(Warning: this particular installment is rated M.)

The thick liquid lapping over her head brought her into a nostalgic state of calm. She could hear her own heartbeat and the muffled voice of her assistant; all of her thoughts had long melted away with the hot bath she had submersed herself into, almost as though she had re-entered her mother's womb for a few spare moments.

Her lungs began to feel weary at last, and so she emerged from the "womb," wiping the steaming water from her eyelids fluidly.

Éowyn was groomed in silence by the hand of a single maiden, her choice servant, Éola. Her lids seemed that much more close to dropping, immersing her into a sleep that she long desired, wanting to end the dreaded day where it stood. Alas, she could not end the sunlight as one could end a life, she thought with exhausted logic. Her hair, dried, scented, and undecorated, draped over her smooth shoulders.

Éola dressed her with skill, deciding upon a modest sleeping gown with which to ease her ruler's obvious discontent with the impending situation.

It seemed all too soon that her servant left her alone to wait, or rather to brood in her last moments of purity, within her late uncle's sleeping quarters. She welcomed the heated air swirling around her naked ankles from the fire lit in the mouth of the hearth. The translucent material making up the sleeves covering her arms gave her no shield to hide the goosebumps that rose over her porcelain flesh. She drew a white cape over her torso, the pure shade of the cloth giving her an ethereal appearance.

She turned her back to the oak wood door that became ever more ominous with each passing second from her newly gifted husband's delayed arrival. The flickering tongues of the fire gave her ease, at least some. Her eyes were weary; how inviting her uncle's down mattress would be to her back, long rigid from perfected posture during the day's drawn out events.

'Now I am left moments to myself before I am taken; before I, Éowyn, daughter of Eomund, am rid of my purity by the embodiment of all things shadowy and capricious. I shall not be truant this hour, nor an hour following.' As she encouraged herself, she relaxed her back, giving her mind a pillowfall. 'I will bring honor to my uncle, and I shall not stray. Though my heart shall not ever come to embrace the person that is the Wormtongue, I can no longer disguise my fate as anything more than it has become.'

Gríma had longed enshrouded himself near the door in which he had surreptitiously entered. His stare could nearly penetrate her where she stood, he watched her so, as a sword would pierce a cushion. Swallowing one, twice, he stepped forth with shuddering ardor. He found meek confidence in his appearance; his signature furred cloak had been scented with lavender, a calming herb to reduce his numerous stresses as well as to hide the truth that the garment had not been washed in numerous weeks. He had bathed himself briskly with chilled waters to rejuvenate his exhausted muscles, and a minor scent suggested by a maid who had appeared in the middle of his bath, Éobeta, of earthen nutmeg.

As he immersed himself into the dim light of the fire, he beheld her there. He could see, from the corner of her fair face, vestal vexation. Brought to his thin, grey lips, a lustful smirk matched his hungering azure stare. He could feel the anxiety wafting from her as the pheromones from a mare in heat catch the attention of giddy yearlings. The simple sight of her standing in the firelight, the weight of worry, hatred and newfangled pride tightening her back into a straight line, awaiting his appearance from his ever permanent perch within the places that the light cared not to grace brought out a want in him, a want that he could, at the waste of what felt like centuries, satiate.

Éowyn stiffened noticeably when the delicate curve of her shoulders were cupped by cadaverous hands. She forced an expression of serenity, lifting her jaw with the light nuzzling of her possessor's nose into her neck. She restrained her skin's desire to shiver, using all of her might to forbid tears of loathing.

Gríma inhaled her heavenly scent of honeysuckle and lavender, his eyelids fluttering in arousal. From her milky flesh, he noted, a barely detectable aroma of hot bathwater did radiate. His grip on her tightened with a wave of brief pleasure before he regained what little composure he had brought into the chamber with him.

Éowyn turned all too quickly under his hands, facing his ghostly visage with a painted expression of modesty. "My Lord, I wondered how long you would force me to wait."

His desire plummeted into a dull flame of what it had been seconds ago. His sickly face showed confused irritation. He released her, studying her face for some form of amusement.

"What is this facade you intend to charm me with?" he hissed.

"I know not of what you mean, my Lord." She faked an innocent stare. It was truth, she had decided to humor him with an illusion of what she was, or how she presumed that she was, inside of her wedded spouse's perverted mind as a ploy to aid herself through the night's fortellings.

He scoffed incredulously at her. "You are indeed the utter description of beauty, my Lady. You...are the epitome of the desires of the darkest man; so pure, limitless, powerful, free," his voice lightened, as though he were nearly ensnared with depressed emotion, his hand reaching to cup her jaw, "and so cruel." His cold eyes scrutinized her.

"I would live better days as you have treated me for so long than under such an act, my Éowyn," he grumbled, turning his back to her.

