TOURIST BOARD
Category: Missing scene
Pairing: none
Rating: PG
Warning: none
Status: Complete
Summary: Grima Wormtongue must have had a reason for listening to Saruman’s silver tongue.
Disclaimer: All LOTR characters, settings etc. belong to Other People. That is, not me. No copyright infringement or offence is intended. This story was written primarily for my own enjoyment – if others have fun reading it then that is an added bonus. Any original characters and situations are the property of the author. That is me – and I write under the name of ‘Major Clanger’ for reasons which are unclear, even to me – so please leave them alone. The story may not be posted elsewhere without my consent – although since I’m a shameless self-publicist, if you write and ask the it is highly likely that I will agree.
Author's notes: Grima is another of those enigmatic characters that JRRT loved to tease us with. Suddenly he is there then, almost as suddenly, he is gone. A very convenient vehicle for getting information to Saruman, I can never quite believe that Gandalf and Aragorn or both – and certainly Théoden and Éowyn – didn’t want to at least imprison him. In any case, I’ve often wondered about him. I’ve played with Éowyn already knowing Faramir, which is possible but from the novels not likely, but I wanted to give Grima some motivation.
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She is the daughter of Kings. The niece of Kings. Shield maiden of Rohan. More beautiful than a spring dawn, her smile dims the sun. Flaxen haired, with clear bright eyes she is the jewel of Rohan.
Éowyn does not love me as I love her.
It was not always thus. When she was younger I would allow her to accompany me as I carried out my duties for the King, and in her presence even the most mundane of tasks became a joy to perform. Now, as I sit here in the blasted Shire, enduring my Master’s wrath over some small thing that happened today, I shelter in my memories of those happy times.
For the whole of his Kingship Théoden was beset by enemies. He conferred often with the Steward of Gondor; their sons – and I include Éomer, curse his name, as one of them – were eager emissaries. Now they bragged of hunting and battle, now they regaled each other with tales of daring in the face of impossible circumstances.
At first the very young Éowyn was shocked by them. She saw through their boyish posturing and exaggerations, and wept at the thought of the animals they had killed in the hunt; even showing compassion for the families of the Easterlings who fought against her kingdom. ‘They are like us,’ she would say with tears glittering on her eyelashes. ‘They have children and wives. There is some evil which makes them fight us so fiercely.’ Éowyn followed me around more than ever, at the behest of the King, to learn how to run a castle, how to run a kingdom. For as I have said, she is the daughter of Kings and destined to rule alongside one.
I spoke of this to her when she entered womanhood, but she only blushed and laughed. She was so beautiful to behold, as she rejected this ‘flattery’ as she termed it. By this time she had changed, the constant battles – about which her brother and cousin regaled her – drove her almost to despair.
My princess changed. Her heart, she said, lay in another direction. Her desire now was to be a shield maiden and fight alongside the horsemen. Shadowing me, soaking up everything I could teach her, was a sop to her uncle; her heart was not in it. I tried to make those days as interesting as possible. The tediousness was relieved by her quick smile, her graceful movement, the way the sunlight – or candlelight – glinted off her golden hair.
But still, she spent most of her time with me. It was a pleasure to watch her entering the accounts in the ledger, keeping tallies with her small, neat script. Sometimes, alone in my chamber at night, or in my office on the days when she was elsewhere, I ran my fingers over her writing and imagined that her skin would feel as smooth if I stroked her. Occasionally we would ride out together, to visit the farmers in the outlying villagers. She had a ready smile for the children, who flocked around for a kind word from the ‘great lady from Edoras’. There was nobody who did not fall under her spell, or so it seemed to me then.
Only the raucous young men, who worked in the fields, spoke roughly to her when she helped the women to carry the pitchers of water and ale to them. At those times she would smile demurely, but keep close to the older women, returning gratefully, I felt, to my side with her shy smile. She said that they only teased her, but I would have cut out their tongues for daring to speak to her as they would to a common serving wench. Éowyn – how I love to write her name – would hang on to my arm as we walked back to our horses, it was easy to forget that the woman that I knew so well was a royal princess and well sheltered from such ruffians. I treasure those moments as beacons of beauty in my blighted life.
