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All Credit goes to the Original Author
Finally some peace and quiet, Éowyn thought to herself, as she settled down on her home-made deck chair, carefully positioned outside the doors to the Golden Hall of Meduseld on the balcony to catch the warm sunlight, and opened her book ‘The Earl of the Earring’. She had only ever managed to read three pages at the most without being disturbed; she had found the book on her uncle’s bookshelf, and had hoped to read it quickly before he noticed it was gone, but it was proving difficult.
She flicked to where she had left off, ‘Chapter 3’, and started to read. ‘The road to their destiny was a perilous one. The flobbits were lagging behind in the heat of the vibrant afternoon, and began to wish they had never began their quest. The leading flobbit, Mojo, was just about to give up hope, when the branches of the trees proudly parted, the breeze blew his heavy fringe up, and the hedgerows along the road opened wide to reveal a’--
Éowyn froze on that line, as a bulky shadow formed over her and the book. She rolled her eyes, shut the book with a fierce ‘whop’ and stood up to face the shadow-former, uncertain as to who it was.
“Hello, Éowyn,” came an oily, gravely voice. She rolled her eyes dramatically to her unwelcome intruder. Gríma Wormtongue smiled at her, his thin, chapped lips spreading over blue-grey teeth. She rolled her eyes in disgust.
“What do you want, you swine?” she hissed. He flinched at the word “swine”, but just managed to maintain is crooked smile and oily persona.
“Well isn’t that nice?” he went on, stepping closer to Éowyn, causing her to back away. “Here I am, making an effort to be pleasant, kind, conversational,” he stepped closer again, circling the deck chair only to bend down and sit on it, putting his hands behind his head. “And you have to respond like that. And you call yourself the King’s niece?” He leaned forward in his seat, and shook his head in a mocking fashion. “Most shameful.”
Éowyn was not quite sure how respond. Her first thought was that she would now have to burn her poor deck chair she had spent the weekend making; she could not stomach the thought of sitting where Gríma had parked his rear. She folded her arms and glared at him.
“You dare you come here, confront me, and be so rude?” she glowered. She wanted to lunge out and slap him, but feared if she reached out towards him he would hold on to her and not let go. “Not to mention coming along and besmirch my personal belongings - you do realise nobody will want to sit on that now you have?”
Gríma’s smile quivered, but lashed back two seconds later. “You do realise that book is not a personal belonging of yours,” he smirked, waving a pointed finger towards the book firmly in her grip. “That belongs to the king; you are lucky you borrowed it without permission before I did - I planned to read it myself.” He let a soft laugh escape his lips. “I would have thought a book like that would be much too sordid for a young, fair maiden like yourself.”
She scoffed at him. “I am not as fragile as you like to think,” she replied, watching him raise a transparent eyebrow. “And anyway; since when could you read?” she taunted.
Gríma froze, genuinely insulted at the standard Éowyn held him at. “I will have you know, my sweet, little lady, that I am a most learned and avid reader,” he replied proudly.
It was now Éowyn’s turn to raise an eyebrow in amusement. “Oh, of course, yes,” she sneered, “Well why don’t you enlighten me, and tell me what you have recently read? What‘s been keeping your bed-side candle alight these recent nights?”
Gríma sat still with his hands on his lap, twiddling his thumbs and thinking fast. The last thing he had read was ‘A Guide to Life: For The Depressed’ by Chirpy Oakwood, but he would sooner admit that he didn’t blow the candle out at all than that - which he didn’t. He merely shrugged casually.
“Oh, far too many grand novels to recount in several seconds,” he smiled. Éowyn rolled her eyes again, even more melodramatically. “But I know one thing I can read right now,” he whispered, leaning forward again. Éowyn’s eyes narrowed. “You,” he hissed. “I can read you like a book.”
Éowyn squinted at Gríma and lowered her eyebrows at the sinister character before her, more dark and foul than any creature she had read about in any book. “I beg your pardon?” she replied, forgetting to whisper.
Gríma nodded smugly. “You heard,” he said quietly. “Oh yes, I see what’s going on in your pretty little head. You cannot hide it from me.” He enjoyed watching her start to panic.
“And, pray tell, precisely what do you think you can read from me? What do you think I would take the time to hide for the likes of scum like you?” said Éowyn, her eyes widening and narrowing as she spoke.
With a sudden air of triumph, Gríma simply stood up and looked her in the eye. “Your feelings,” he whispered, so quietly that Éowyn unfortunately had to lean closer to hear, feeling his stale breath stain her cheek. “Your feelings … for me.”