Grateful, though secret, of his release of her, she took full advantage of the statement he made. She straightened, her annoyance bubbling over.

"What gall have you to name me yours? I will never become your possession, Wormtongue. Merely by following the final desire of my last blood am I bound to you!" she growled, removing her cloak. Her blood had heated with the burst of her anger.

The feeling of separation she brought out using her hateful words stimulated his lust; the thought of her being ever slightly from his grasp made his greed of her intensify as though it had never depleted. He turned again to her, closing the distance between them with great steps. His long, pale fingers grasped at the side of her face, bringing their lips to junction with an angry fire.

Éowyn ripped her jaws from his grasp, wiping her soiled lips feverishly. She glared at him, walking back in time to his step of advance until at last she crawled backwards across the mattress, her hate-filled stare never once deviating from his pallid visage. Her luscious lips were made into a thin line, her golden waves falling around her celestial face, giving her an intimidated wildness comparable to a wounded predator. Knowing that, despite her willfulness, she must submit to the creature that advanced her, she prepared herself for what would be, to her, undesired intrusion upon her maidenhood.

She found herself on her back, staring up with prominent enmity at the bewildered face of her nemesis. Éowyn found that he had stopped his advances on her to gaze upon her in a manner that further perturbed her. She searched his expression for some hint of emotional change, yet she could see nothing.

"Why do you stall? I surmised that you would have disrobed me with your teeth and done away with my chastity before this time!" she barked incredulously. Her icy eyes beheld him with refutation, and she observed with a glimmer of amusement how his already sickly countenance had become moistened with a cold sweat.

He glazed his fingertips over her neck in the same trembling, almost pitying manner, his pupils contracted. 'It is merely that I never surmised that a creature like myself would ever gain the privilege to—touch—you with such freedom... And here you are living beneath my fingertips,' he mused with disbelief, tracing her jugular vein idly.

"I stall for no reason, save for your own, my Éowyn," he lied in his usual serpentine tone.

She flushed visibly, scowling. Her hands twitched, longing to swat his petting away and pummel him. Raising her chin, she stared back at him from beneath her lids, giving herself a more dignified appearance from her degrading position. She knew of no reason why then, aside from that they were alone and that she had no chance of escaping, she could not look from his face. She began to puzzle herself when she examined him; how his eyes were so displaced and yet so focused... Their luminous blue color reminded her of the clearest sky moments before the greatest storm. His flesh, so blanched that it gave the illusion of being grey, magnified the bruise-like rings beneath his eyes, which told her a sad tale of his nightly fears.

Involuntarily, her fingers crept from her side to touch his lips; his reaction gave her wordless amusement at the power, to her realization, that she had so long held over him. His lips, though thin, without flush and subtly chapped from lack of drink, would make her finest wool gown feel of burlap.

"Though I have allowed our union so desired by Theoden King, bless his spirit that ascends, does this in no way entail a sudden dispersal of my loathing on your behalf," she muttered, seriously spoken with the split weights of bewilderment and exhaustion pressing down upon her mind.

An astonishingly blue eye opened halfway. Gríma inclined his head so that it was his cheek that rested beneath her fingertips. " I would not have expected to go forth in life under any other condition, my Lady."

He knew that what he spoke was, quite bluntly, the most prodigiously false statement that had ever dared to utter, and he received only the most minor of chest pains from saying it so, yet he could foresee that the pains would intensify with the time that he would from then on be able to share with her. From that day on, she, the absolute in his otherwise bleak and hopeless life, was his to call his own, if only to himself. He could, finally, find friendship with his slumber, for he no longer had to stay roused for evenings in a row to plot the detailed deaths of each of her potential suitors. Oh, the things that he could accomplish in the end because she was in his possession...

Éowyn knew that he was lying through his ever-so-slightly yellowed teeth. She long held the knowledge of Gríma's love for her, how it was nothing short of obsession. An unknown emotion rose inside of her chest, pressing against her lungs like a cold stone. Was it...disappointment?

'Disappointment? Whatever for?' she demanded of herself. She jerked her hand away, averting her confused eyes. She felt a sea of feelings long unknown to her began to drown her mind.

'It is because I have exhausted myself that I feel this,' she assured herself firmly. 'No other explanation is key. ...I am no longer in my right mind. I shall admit that I know pity for this creature. He has forever had unyielding faith in me. He does not see the mistakes that I am hesitant to make. How many lifetimes shall I be able to continue this lie which roots itself within my destiny?' A shiver wrenched her body; the deep night was closing over them, severely diminishing the warmth in the stone establishment.

Wormtongue observed her as she made herself comfortable upon what would become, in due time, their marriage bed, or so he was determined to believe. He swallowed, his throat parched. He cast his eyes aside, perched on the edge of the bed. He rose slowly, lighting a fire within the mouth of the fire-pit to salvage what heat was left in the arctic interior. He removed his lambskin boots reluctantly, hesitant to accept the chill of the marble floor beneath his pallid soles. His mind was weary, yet he desired to make just the one advance toward his true love. However...