She still clung to her desire to become a shield maiden, although I counselled her uncle against it. I had trained her well, and it hurt me to know that despite my efforts she could not find it in herself to enjoy my company as much as that of her brother and cousin. For by now she had begun to relish the stories of their exploits. In particular she seemed to be enamoured of Faramir, the younger son of Denethor II.
How I hated the very mention of his name! He was a callow young fellow, although he had a reputation for his scholarly disposition. Éowyn would rush through her duties if she heard that he and his brother had arrived. I tried to explain that they were beneath her, but she would laugh and pat my arm. ‘But, Grima my dear,’ – yes in those days I was still a dear friend in her eyes – ‘they are the sons of the Steward. That is an exalted position in any kingdom.’ My heart would sing at her words, for what else was she saying to me, other than telling me that I – as her uncle’s steward – was also not beneath her? At those times I would float about my business, on a cloud of love. More than once I composed a letter to Théoden asking for her hand, always in my head – I never had the courage to commit my desire to paper.
Seeing my disappointment she would tarry a while longer then, but I knew that every minute that passed, she would be thinking only of listening, wide eyed, to their tales, and bringing their ale like a common serving wench. Like a physical blow to my gut it was to see her, skipping about the hall with the women, carrying food and drink to the ‘heroes’ and as time went on I knew that I had lost her.
My chance to have Éowyn for my wife was gone.
It was twenty summers since she and her brother were orphaned – I cannot bring myself to write his name, I will have my vengeance for the way he treated me – when she began in earnest to train at the sword and shield.
Éowyn worked from early dawn to dusk perfecting her technique. Sometimes I could bear it enough to watch her, she danced and glided with her sword as her partner, caressing it as a lover would. At that time she had eyes and ears only for her weapon and her swordmaster.
Éomer noticed this, he encouraged her in her efforts, sparing me only conceited, sly looks. ‘I have succeeded in taking her from you,’ his eyes said to me. Théodred praised her equally, now instead of each telling taller tales than the other of their valiant deeds, they fell over themselves in their effusive compliments of her swordsmanship. My beautiful princess had no more time for me; although my love for her did not diminish. Rather it increased: to possess that beauty became my only goal. I travelled alone now in my duties, sitting lonely in inns and taverns in the evenings, with only a tankard of warm ale for company.
Occasionally I would take some wench to bed, closing my eyes and trying to believe that the rough skin under me was the smooth, white of Éowyn, that the coarse hair was the golden flax of my beloved. How they whined that I hurt them with my soft caresses. Often I was told I was no longer welcome in their establishment, after they had made up some story of how I beat and pinched them.
Sometimes I closed my eyes and pictured Éowyn as I pleasured myself. Always I cried afterwards into my pillow, that I should have such impure thoughts of her, that she could countenance to do those things to me. Such pleasure she gave me in my lonely bed, I shuddered to imagine how Théodred would use her – he could never love her gently as I did.
As I do.
The time came when I returned from one of my journeys, to find that the King desired an audience with me. His face was wreathed in smiles, as he sat on his throne. Théodred stood at his right hand, he looked so complacent and smug that I knew what the King would say before the words left his lips. I was to arrange a banquet to honour the betrothal of his beloved son to my Éowyn. I, who loved her more than life itself! From that day Théodred did not even attempt to conceal the contempt in which he held me. He considered me nothing more than a worm, a thing that liked dark places.
Those dark places, the cellars and stores, held the wealth of Edoras, if he had only taken the time to know this. Under my stewardship Rohan was wealthy, with stores enough for all that none need fear hunger during the long winter months. Once I heard him speaking to Éowyn of his plans; how he would change things when his father was dead. He rejoiced that he would be King – waited for the death of his own father. My beloved made me proud as she pointed this out to him in her gentle manner, a mild rebuke for a wayward child. She told him of my own heroic deeds as Steward, how I ensured the safety and comfort of their people in ways that he could not comprehend.
He smiled and patted her, indulging her feminine way of seeing the good in everyone; but I knew that in his heart burned a jealous hatred of me. One that was mirrored in my own heart. I would have my revenge on the one who had stolen my beloved Éowyn from me.
