. Gríma slowly put his knife back into its sheath and slid his finger down the ink line, wondering how it had come to be there, what slip of the quill had led to so fine and delicate a line.

His finger stopped at the bottom of the page. Suddenly, in his hand, the page began to change. He gasped and dropped it to the floor, gaping in awe as the ink of the words began to run. The ink reformed into twisting lines, shaping new words and landscapes. Gríma stared at it, stunned, as it shifted to reveal a map.

Gríma son of Gálmód, read a small blue dot inside an elaborately drawn Meduseld. In the Great Hall, a gold dot shimmered – Éowyn. From his dot a thin red line ran, curving this way and that throughout the map. He followed the line through all its twists until it stopped directly beneath a pale white dot.

Saruman the White, it declared. Come.