Éowyn could see, in the dim light of the fire's flickering tongues, that her former adviser was not as slight of frame as his ever-present black cloak gave him to be. As he straightened himself, she noted that his legs reminded her rather of a toad's; they seemed longer in length than they truly were, and in his black trousers all the more thin, however quite shapely with lean muscle and a high calf. She noted his curious, naked feet; the toes pale and spindly, and the second toe longer in length than the largest toe on each foot, the remaining toes descending in length in perfect "stairwell" form.

"Does the Lady desire supplementary warmth as well?" he inquired suggestively of her.

"No," she answered calmly, albeit quickly. She paused, making an expression of slightly perturbed nature. "You...may cease to address me so formally," she mused a moment, hastily adding, "whilst we are only in the company of one another." She shocked herself, instantly regretting what she had just allowed.

Gríma, dumbfounded, blinked with widened eyes. He lowered his oily head in recognition of her word. "If that is my L –" He stopped, beginning again after recalling the change. "If that is your wish, my Éowyn, then so shall it be."

She did not appreciate that, his possessive pronoun coupled with her name. She did not appreciate it in the slightest. She could not, despite that, ask any more from him that night.

"Bid you lay down," she invited distantly. She lay on her back, pulling the rich furs over her breasts. She did not acknowledge him as he position himself next to her, although he was a considerable measure from her. The bed could have slept at least two others with the space that Éowyn and the Wormtongue made between themselves.

Éowyn wondered why the man who perspired like a stallion at her mere breath did not spring upon her in an attempt to embezzle her virginity. She reminded herself to be grateful for this, for she was without energy enough to fight him off.

"You still hold that you stall for my sake, do you?" she interrogated in a sleep-ridden tone.

A moment of eerie silence passed before a quieted response was detected from across the bed, a wistful "Yes."

"And what gives my sake privilege for being honored within your deceitful heart? I would have surmised that my purity would have long been relieved of me, if I predict your devilish mind well enough." Her tone was cross, and with the ever descending pressure of hibernation upon her, made her sound like a pouting young girl.

A shuffling under the furs to her right coupled with a harsh exhale of breath educated her that he did, indeed, fantasize of it still, yet he did not act upon it.

"You do know me, my Éowyn, but merely as the sun knows the moon," he murmured.

Éowyn was struck. "The sun... does not know the moon," she retorted slowly – timidly.

Gríma turned to gaze upon her, the raging fire casting heavenly shadow over her fair, celestial visage. "Indeed."

She, too, turned her head, looking upon him. Her brow was furrowed, however approaching dormancy she was, so revealed by her cold eyes. She scrutinized him in the dim light in which he lay. Her hatred did not falter, but she was undecided as to what to make of him.

"As the sun knows not the moon, then I do not know you even while this be the thirteenth autumn that you haunt my steps?" she demanded.

"You know as you choose to know, my Lady," his simply complex reply supplied.

She was taken aback.

"All that I... have ever done... has been with the greatest intent," he mumbled, his dark eyelids drooping.

"Many of the most devastating events have been brought upon the history of this world with the greatest intent in mind, Gríma," she growled, turning away from him.

"You... You speak my name." He had never once heard her waste a precious puff of her breath to utter his birth name. His scarred heart fluttered.

"...I may speak it. As one... sometimes does." She drew her arms around her chest beneath the furs, scolding herself for offering such a poor excuse in her rebuttal.

"I welcome it," he whispered almost inaudibly, just as a friendly snake would.

Éowyn did not know how long she had slept, nor the hour when she had drifted off. The fire was long dead, the soot that blackened the mouth of the hearth making it seem abyssal. A wave of goosebumps traveled over her arms, even through the thick animal pelts covering her. With slight shiver, she stood from the warmth of her bed.

The floor onto which she stepped could have very well been frozen lake's ice film. She knelt fluidly, gathering needed tinder to place upon the stack of dried wood she had mounted inside of the fire pit. Luck was on her side; she struck the spark-stone once before the tinder caught blaze. Pulling her sheer cape about her, she curled up close to the fire, basking in the heat and light.

Out of nowhere, the weight of a thick pelt blanket being draped, ever timely, over her body. She rouses, spying Gríma attempting to stealth back into bed unnoticed.

"You are awake?" she inquired in a hushed tone.

He stops turning to her. "I have never slept, my Éowyn. I apologize; I did not intend to stir you."

"You did not stir me. It was the chill of the night." She paused, laying herself back down. She could sense him behind her, and against her better judgment, she spoke in a tone weighted by sleep, "You would accompany me?"