Each time I returned Théodred flaunted their betrothal, and Éowyn became more distant from me. No doubt is there in my mind that these were his orders; that she no longer attended to the stores and running of the castle. All this work now fell on my shoulders, and while I missed my beautiful princess helper I realised that it gave me great power. Théodred and her brother were busy holding the borders, sometimes aiding and aided by those whelps of Gondor, while I continued in my duties, gaining the ear of the King in the process.
Two things happened during one of my absences which resolved me against my adversaries for Éowyn’s love.
First I met an old man in a tavern. He saw me alone with my ale one evening, and we engaged in a pleasant conversation. He told me of how his master has cast him aside thoughtlessly, after he took a young, beautiful wife. His story mirrored my own in many details, and I felt a relief to tell him my own sad tale of betrayal and treachery. I stayed at the inn for a few days longer than necessary and felt so light of spirit to know that I did not suffer alone, that I was not wrong to feel so done down. The old man showed me how to take back my power.
The second occurred as I returned from that visit. Théodred was away at the eastern border. Éowyn came to me in my chamber, shortly after I arrived there. She stood in the doorway, more beautiful to me on that day than she had ever been. The light of love shone from her eyes and I allowed myself to believe for a fleeting moment that it could be for me, that the past months had been but a nightmare from which I now woke.
Éowyn spoke to me that day for the last time in her beautiful, gentle voice, that was as near to the song of the Elves that I could imagine. ‘Are you not well, Grima?’ She asked, ‘you look so pale and worn, I hope you are not working too hard.’ I was touched by her concern and moved towards her, with my hand outstretched to caress her cheek; the first and last time I dared to attempt to touch her. She recoiled in shock! I knew then that the love she held was not for me but for the pup, Théodred. It was obvious to me that her concern for me was nothing but a smokescreen and I was sure that she was checking up on me in his stead. I snarled some reply, I know not what I said. Her look of concern vanished in that instant, and my beautiful sun maiden became an ice maiden – and so she has remained to me forever since then; her beauty undiminished, but now it was cold and hard instead of warm and soft as previously.
I did not regret, then, the agreement I had made with the old man. That same evening I spoke of him to the King, and great was my joy when I saw him the next day, already a little older and more withered. As the days passed I never left his side, whispering my ideas into his ear, revelling in my new power as he grew ever more dependent on my advice.
Not many months had passed when one day we were sitting in his great hall. The cavernous room was empty, the guard had been instructed to let no one past, no matter who. Specifically I minded her brother, but played my hand close to my chest – I had not yet named him. But that day fate smiled upon me. Despite my orders Éowyn burst into the hall and, ignoring me as she always did now, threw herself at the King. My old heart would have broken to see her weep so, but I had hardened myself against her wiles and rejoiced instead in the news that she brought: Théodred had fallen in battle.
Théoden hardly heard her, and she hissed at me when I pulled her off him. She tore at my hand, scratching me like a wildcat with her nails and screaming at me to leave them alone.
I rid myself of her brother in a masterful piece of work, and insofar as I could enjoy anything without my beloved by my side it was a satisfactory day. His eyes exuded hate, but he was powerless against me and he knew it. I laughed as he called for his supporters –he took two thousand men. Two thousand less for me to concern myself with.
Éowyn was glad of my presence then, with her betrothed and her brother gone, although her pride forced her to hide it from me. I had little opportunity to touch her, but when I did she could not hide her excitement, trembling from head to toe. Trying to keep up appearances she reviled me in public, and kept up the façade of her loathing of my person. However, I could see through her and let her know that my love for her had not died.
My Master kept in constant contact but even his power could not warn me of the doom which was yet to come. I warned the guard against visitors, none were to approach the King bearing arms – but the fools allowed Gandalf to keep his staff. Perhaps some greater power was at work that day, or perhaps they wilfully disobeyed my orders.
No matter.
Their entrance spelt the end for me and despite my appeals to my beloved, her heart remained hardened to my plight and I was ejected from the kingdom. I know in my own heart that it is she I have to thank for sparing my life. Gandalf, that Ranger or that elf would have snuffed me out like a candle without her intervention.
And now I sit here, awaiting my Masters punishment for some action by one of these despicable halflings, while my beloved endures her marriage, knowing that the one who loves her the most is forever parted from her. After all this time I take her image with me to my empty bed and allow her to give me the pleasure that has been denied us for so long.
Afterwards I weep into my pillow for what might have been.
~the end~