Éowyn looked at Gríma in utter disbelief and outrage. Her eyebrows shot up so high they almost hit her hair line, and her eyes shrunk to slits. Gríma miss interpreted her reaction, and began to nod with satisfaction. “You,” he snarled, “are a foul, sick, twisted man,” she concluded, pointing angrily at him.
Gríma watched her and grinned broadly, his cloudy eyes suddenly bright and shining in a way Éowyn had never seen before. “Oh, come on,” he replied, his voice wobbling with sudden excitement. “You know you want it really!” And he started to walk towards her.
Éowyn gasped, and in a state of shock, swung out with the first thing that came to her; the ‘Earl of the Earring’ book went flying in her hand and slammed into Gríma’s face, turning it’s milk complexion to peony pink.
“Did you just hit me?” he growled, holding his hands to his face, and glaring at Éowyn.
“Did you just hit on me?!” she cried in outrage, holding the book out in front of her again. “I cannot believe you would have the nerve to stand here and talk to me in such a…” she waved her free hand in the air helplessly for a moment, “…such a confrontational, suggestive manner!” She shuddered. “I have never seen you like this before!”
Having recovered from his attack with the book, he grinned again. “Really?” he replied. “Do you like it?” He raised both brows, where his eyebrows should have been, and Éowyn stepped backwards in utter disgust.
“You sicken me,” and she turned on her heel to walk away - but a split second later she realised it was a mistake. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gríma raise his hands in the air in anguish.
“Éowyn!” he cried out, his hands in front of him as if he were about to fling his arms around her. “I’m sorry! I just don’t think I can handle this anymore!” He smacked his hands to his face, as if to hide his sudden shame. Éowyn froze on the spot, suddenly concerned for Gríma’s well-being, but more worried about her own. He came close to her, right up to her face. “I think - I think I -” he stammered.
“You think you what?!” she gasped, watching him with horror. He stared at her and pressed his lips together as if he was compressing a dire secret. They both paused. “What?!?”
“I think I love you!!!” he shouted. Éowyn dropped her book in a state of shock. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted the hem of her long terracotta skirt to her ankles, kicked the book aside, and simply ran. “No, Éowyn, wait! You have to let me speak!” Gríma called to her, but she could barely hear as she was already down the steps and sprinting past the houses and down the grass bank.
He hastily followed after her, carefully not to trip over his heavy black, velvety robes. She was already so far ahead of him she was down the bank and heading for the wooden-frame entrance to Edoras. Her hair was flown all over the place by the whistling wind, but she continued in her run, disregarding her gasping breathe and aching thighs.
“Éowyn! Please! My love, let me explain!” he called out tragically, waving his hand in front of him as a means of begging her to come to halt. But she didn’t even spin around to look at him, despite the fact that the image would have amused her. Gríma resembled a galloping black mound, with thin strands of hair slapping in the face, with brilliant red cheeks, and robes flying dangerously high over knobbly grey knees.
She merely shouted behind herself, keeping her eyes focused ahead of her, “get lost - psycho!” But she was in dire need of air, so once she reached the city’s gate, she slowed down and steadied herself, breathing sharply. She looked up briefly to see how far away her pursuer was, and the sight of him trying to run was so chronic that it gave her pain in her chest. “Read my lips! I said get lost!” she screamed at him as he toppled closer.
She looked around desperately for something that could act as a weapon, and spotted a long, wooden pole, conveniently lying inches from her foot. She spotted Gríma barely feet away from her, and without considering the complications of paralysing the King’s adviser, she swung the pole around and over her head, forcing Gríma to break and duck.
“Argh!” he wailed, flapping his hands over his head as if the pole was just a fly he could wave away. “Don’t swing that a-round!” he darted to the side as it flew towards his face - swooping lower than the first time. While she had the pole lowered, he took his chance to confront her. “Éowyn!” he gasped in desperation, reaching out and taking hold of her shoulders.
Éowyn screamed at such a violent pitch, that he had to cover his ears. Once he let go of her, she swung the pole again and hit him right on the very top of his ugly head. He so loud and ferociously in pain that he made the birds in the trees fly away, terrified.
“If you come near me again, I will kill you!” she spat, holding the wooden pole out in front of her. Gríma dropped to his knees, and held up his hands, practically sobbing with the pain.
“Could you really live with my blood on your hands and heart?” he whined, his voice trembling as he spoke. He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and went on to all fours to crawl towards her. “All I want is to love, and to be loved, my dear Éowyn,” he stammered, “is that such a ludicrous request?”