Gríma, his thoughts handicapped if only for a moment by his bewilderment, hesitated no further to slip next to her, not wanting to forsake a chance that she had so graciously given him. He splashed his dark cloak over them, his fingers tingling.

Éowyn exhaled peacefully, already back in dreams, courtesy of the added cloak's warmth.

Gingerly, the Wormtongue slid his arm over the smooth flat of her stomach, curling his fingers around her other hip to press himself close to her. His jaw resting comfortably in the nook of her shoulder and, inhaling, he was still able to detect the faintest scent of honeysuckle wafting from her hair.

Éowyn, deep in slumber, shifted, rolling her back to the fire. Her angelic face was but inches from the Worm's. His hand, resting then on the curve of her lower spine due to her adjustment, was but a finger's length from her succulent backside.

Though his digits burned with the desire to lay hand within that area of forbidden bodily territory, he suppressed his devilry, exhaling violently. He closed his purple, sleepless lids, resting his forehead against hers. He grinned inwardly, gently, to himself, feeling all of his ill emotions dissolve by the touch of his goddess.

Éowyn woke abruptly, nose to nose with the pale man that she scathingly called her own. The space between them had tapered into nothingness during some point in the night, she noted. She could feel his arms wrapped possessively around her mid-section, his black cloak wrapping them close together.

She extracted herself with great care from the cocoon, proud with her success of not waking him. She ordered her servants to act without sound, unless they would prefer to have him woken and hovering about them while she was readying herself for the day. She smiled when her reply was a group of expressions aghast at the idea, being escorted then to bathe by Éobeta.

The steam of the hot bath subsiding after her lengthy soak, she dried herself and stood while Éobeta dressed her in her wedding gown. Éowyn questioned this, why she was to be adorned with the outfit of the day previous. She received no proper reply, yet did not force the issue. Once dressed, she sent Éobeta to wake Gríma in her place.

To her, it felt as though it had been half of the day, when in truth it was but an hour that passed. In her anxiety, Éowyn began to rap her fingertips upon the armrest of the throne that was then hers.

Éobeta makes her appearance before the golden haired matriarch at long last, curtsying with a look of dread.

"What has stalled your reappearance, Éobeta? Where is my Lord?" Éowyn inquired, growing restless. She did not desire Gríma's presence at her side, however her day of rule could not begin without his presence, as per tradition.

The servant girl flushed, bowing ever lower. "I... I apologize, my Lady. I... I felt that it was not my place to rouse my Lord. He still sleeps upon the floor," she answered meekly, unable to face her overseer.

A sigh weighted with resentment and understanding ushered from her lips. Following it, Éowyn stood from her throne, fluidly walking from the mouth of the hall into the bedchamber from whence she had emerged. She spied him almost instantly; she was convinced that even a blind woman would be able to notice the stark black, man-shaped mound heaving quietly upon the floor. She spoke harshly to him from the doorway, demanding his presence at her side so that she might begin her day.

He did not show any sign of rousing, and so she crept closer in quick step of her irritation. She knelt beside him, staring for a moment before laying a firm hand upon a shoulder that was tightly wrapped in thick fur. She shook him gently in the beginning, attempting a more feminine approach; to coax him from sleep, as she might a younger child. Her patience wearing thin, she regained her stance, glaring down at him. She thought to give him a swift kick, but decided against it.

With a flash of her arm, she had ripped the tangled cloak from his sound body, only to shriek briefly.

Where should have been a man lay a beast; a warg, its coat of sick, black tar, leaped at her with a stone-jostling call. She was pinned down, made helpless. The cries that escaped her lips were thrown at deaf ears; no aid came running.

The warg thrust its weight upon her, shattering her legs and her arms. It threw back its ugly head, lunging then to sink its dagger-like teeth, stained yellow with past blood, deep into her soft middle. It ripped from her the flesh that would be her womb, leaving a gaping hole in its stead. The blood ran crimson, over her white dress, over the gray soot, over her porcelain hands that grasped her broken body.

She did not know who she was to emit the wails that she did. She managed to draw her legs to her midriff, screaming as though she, herself, had just been born. Her golden spiraled locks stuck to her bloodied face, and her entire body became increasingly hot. She couldn't feel herself breathing any longer, and her throat had long gone numb.

She knew that she was dying, that she was to disappear. Through her eyes, blurred by acidic tears, she looked upon her attacker with dying pain. It was then that her world went silent; her cries seemed to be eaten by the air, and her wounds burned more than ever then.

She looked upon Gríma standing over her, his hands poised in painful arches, his grey face stained red with her blood. His sick, tarry black hair hung wild around his face, which was contorted by fear, grief, wonder. He looked so much older there, his eyes without their unnerving glimmer. They had become dull blue; a lifeless sky within sky. His fingers, curled menacingly at his sides, glistening with blood, lifted in a fluid motion to reach out to her, his pained eyes beholding her as she swayed in place, her eyes fluttering dangerously.


