Author's note - I posted this a while ago but deleted it for re-editing and this is the finished result. I didn't change much, just a few wordings here and there. Enjoy!
Oh and I don't own the characters of The Lord of the Rings, or this situation.
She forbid emotion to colour her eyes. She would remain stoic, strong, and true; like a daughter of kings. She stood tall, only to falter and crumble in earshot of the slow dragging footsteps of her mind's tormentor.
The snake, Gríma, son of Gálmód. The Wormtongue.
His eyes remained eerie to her. She chose not to find herself looking into them. They ghosted over her, hungrily, as if he were looking upon a great feast. Éowyn tried to evade them, him at whatever the sacrifice.
But present he still was, in the midst of her conversations with her beloved uncle who was becoming rapidly poisoned by Gríma's influence. Sorcerer of manipulation, deceit and flattery. Kneeling before her kin and the King of her realm, she could see his will diminishing, from the blade of a sword to the thin wisps' of smoke emanating from the cold hearth in his Hall. Older he grew, the lines etched into his face like a carving and his once turmeric coloured hair was now as white as clouds, as thin as smoke. Disappearing as he was, she could not bear to watch.
She had her suspicions. But kept them close.
In the warm nights where beads of perspiration would cling to her skin and the want to throw the rich cloth covering her unceremoniously off of her bed was strong, she would remember. She would remember the chilling sound of his breath close to her ear, the sticky locks of his hair fluttering across her face... Jerk she would and keep her cloths close, terrified.
She had taken to carrying a dagger hidden in her robe at all times.
He was breaking her strength, little by little, gaze by gaze.
Loathe she did of the fear and dread that the sound of his footsteps, always shadowing her own lighter ones, always incited in her. The sound seemed to echo deathly in her ears, an imprint of the man himself.
The loss of her strength and resolve where she was rendered unable to choose and fight for her destiny was her greatest fear and it was rapidly gaining on her as she fought with her inner demons as to whether she should inform her brother or her uncle of Gríma's doings.
But what would they think? She was nothing but a lady, a woman. Her opinion and insight was seldom needed, or desired.
Presently, she would keep her silence. She only hoped the echoes would fade in time.