Angaran did not seem much better when I went to see him. He was feverish still, his furs kicked to the end of his bed. I covered him many times as I sat by his side, but he only thrust the covers away again, too warm to sleep with them.

I sang to him a little, and talked to him as I sat on the floor beside him. I told him about Faramir’s search, and what had been happening in Gondor since he had been gone. I mentioned Aragorn’s son, and even talked of my own hopes for a child. I thought I heard Gríma moving about a few times, but every time I called out to ask if he’d returned there was only silence.

Being with Angaran saddened me, and talking to him saddened me more. He could not hear what I had to say of his family; he did not know, really, how Faramir worried for him, how hard Faramir had searched. I told him that Faramir was trying to find him now – trying to find us both. The thought wasn’t much comfort. I had little faith that Faramir could find a way into this evil tower; if I could not leave, he and his rangers would not be able to enter either.

I tried to consider other things, deliberately ignoring thoughts of rescue or worse, what I might have to do to leave this place, but it was hard to imagine happier events. The room was hot and lonely, and looking at Angaran only made me feel both impotent and angry.

I had not thought to ask Gríma about food in my fury that morning, and as the afternoon shadows grew long I found myself shaking with hunger. My fingers trembled a little as I tried once more to give Angaran a spoonful of the potion bubbling away on the fire, but to no avail – he would take none of it. Cursing, I threw the remnants back into the pot, despairing. Why were my healing hands failing me? I had trained with the best in Gondor in the Houses of Healing. My teachers had complimented my skill often. But against this disease I could do nothing – only Gríma, it seemed, had any power to fight it.

That made me angrier than anything.

I moved away from the fire and paused a moment to stare at Angaran, one of many times I had done so that day. He was still pale, still shifting uneasily in sleep. There was little more I could do for him. My singing and my tales had not soothed him; my hands only seemed to make things worse. He would not eat, he would not drink – and if I did not leave the room, I would go mad. I departed at last, a headache growing behind my eyes.

I stumbled into Gríma’s bedchamber and crawled onto the bed, hoping for rest to fortify me – but sleep would not come. Restless, I finally leapt from bed and chose to explore Gríma’s rooms. There was little else for me to do, caged as I was.

Gríma’s quarters were made up of six rooms, most of them filled with books and strange-looking vials. The first room seemed to be a chamber of many uses: there was a small table with two chairs; another table nearby with goblets and wooden platters organized neatly atop it; a basin for washing; a long divan, layered with furs and cushions; a few chairs; and of course the ever-present shelves of books. I had never seen so many in my life. I wondered if there were this many books in any other part of the world – they were so rare and precious. I assumed most of them had belonged to Saruman – some of them might even have been written by the wizard.

The second room was Gríma’s study. It contained a table, a few chairs, a shelf devoted entirely to scrolls, parchment, quills and ink, and more books. The mysterious wardrobe that contained whatever was most needed or desired was there, too. I suspected Gríma also kept a journal somewhere within the room, but I wasn’t interested in looking for it in my first survey.

The third room had more chairs and more books, and two wardrobes. I peeked inside them and found Gríma’s clothes – his counsellor’s robes and more rough clothing, some with atrocious stitching. He must have made some of them himself, without knowing about the other wardrobe. I touched one of the shirts – clean, surprisingly. I could pull out his stitches and repair them more neatly; I had been stitching since I was a girl. I had repaired many of my brother’s torn clothes before, and my cousin’s, uncle’s, and husband’s –

What was I thinking? It was not my responsibility to repair Gríma’s clothing, or to help him in any way. He was holding me prisoner; he had betrayed my country, my family – me. Why should I pay him such kindness?

I touched the awful stitching on the shirt again and sighed. I would go mad with no tasks to do in this empty tower. The silence would drive me out of my head. How did Gríma stand it?

I pulled three shirts and a pair of badly botched breeches from the wardrobe and hurried to the next room before I could change my mind.

The fourth room contained still more books, and several tables full of peculiar objects – machines that Saruman must have created. I was uncertain of their uses, but their cold, harsh forms immediately sent a shiver up my spine. The things looked as though they would be used to evil purpose. Then I noticed the collection of herbs and realized they must be used for medicine. Surprised, I moved to examine them more closely. I did not recognize any of the tools from my training, but I supposed that was to be expected. Saruman surely did not use the tools of an ordinary healer.