Her back stung when she ripped herself from the moistened furs, her entire body drenched in a clammy sweat. From her pale lips erupted a scream; brief and violent, like the sound of a breaking bone in silence. Her brow, moist yet fevered, wrinkled as her panicked eyes jerked from one place to another in the darkness. In her ears, the sick thumping of her heart drowned out her loud, gasping breaths. She swung her feet from beneath the furs, standing shakily from her bed. She pulled her wild locks that clung to her damp neck away with a trembling hand.

From the corner of her eye, she could see the faint glimmer of a candle's light moving down the corridor beneath the frame of the door. With weary caution, she ventured from the door frame at which she had come to stand, her feet dragging themselves against the rougher hallway stones as though she were in a trance while she followed the source of the light.

Gríma's grip on the candle holder tightened. He walked in a timely manner toward his previous chambers, the dank hole in which he made his abode. He longed for the chilled air that greeted his pallid flesh upon pushing open the door that seemed to weigh twice as much as himself.

His arms still tingled from lifting Éowyn from the floor; he had woken sometime in the night to find her twisting violently in his grasp. He deemed her to be uncomfortable, but the mutterings of her small, incoherent voice unveiled to him that she suffered from a mental discomfort; a nightmare. Hoping to disperse her mental plague, he took her into his arms and nestled her among the downy furs atop their bed, deciding to leave her there to sleep in peace afterward, though he had to pry himself away from her side. He reasoned that she would awaken the following morning in a more amiable mood if she believed their union to be a dream.

He drew nearer to his previous nook in the Hall, his mind lost in the nostalgic feeling of returning to the room in the dark of night as he used to do after a lengthy day of tracking his beloved's every step. His pale hand emerged from the thick sleeve of his robe to grasp the iron ring that allowed him entry, but he paused, his actions frozen.

He could hear the soft dragging of linens behind him, approaching from his right. He whipped himself around, shining candle light upon his pursuer, his dagger's edge gleaming ominously in the paling light.

His expression of feigned hostility fell when his gaze landed on the contracted pupils of the wide, reddened eyes of his goddess. His dagger seemed to gain the weight of an Oliphont as it fell from his loose grip, landing with a resonant clank against the stone floor. He lurched forward, catching his fair lady when she stumbled forward into his arms, her skin damp and riddled with goosebumps. He became still then, lifeless, if for a moment while the thought settled into his mind; his beloved, cherished Éowyn had sought him of her own accord, and she did not scold him, beat him or chastise him. He felt her, taking in her vulnerability, how she trembled against him. He took his bare hand that had brandished the dagger and pulled her into him, closely, protectively.

"Éowyn, my Éowyn, what drives you from slumber and bed?" he inquired of her, leaning his jaw against her locks to inhale the salty-sweet scent of her hair.

She did not speak, her fingernails biting though the thick cloak upon his back.

"My mind is plagued by terrors of the night..." she murmured, her voice heavy with the discomfort of her own fear. She suddenly jerked herself from him, holding his at arms length to stare at him with haunted eyes. "Why do you abandon me? For what reason of more importance than I do you stalk the shadows?"

Her tone was acidic, yet weary, and unbecoming of her usual tone of voice that she took with him. The disturbed expression that veiled her beautiful visage fell into one of astonished hurt when Gríma's lips opened and closed, speechless. At last, he lowered to his knees, making small kisses upon her clammy palms.

"My Lady, my Éowyn, forgive this foolish creature. I left your side merely to fetch you a draught from my stores... I thought to cure your night terror," he lied swiftly, though it was partly in truth.

She stood above him, the free zephyrs that raced through the drafty corridors and ruffled the loose fabric of her gown being the only indication that she hadn't been rendered to stone. Silent she was and, as ever, not so easily convinced.

"What gave you knowledge of my nightmares? Did you peer into my mind with your dark magic and sick desires?" she hissed lusciously, lowly.

His eyes, luminescent before the candlelight, implored her. "You fought invisible enemies. I did place you upon the bed in hopes of consoling you, but you would not have it."

She did not know why such a trivial thing upset her so. At any other moment, she would find herself jubilant if only to be rid of his shadow encroaching on her steps, yet there she stood before him, a-tremble with confusion, disturbed by her own thoughts.

"I... am haunted by you... even whilst I dream," she murmured to him, her voice a chilled wind through a hollow tree.

Gríma was slow to rise, his eyes never leaving her pallid visage. His hairless brow wrinkled in silent surprise, his piercing eyes agape at the expression of hopelessness that made residence in her cold, cold eyes.

"You... have dreamed of me, my Lady?"

Her stare was dead. "Only within my horrors of the night," she whispered.

