Title: Parry and Thrust

Rating: PG-13, for sexual implications.

Pairing: Gríma/Éowyn, what else?

Summary: Éowyn finds her sword is not an adequate defense against the words of Gríma Wormtongue. Oneshot, most likely.

Genre: Angst. Angst. More Angst.

Warnings: This story randomly flew out of my head. I just kind of pulled it together right before bed one night. Sorry if it shows. Also, this is a Gríma/Éowyn story. Most likely not recommended for Legolas lovers, happy-go-lucky people, and Gríma/Éowyn-haters. Actually, Gríma is a tad bit more evil in this one. I like toying with him; it's too much fun. Oh, yes, and as I said above, this is laden with sexual tension and a bit of metaphor, if you look closely enough. Even the title's got a bit of that. I make no apologies for my rampant teenage hormones.

- - - - - - - - -

You cannot run forever.

A sword in hand, she spins, whirls, slices, pulls back, thrusts -

Ah, and I would do the same with you…

No! She spins again, the blade whirring in her hands, singing like death. She is near frantic, her fanaticism with the sword born of fear. Tears and sweat mingle on her face inseparably, and she swings the blade through the air again, her motions more hurried, yet her swordplay impeccable. In these frenzied moments of rabid terror, no man can defeat her. She might take comfort in this - but he is no ordinary man.

Even my princess has come to understand; there is no escape.

She practices with her sword today because she felt - did not see, but felt - his eyes burning into her, and knew he craved her, knew she was in danger. And when he approached that stage at which he could no longer withold his burning desire, and when she sensed it, (she always knew) she would prepare with a sword.

I hear your blade singing in the courtyard… no matter. You fight only air; my voice will freeze your blood in your veins this night, and you will surrender before you can raise a hand to fight.

Her brother does not understand these frantic fits, these desperate, well-performed games of swordplay. He knows that Gríma watches; that Gríma haunts; that Gríma craves; that Gríma lusts for Éowyn. How could he not know? The Counsellor makes no attempt to hide it. But he what he does not know is that Gríma whispers; Gríma captures; Gríma touches; Gríma caresses; Gríma kisses, cradles, holds, loves her in the dead of night when he cannot resist any longer. And Éowyn does not fight. She should, she knows; but she stands frozen the instant he breathes his golden words in her ear, and already she is bent to his will. She would fight, if he did not speak so well; if his voice did not express so perfectly the emotions trapped deep in her heart; if his words did not strike so strong a chord; if his tongue were not so eloquent. But the bastard has learned well how to parry, thrust, and kill with words; where the Rohirrim use swords, the Wormtongue only speaks. And he, it seems, is the more powerful for it.

Cry to the darkness, weep as you will; but you willingly have surrendered, and I will never release you.

She drops the sword to the stones with a clatter; darkness has descended upon the courtyard of Edoras. She stands, frozen, in the walls of stone, amongst the dying roses; wait just an instant more, just a moment to be free…

"My Lady."

Her eyes close tightly, oh that voice… "What is it, Lord Counsellor?"

You know.

She cannot see him smiling, but she can hear it in his voice as he stands behind her: "It is dark and chilled outdoors; you must go in to bed, my Princess, or you will catch your death of cold."

That would not be so terrible.

Oh, but it would, my darling… come back to bed. You cannot resist.

"I… by and by I come," she whispers brokenly.

Aaahhh… now you are mine…

Robes rustle against the rock as he bows. "Do not tarry overlong here, my Lady. Darkness is not friendly to such as you."

Darkness protects you, gives you strength and courage. And I… it only weakens.

I will show you the way in darkness if you will lead me to the light.

"I come now."


He offers her his arm. "If I may…?"

You ask as though I am able to refuse.

You are. It is only your mind that limits you.

"Thank you, my Lord." He walks her up the numerous stairs of Meduseld, leads her into the Golden Hall where her Uncle sleeps upon the throne.

"Will you not attend the King, my Lord?" she asks, almost hoping, almost fearing.


She does not look, but she can feel the sneer.

"My liege sleeps peacefully this night. He needs no attending by any but the guards. Mayhap such uninterrupted rest will improve his health."

How oft and easily lies drop from your lips.

Even you accept them. They are easier and sweeter than the truth.

"Does your brother rest this night?" he questions.

Surely you already know.

"He is abed already, Lord Counsellor." Just as you wish it. How effortlessly things fall into line for you.

He bows slightly. "I will walk with my Lady to her chambers, if I may be so bold."

It is her turn to sneer.

You dare pretend you are so meek? Do not mock me, Gríma.

Society begs us, veil emotion! Show not at all that you feel any human want… subtlety, propriety, all demands made upon the aristocracy. It is only in the darkness of your private chambers that I may reveal to you my passion. Surely you of all people know this?

"I cannot refuse you, my Lord," she says aloud. It is innocent enough when considered with her previous words; but Gríma knows its meaning. His thin lips twitch into a smile.

"I shall hold you to that." And before this night is scarce begun, I shall be holding you… and you yourself cannot deny me.

She would fight, had she the strength; but she does not. His fingers lightly stroke her arm through the fabric of her dress as she pushes her door open. He follows her, a silent, swift shadow in the darkness; and the instant the door slams shut and traps her; she is in his arms, her lips pressed to his, his body melting into hers, and she cannot fight back…

Parry and thrust, my Lady, parry and thrust; but try as you might, in this battle I have already won.