When I turned away from those tables, I noticed that the opposite end of the room was totally empty, save for a few candles and some buckets. I was immediately suspicious, but too curious to avoid the space. I went to examine the empty area of the room and found a round tub carved directly into the floor. So my lord Gríma did bathe after all – though carrying water up so many steps surely was a painful task.

The fifth chamber was Gríma’s bedroom, and the sixth was Angaran’s small room. Those I had already seen too much of, so I returned to the first room. I borrowed the empty table as my workspace. I was uncertain where Gríma kept thread, and I assumed he had made it himself – poorly, I guessed. Instead of searching for it, I tried the mysterious wardrobe, and found thread in every color imaginable, along with several perfect bone needles. I picked the shade of thread closest to the color of the first shirt and the best needle, and then set about working.

Though I had always preferred swordplay to ladies’ work, sewing had always brought me some small comfort. It was often more challenging than any man believed it could be, and it was a soothing distraction from the harsh reality of the world. When friends surrounded me it was particularly pleasant, but I could do it alone and find almost equal pleasure in it.

Pulling stitches was less enjoyable than regular sewing, but it kept my mind off my troubles, and off the silence that surrounded me. An hour, maybe two slipped by unnoticed as I worked.

I was so involved that I did not notice Gríma until he spoke.

“This is astonishingly domestic of you, my Lady,” he said, and when I looked up his eyes were wide with surprise.

I cast him a scornful look and set back to work. “You’ve been gone a long time,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not expect you to miss me.”

“This tower… this tower is bleak and full of darkness and silence,” I said, frowning at a bad stitch. “I shall run mad without something to do.”

“Angaran – ”

“I spent all day with him,” I said. “It did no good. I do not have your skill, it seems.” The words sounded bitter even to my ears.

“It’s just this disease,” Gríma rushed to assure me. “I am sure you are quite capable with all other illnesses. But how can you be expected to cure something you have never seen or studied?”

“You must have succeeded at just such a task, to keep Angaran alive,” I said.

“Saruman had studied the forest plagues,” Gríma protested. “I knew of them from him.” He paused. “May I inquire as to why you were looking through my things? And what you’re doing with my clothes?”

“Repairing some incredibly shoddy work,” I replied, smiling. “Sewing is not among your many talents, my lord. I am disappointed.”

I looked up in time to see Gríma blush. “I never – men don’t – it was never necessary – ”

I laughed. “I know, it was never necessary for you to make or repair your clothes,” I said, looking down once more. “I understand. I shall have to teach you. You shall have to do better work than this if you want your clothes to last you.”

“I would appreciate the lesson,” Gríma said ruefully.

I pulled out the final bad stitch and dropped the thread alongside the chair. Grabbing the thread I had removed from the wardrobe, I threaded the needle and put in the first neat stitch. I worked contentedly for a few minutes, momentarily pleased with the presence of another person – even Gríma.

He shifted, and I paused. “I thought you might like a bath,” he suggested hesitantly. “You traveled long to find your way here, I am sure, and I imagine you would feel better if you washed away the grime from your journey.”

I thought with longing of hot water, soap, and clean hair. “I certainly wouldn’t protest,” I said, starting up my stitching again. My stitches were neat and precise – my teachers would have been proud. “I was very surprised to find you had a bath. And you keep your herbs to one side of the same room. What are all those devices?”

“They’re used for making very specific measurements, and for balancing miniscule amounts,” he said. “Handy for some of the more delicate potions of Saruman’s, and of my own concocting.”

“I’d hate to see what those potions are used for,” I said, grimacing.

“You needn’t worry; all mine are for lessening pain and dropping fevers,” he said. He took a few steps closer to me. When I didn’t protest, he came to stand behind me, observing me as I worked. “Your stitches are tiny,” he said, awed. “How do you do that?”

“Practice,” I said. “A great deal of it. A shirt is easy work after all the gowns I’ve made.” I worked on in silence for a few minutes more. “I suppose if I’m to take a bath I’ll need water,” I remarked.

“I suppose you will,” Gríma said faintly. I glanced up at him. He was staring intently at me, a warm gaze. The adoration there unnerved me. He had become so good at hiding his feelings in the last days of Rohan, only letting them show in several very brief moments. I had forgotten his intensity.

I set down the stitching and stood, walking around him and avoiding his eyes. “Will you need any help?” I asked. “There are many flights of stairs, and water is heavy.”