Gríma's stare softened considerably. He knew it could not be as something pleasant that she thought of him in sleep. He drew himself aside, holding out his hand in gesture. "I will take my Lady back to her quarters, if she does so wish it," he said to her, hoping to be of some comfort.

Éowyn's eyes traveled from the light of his candle to the palm of his hand. Her mind, at length, went blank. "You shall not leave the bedside again during my sleep, not after you have stalked my dreams and steps so freely. ...I forbid it," she uttered at last. She drew a hand to her throat suddenly, having realized what she had commanded. Her eyes whipped briefly to his pale face for a moment, judging his reaction to her decree.

She was so... so haunted. What sort of dream, be it a nightmare or of pleasantry, could render her so? He had never yet seen her so weighted on the mind by any one thing. He had to steady his raging heart, wipe his perspiring palms surreptitiously on the long trails of his cloak as he digested what she had demanded of him: do not leave my side, she had said, in simplest form. He inclined his head, tendrils of greased waves framing his eyes which begged something of her.

"My Éowyn," he asked, his voice riding on an exhaled breath, "what dream is it that has wrought such an expression in your eyes, on your fair, fair face?" He stepped close to her, cupping the side of her face as he had twice before, his skin crawling in ecstasy as her eyes threatened to close and her rose petal lips to quiver. "What dream is it that makes you ban me from leaving your sight when I know of no such golden, celestial creature who detests me so?"

His words were maggots eating into her defenses, weakening her, molding her slowly, visibly, into a woman of his innermost desires. Yet, he would only lust for her when she refused him... She felt that hand astride her cheek, those cold fingers that wrote each word that would tear her family apart for decades. Yet, those worn fingernails that grazed against her flesh as the fingers traversed to her neck, her collarbone, those fingernails that were stained purple with the ink of a scribe and the dark acts they had committed... they brought such comfort to her. Such unwanted, unthinkable comfort.

She opened her mouth to speak, though the voice sleeping within her throat bore no volume, as only a hushed breath escaped before she found her world hazing over. Her lips collided gently, shyly with those of the creature, nay, the man whose birth she had so long cursed. Her cheeks rose in color to a timely flush, a virgin pink. She inhaled smoothly, sharply, as those same grey lips kissed at the elegant length of her neck, tasting the flesh they had so longed to taste. Her hands massaged the back of his head, imploring Gríma to continue his search for whatever it was that he desired. She could feel the absolute horror of her nightmare melting into nothingness as her mind was surrendered to her vulnerable longing.

Éowyn couldn't understand why she was allowing Gríma, the Wormtongue, to fondle her so. She couldn't understand why her arms didn't push him, why her hands didn't bruise him, why her legs didn't carry her away from him. She didn't dare understand what drove her to encourage him, for she feared that if she did attempt to comprehend even a small amount of the mysterious force that controlled her, that it would somehow destroy her very being. Instead, she succumbed, her mind already weakened enough by Gríma's words alone to allow any sort of retaliation.

Éowyn had passed the point of any possible return.

Gríma's body shuddered in a manner so sublime that one would think he had merely breathed in too much air when he discovered that his Lady, his Éowyn, did not reject him. Somewhere deep within his subconscious, he would find disappointment in her lack of poisonous quips and violent acts against him. Somewhere, but not there in the tips of his fingers, not there at the juncture of his thighs. He pressed against her, finding his touches more welcome to her than he could have ever imagined in his most vivid of fantasies. He returned from the silky skin of her neck to the moist comfort of her virgin lips, exploring the unique taste of her mouth with his tongue. He felt relief and sorrow when she did not move to snap at the oral organ, attempting to sever the vile thing that had sewn so many lies.

Hands drifted fluidly over linens of all textures, discarding this and unbuttoning that. Materials that were coveted by many and bestowed upon one were forgotten, laying in mingled heaps where they fell upon the chilled corridor floor. Elvish silks and Dwarven wools, the finest of textiles to be worn by kings, were left to collect dust in some obscure corner. Even an off-white, horribly stained handkerchief, whose frayed lace edges had been dabbed many a time against the corners of the grayest of lips, drifted daintily to the ground, forgotten.

Gríma's lips closed around the hollow of her collarbone, his hands grasping at her thin under-dress, aching to remove it. He could find fuel in nothing save for the soft gasps erupting from her trembling chest, her fingers arched and splayed across his shoulders.

Éowyn , closed her eyes and slid to the floor, the smooth marble bringing an unwelcome numbness to her milky skin.

Gríma sat atop her, feasting with gluttonous eyes upon her heaving breasts. At long last, having toyed with her enough, he grabbed for his dagger that lay momentarily discarded beneath his cloak, dragging the poison-filled tip down from the chalice-shaped breastline of his lady's slip, cutting the intricately woven fabric.

