"And He Will Smile"

Work: the Lord of the Rings
Characters: Gríma/Éowyn
Genre: General
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Not at all how I usually write. In fact, I'm quite surprised at myself for this... but it was dying to be written. So it's dark, as my writing is wont to be, but in a far more twisted sense. Drop me a review and tell me what you think!


Every time she denies him will only make it worse for her in the end, he thinks with grim satisfaction. Each icy glare and haughty sneer only seals her fate – and it is a particularly dark fate which awaits her.

Her face is stern and cold; her eyes have never looked upon him save with mockery and condescending. In fact, she shows little more emotion than these as of late, and he takes a pleasure in her solemnity and her grief.

Yes, hate me, loathe me, abhor me, do. It will only make it sweeter for me in the end.

Ever since he has known her – nearly all her life – she has shown him utter disdain. He presumably merits for his weakness the stares of an impudent child, the snickers of a girl, and the scorn of a woman. It is well, though. There is little anger left in him for her, only raw bitterness like a festering wound, and the desire for the ruin of the brazen and the beautiful.

Does he love her, she of this most exquisite and cruel beauty? If to love means to wish to taint, corrupt, and destroy; if lovers cause each other to suffer ceaselessly; if romance is best expressed through violence and words of hate – then yes, he loves her more than anything in the world.

So scorn me, my princess; do as you will. It matters not now. For one day you will have no uncle, no cousin, no brother to protect you; there will come a day when you will reach for your sword, your crutch, and find it gone. And what then will you do? I fear that you will not find your disdain an ample defense.

He will fill her proud eyes with tears; he will cover her white skin with mottled bruises. He will belittle everything she has ever held dear; he will make her scream, weep, beg. She will beg at his feet like a dog, pleading his forgiveness, and he will smile and present her with her brother's severed head, a token of his affection. He will mock her grief; he will make her broken and helpless and wretched, nothing like the shieldmaiden who thought herself so high above him. He will have her for his pleasure whenever he desires it, and she will fight and struggle, and he will not be gentle. But in time her resistance will wane and end, and she will do no more than revert to petty insults before slipping into sullen, beaten silence.

"You are a monster," she will whisper in vain.

Yes, sweet princess, a monster and more – but it was you who made me so.