“There’s a system for it,” Gríma said, following me. “A well at one side of the tower – most useful in case of siege. There’s a pulley system that spans the whole tower.”

“No magic?”

He laughed. “No magic,” he said. “Saruman didn’t become so blatant with his use of power until the end. When he was saner, he wrote that overusing magic – and using it frivolously – were signs of an ignorant wielder. Apparently he forgot that in his later days.”

I glanced towards the wardrobe. “Evidently,” I said. “Will we need the buckets by the tub?”

“There should be a few on the pulley already, but the extras won’t hurt.”

“And I suppose they’ll need to be heated,” I added.

“I use magic for that.”

I looked over my shoulder. “And I thought only ignorant wielders used magic for frivolous things,” I said, biting back a smile.

He grinned. “I would hardly qualify myself as a master wielder,” he said. “But only because I prefer using it for simple things.”

“Saruman would disapprove,” I said.

“Saruman.” Gríma said the name disdainfully. “I don’t care about Saruman.”

“Strange,” I said, my smile dissolving. “You used to care very much about him.”

Gríma winced. “I was a fool.”

“You were a traitor, and a bastard, and a viper,” I said coldly.

“I know,” he replied in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”

I turned away and walked hurriedly through his chambers, storming into the fourth room and grabbing the two buckets there.

“Éowyn…” Gríma said as I passed him.

“Don’t,” I said. “You have said all you can.”

“No, I haven’t,” Gríma snapped. “You won’t let me.”

I turned on him. “I know you,” I said, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. “When your arguments fail to have any effect you’ll resort to your spells and that damned voice.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you would listen to me,” he retorted, bristling.

“And why would I listen to you?” I cried. “My uncle listened to you every day for seven years, and I saw what happened to him! I will not have you do the same to me.”

The color drained from Gríma’s cheeks. “Never,” he gasped. “Never to you.”

“Oh, I understand,” I spat. “It’s perfectly acceptable to attack my uncle, but not me – turning me into an empty shell would be a sin!”

“It was war,” Gríma said, fists clenching. “People do terrible things in war.”

“So you chose the side that was in the wrong!” I cried. “How could you think it was right, aligning yourself with Saruman?”

“You don’t understand,” Gríma said, closing his eyes. “You never once saw Saruman or spoke to him. I told you before, if you had met him, you would have changed your mind – even you, my princess, even you could not have fought him. And I am not nearly as strong as you.” He opened his eyes and stared at me imploringly. “Every night these many years,” he said, “Every night I have dreamt of the battles, your haunted face, your uncle and your cousin. The images from those years, the things I did – they have stayed with me and will not leave me. I am guilty, and you have every right to hate me, but Éowyn… Éowyn…”

He stared at me. The raw emotion burning in his eyes made me shudder. There was pain there as deep as any I had felt, rage and remorse and loss and hate. And over all of it, love. Love so intense I was drawn to it; love so obsessive I wanted to run from it. My heart beat in my throat. My vision blurred, my headache returned and pounded inside my skull, and the room around me spun dizzily. “Oh,” I gasped, and let the buckets drop, pressing my hands to my forehead.

“What?” Gríma asked, suddenly concerned. “Éowyn, love, what is it?” He strode across the room and took my hands away from my face, pressing one cool palm to my cheek.

“Oh, my head…” I mumbled. “I haven’t eaten today…”

Gríma grimaced. “You haven’t, have you?” he said. “I’m so sorry, I had forgotten… I eat so little myself, but you must be starved.” He took my arm. “Here, the bath can wait. Sit.”

My hands shook as Gríma sat me down in one of the chairs. He rushed away and returned moments later holding an apple. I snatched it from his hand and ate greedily, my hunger overcoming me.

Gríma stood over me, observing me. He laid a hand against my cheek, as though testing me for a fever. I pulled away from him, glaring at him over the apple. He stepped back, surrendering, and opted to converse with me instead.

“Plants have begun to grow here again,” he told me. “Saruman once kept very impressive grounds here, beautiful gardens and the like. I’ve done what I can to cultivate them and return them to their original state. For myself I grow food and herbs mostly.”

I had finished the apple. He handed me a slice of very malformed bread. “Obviously my cooking lacks the elegance of the food in Edoras in Minas Tirith,” he said apologetically, “But it keeps me alive.”