The chill of the Mordorian blade millimeters away from her most tender flesh of breast and belly rendered a shudder of pleasure from her depths that she had not foreseen.

Gríma lay his blade aside, marveling at the expanse of her flat abdomen. He watched as goose pimples rose from nowhere, summoned by the frigid airs around them. He lowered himself to her, mouthing at her sweet skin. His hands kneaded at her breasts; firm and smaller they were, like the first adolescent peaches to come to fruition in the summertime.

Éowyn's breath all but rushed from between her rose-petal lips when the moist warmth of his mouth enclosed around hardened nipple. She instinctively lifted her hips to meet with his, wrapping her legs around his waist, the hem of her slip sliding from her writhing body, exposing her in her entirety.

Gríma trailed a finger from the tip of the unoccupied breast to the juncture of her thighs, massaging the ridge of her womanhood as he would the muzzle of an anxious steed.

Éowyn's eyes were immediately agape with the touch, a quick, lasting sound of surprise and unadulterated pleasure issuing from her core. She ground her hips against his digit, her body reacting shamelessly in its longing. Her lower lip became the anchor to her consciousness, her upper teeth slicing into the luscious skin.

The Wormtongue suckled at her breast as though he were an infant, his hairless brow knitting as a rush of memories from his boyhood surfaced. In desperation to forget the long suppressed details of his youth, he trailed his tongue from the breast he so possessively handled down the flawless curve of her palpitating chest until he reached her firm, marble-esque abdomen. He planted small kisses upon her navel, illiciting the smallest of sounds from Éowyn. Gríma continued to massage the moist cavern of her femininity, at long last daring to extend his middle digit to coax at the entrance to her innermost womanhood.

Éowyn groped for his head, which nuzzled at her navel in a trance-like manner. She cupped his visage, bringing those eternally frozen eyes to meet hers.

He thought that she had never looked so beautiful as she did then, her cheeks and forehead flushed with the heat of her passion. Her eyes were clouded with some unnamed element, one that he could only interpret to be the rare and coveted expression of pleasure.

"Gri...ma..." she whispered on a stammering breath, her lips clashing with his as her touch, a slow, meaningful stroke from the hands of a despairing lady whose palms had only known the gilded hilt of her sword and the fragile stems of simbelmynë flowers, released the toggle of his leather trousers. Her kisses became more chaste, her lips dancing along his jawline while her palms slid beneath the black vest, under the netted long-sleeve shirt, pawing at his undefined stomach. She relished the feel of his under-developed abdominal muscles, her fingertips gliding upward to press against his chest. She exhaled against his mouth as she felt it, his heart, pounding against her palms.

'The beast demands to be unchained,' she mused to herself, impassioned. Éowyn slid her hand down his chest, noting how it seemed to cave in ever so slightly at the center of his ribcage. She made to trail down his stomach, though as she placed her palm flat against his core, she pushed, finding herself atop him. She pinned his wrists down, staring into his horror-struck, naked eyes calmly. She planted the softest of her kisses yet upon his thin lips, pausing for a moment before drawing herself erect.

Gríma's eyes, so used to the darkness of those frigid halls that she who had mounted him might have been bathed in sunlight, beheld her there, above him, the goddess that he knew that she was. Her hair, two raging waterfalls of golden curls, covered her ample breasts. Her skin, paler and fairer than the purest of the moonlight, contrasted against him so that she seemed to shine with some ethereal light, while he became only grayer in comparison.

He trembled beneath her lips as she dragged them sensually from his own, placing them but a breath away from his ear. There, she exhaled, feeling his body tense beneath her. She brought her hand to his opposite cheek, feeling him press further into her touch. Éowyn calmed herself, her heartbeat slowed to nearly nothing. She could feel Gríma's smoldering longing, his greed for her against her womanhood, as she had released his member from the confines that it had strained against.

It was her virginity, the essence of the White Lady of Meduseld, that beckoned to him. It was her chastity that teased him. It was her way and practice of avoiding his advances for so long that bound his feet to her shadow; Éowyn brought her lips to rest against his earlobe, reveled in the feeling of her purity for a moment more, and whispered with heated breath to him the two words that would reap it from her:

"Giefan ánnes."*

A single upward thrust; an instance of a pain unthinkable; a numbing, sizzling fire. Éowyn's breath hitched in her throat, the nearly inaudible sound resonating within Gríma's mind. Éowyn's eyes, once a shade of silver so frigid, closed themselves to the world around her, melted.

She did nothing when she was once again lowered to the ground, the cool, flat stones a welcome sensation to her aching body. She opened her eyes slowly, Gríma's face inches from her own. She arched her neck, her hands brushing over the segments of his spine as he buried his face in her shoulder. Éowyn, in a timely manner, eased her lower half upward to meet the prominent ridges of his hipbones. She wrapped her legs around his waist, inhaling sharply as he began his rhythm.