Éowyn lowered the pole, but maintained her guard all the same. “Coming from a snake like you, yes, it is, Gríma,” she replied, sneering. “I have to say, yes it is.” Gríma tilted his head to the side at her words, searching for an answer. “Who in their right mind would love you? I would say your mother, but I even have doubts about that!” She paused after she spoke, suddenly aware of how cruel she must have sounded.
Gríma knelt in the grass, his head bowed. She still did not feel brave enough to put a hand on his shoulder, or even bend down to his level, but she now wondered whether she had gone too far.
“I am sorry, Gríma,” she sighed, “but you are such an alien, lurid creature that you repel any good feeling.” She felt no guilt in saying that - it was completely true that he repelled kindness. He looked up at her, his eyes watering.
“Well…what can I do?” he asked in a tiny voice. He stood up and steadied himself. “I can change, Éowyn. I really can change!” He stepped forward and gingerly took her hand and held it between his own. Éowyn vowed to wash her hands as soon as she got back inside, but remained silent whilst he spoke. “I would change for you, Éowyn.” He took his hand off hers and aimed for her cheek. “I promise I can--”
“Don’t push your luck,” she replied bluntly, smartly shifting her head out of the way of his gnarled fingers.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” he muttered thickly. But he continued to look into her eyes earnestly. “But I mean it - if there is anything I could do to prove to you that…” he seemed lost for words. Éowyn took the opportunity to carefully slip her hand out of his while he stood and pondered. “Is there anything I can do?”
Éowyn stood awkwardly in front of him, many questionable images of Gríma cleaning her room, sitting at a piano, performing an out of time tap-dance, juggling swords and sitting with a quill and parchment flooded in and out of her mind. But suddenly she had a brain wave. A quill and parchment, she repeated in her head. Could he write me something? No! Read me something! Something he would hate…?
Gríma watched her scan the grass below, deep in thought, and widened his eyes hopefully. He went to grab her hands again, but swatted him away in case she changed her mind and did not help him at all. Finally, she looked back up at him, and a smirk crept onto her face.
“Curiously, Gríma,” she began, smiling, “I think there is something you could do for me.”
“Name it!” gasped Gríma, clapping his hands with eager anticipation.
“Well…”
**about an hour later**
“Éomer, sir,” whispered Gamling, peering from beneath the balcony outside the Golden Hall doors, his eyes level with two pairs of feet; one pair hidden by black robes, and the other slanted as though the owner was sitting down. “What are they doing? Can you see them?”
Éomer strode over to where Gamling stood, and took a good look at the scene in front of him, and rose his eyebrows in alarm. “Is that Gríma Wormtongue there, in such close proximities with my sweet sister?” His eyebrows went from high up his forehead, down low enough to partially cover his narrowing eyes. “Why, how dare the fiend?!”
But Gamling held up an arm, causing his angry companion to refrain from pulling out his sword. “Wait, sir,” he hissed, “I don’t think he is doing any harm.”
“What do you mean?” replied Éomer, incredulously. “Why, he has the nerve to stand indecently close to my poor, defenceless, little sister; and you are telling me you believe he is innocent?”
Gamling nodded, and signalled for him to look again. “Sir…I think he is reading…he is reading to Éowyn…”
“And so, the good knight rode with his fair maiden upon his fine white horse into the shimmering sunlight. ‘My fair lady, we have an eternity of life and love ahead of us’, he said proudly, as she held her arms around him. ‘We shall be wedded tomorrow, for you are the most beautiful young lady I have ever seen,’” Gríma recited, carefully turning the page. “‘Oh, Edwarn,’ sighed Shyla, ‘this is a dream come true. Take me away now, to your wonderful castle.’ They rode onwards into the distance, the horizon spreading far and wide before them like a wave breaking on a shore…’”
Gríma read on, as Éowyn sat back in a brand-new deck-chair, her hands folded neatly around a goblet of pink grape juice, and smiled to herself, her head tilted to the side as she pictured the scene.
The bright afternoon sun bore down on the two of them, dousing the balcony in summer sunshine. The light breeze fluffed Éowyn’s hair and gave her a cooling effect.
Now this is my idea of a perfect afternoon, she thought to herself. She suddenly noticed Gríma had stopped, and was giving her a worn-out look.
“Keep going!” she ordered. He sighed, and continued reading to her.
His voice, uncharacteristically animated and bright as he read, faded and echoed out over the rolling Rohan hills, as it rode the gentle wind. Edoras was finally peaceful and quiet.
And Éowyn finally got her story!
*The End!*
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