“You can ask for little else from food,” I said. I nibbled the bread with more delicacy, embarrassed by how quickly I had devoured the fruit. “It’s quite good,” I told him. I glanced towards the windows, so high above my head, as I spoke. Daylight was coming through, but it was soft and orange. Night was falling. “Surely Saruman did not keep seeds for gardening here,” I said.

Gríma shook his head. “No,” he confessed. “I had to ride a long way to the villages in Rohan to get the proper seeds and supplies. I still ride out when my stock runs low, but I have not been able to leave for awhile, with an invalid in my care.” He nodded towards Angaran’s room. “The people in the villages know me now, I suppose – as an eccentric hermit, of course, and not for who I am.”

“And who are you, Gríma son of Gálmód?” I asked quietly.

“I am more than you think,” he said.

I took a bite of bread and did not look at him. I could not. He was waiting for me to rise to the challenge, to speak, to demand an explanation. Instead I asked, “How do you purchase your supplies? Did Saruman keep gold here?”

He was distinctly disappointed. “No,” he said, disgruntled. “Well, some. But I save it for special needs or wants. Mostly I barter. There is much that is valuable in the tower. And much that is dangerous.” He knelt before me, laying his hands on my knees. I lowered the remaining bit of bread and glared imperiously down at him, but he did not move away. “Éowyn, I implore you,” he said. “Do not wander too far from these chambers without me there beside you. I can and will lock you here if you cannot remain, but I do not wish to do so.”

I arched a brow in what I hoped was regal disdain. “Really?” I said. “I thought it would bring you great joy to have me trapped in your quarters.”

“It is for your safety, Éowyn,” he insisted. “You will follow those voices again.”

I blinked. I had forgotten the voices. No, it wasn’t that I had forgotten them – their presence had been masked somehow, had gone to the back of my mind. But they were still there. If I listened closely enough I could still hear them. “I had forgotten them,” I said, flicking a stray bit of hair from my shoulder.

“You hadn’t,” he snapped, “And you won’t, not until you leave this tower.”

“Then release me.”

“No!” He drew in a deep, ragged breath. “We have a bargain, princess,” he reminded me. “You do not leave this tower until that bargain is complete.”

“You will be fortunate if I do not strangle you before sun sets,” I retorted. “I doubt you will see the end of this week alive.”

“You could not kill me yesterday, when I gave you every opportunity,” Gríma replied. “And you will not kill me before you see that Angaran is improving. You would not risk his life.”

I gritted my teeth. He knew me too well – a fact which always disconcerted me. “You have no meat,” I said instead of arguing.

“None that is cooked,” Gríma said. “I was preparing some when I decided to see how you were faring here. Would you like some?”

I finished the small morsel of bread. “No,” I said, brushing his hands off and rising from the chair. “I’m tired. I think I will sleep.”

Gríma stood too. “Very well,” he said. He paused. “You cried out in your dreams last night.”

I stared at him, quizzical. “And what did I say?”

He smiled. “My name,” he said.

I frowned. “It was a cry of horror.”

“Was it? It sounded quite different to me.”

I sniffed. “You hear what you desire,” I said, “and not what I desire.”

“We’ll see,” he said, arching both brows. “Sleep long and well, my princess. And may we end the day on better terms tomorrow.”

“We will be fortunate if we start the day on good terms, my Lord,” I said, biting back a smile.

He grinned. “If I prepare breakfast, will you promise not to argue at least until you finish eating?”

“I will promise,” I said. My stomach rumbled eagerly at the thought of food, but I silenced it. Gríma and I had spent enough time together that night. “Good night, my lord,” I said, curtsying out of habit.

“Good night, my Lady,” he replied, bowing in return.

I stood and hurried out of the room, throwing myself onto Gríma’s bed when I arrived in his bedchamber. But I lay there far longer than I had anticipated, considering Gríma’s final remark. I had spoken his name? Impossible. He was goading me. I had not dreamt of him, not that I could recall. Had I? Somewhere in my mind I vaguely saw his face and hands, but what did that matter? I had seen him too much in the past days. I had not cried out for him.

I undressed, half-hidden beneath the furs of Gríma’s bed lest he decide to observe, and then slid fully beneath the furs. I closed my eyes and drifted slowly into sleep.

The last image I remember seeing, before my mind emptied of all other thoughts, was Gríma, leaning towards me with an eager smile.

*