Gríma's mind was dazed. Every thrust he gave, a cry, short, melodious, was wrought from her lips. He quickened, she followed. He relented, she sighed. His lips made innumerable trails over her lips, her neck, her shoulders...

"Éowyn... My Éowyn..."

Gríma's breaths, heavy and impassioned, echoed within her mind as time seemed to drag slower and slower. Each time that he pushed himself deeper within her, a newer wave of pleasure once foreign to her would drown her senses, rendering her immobile save for the nearly mechanical movement of her hips adjoining to his. Her lithe form felt as though it were aflame, her golden waves fanned about her and matted with moisture. She pulled him tightly against her, her breaths labored and quaking with a passion that she had never thought she would know. Her fingers found themselves tangled in his hair, crushing his lips against her own desperately, her short, high-pitched whimpers vibrating in his mouth.

Gríma fisted her well-toned thigh, hoisting her leg higher against his hip. His core burned with his insufferable lust, a lust that he never thought to be quenched. He rode her viciously, finding himself pounding into her body as deeply as her biological structure would allow. He released all of the years he had spent under her scornful gaze, under her verbal sword, under her spell that rendered her untouchable. He unchained his hatred of her spiteful words, his sorrow from her bruising hatred of himself. He made free his long restrained desires, his uncharted fantasies; oh, how he had pined for her! How he had coveted those who knew her touch, who knew her kind words, her kind looks. How he had suffered and brought suffering to himself, and only on her behalf. How he had considered ending it all if not for the promise of another day in which he could let his gaze wander to her golden, celestial image...

How he hated her. How he hated her for making him love her. How he hated her for making him love her, and how he hated her for not even having to try. How he loved her. He loved her. Oh, how he loved her.

Beads of sweat flew from the ends of his hair as he brought himself to connect with her a final time. His face, paler than the underbelly of a toad, though just as moist, froze with an expression of pained intoxication. His eyes, agape, and the bluest of blues, bore into her own, his pupils dilated; it was as though he had been gutted from behind, yet amidst his surprised horror was the most piercing feeling of weightlessness...

Éowyn's eyes stared beyond the luminescent blue of Gríma's gaze, her lips parted and a-tremble. Her eyebrows, once arched in penultimate pleasure, lowered with the exhaling of the breath she was unaware that she had held. She lay beneath him, the man she had hated since the moment he had allowed her name to slip past his serpentine, grey, silken lips, her body in perfect parallel to his own. She gave a single spasm, her innermost womanhood aflame with her ardor, as his seed poured into her.

"Gríma..." His name from her lips, whispered upon the open air.

She grasped at his back, slick with sweat. Her eyes closed, her lips parted. Breathing; labored, shaking. Skin; flushed, bruised. Hair; matted, clinging.


Gríma brushed his thumb across her pink lips, lips that had uttered his name, lips that shook with each breath that was taken. He lowered himself, his gaze locked with hers, nearing her succulent mouth, only to place a final kiss upon her forehead. He cherished the taste of her sweat upon his tongue.

Éowyn forced her eyes to remain open, though her mind and body pleaded for rest. The feeling of empowerment, satisfaction, and an element that could not be named coursed through her body. She searched Gríma's eyes, cloudless blue skies of the summertime, for an answer that she did not know she wanted.

Her breathing, deep yet steady, was coupled with his own. The floor beneath them, regardless of their heated love-making, remained colder than ever; a delight to the muscles that screamed within the both of them. The sultry fluff of Gríma's cloak was a welcome friend to Éowyn's body. She allowed her eyelids to compromise her vision, her arms tucked against her chest as Gríma's chin rested atop her head.

"Mm... My Éowyn..."

The ever-so-slight upward curve of Éowyn's lips was unsuppressed as she heard her name slip off of that infamous tongue before her conscious mind delved into the black abyss of a dreamless slumber.

Author's Note:

*Giefan ánnes- Old English (or what I thought would be used as an equivalent to Rohirric language), roughly translated to mean "Give unity"; Éowyn is giving Gríma her permission to consummate their marriage.

Simbelmynë - the regional, white flower which is said to grow upon the burial places of many an honored soldier and branch of royal blood. It resembles a botanical crossing of a traditional daisy and a white pansy.

So. Hey there, guys. I have absolutely no excuse as to why this story has been on hiatus for so long. I've decided that this chapter, if not another more appropriate, did not need to remain unpublished any longer. That was the worst cliffhanger I've ever left my reader(s) before. There you have it: pure, uncensored lemon, Griowyn edition. I hope that is sufficient collateral for my absence. :\

Let me know if you spot something odd, incorrect, or anything else. I'll be happy to explain/correct anything you inquire about. Thank you for reading (and not giving up on me)! PS: This ain't over yet.