Gríma's Questionable Summer Reading List

Written By: star-breaker990
You can Read the Original here:
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!*

Hands of a Warrior

Written By: novella2008
You can Read the full Story here
All Credit goes to the original author

I cross my arms against the slight chill. The caves below Helm’s Deep are never truly warm, no matter how crowded they become. Shifting uneasily from foot to foot, I wrinkle my nose against the prevalent odor of too many humans and animals packed into far too small a space. Behind me, my little sister whimpers in Mother’s arms. The soft sound carries, despite the huddled mass of women and children assembled. The only other sounds are the occasional cough, the quiet tread of pacing footsteps, and the distant lowing of livestock. The women, the elderly, and even the youngest children are silent. We are listening with all our being.

It is a fruitless vigil. Many tons of earth and stone separate us from the Hornburg and the men and boys who defend it. We can no more detect signs of the battle than overhear conversations between the stars. I swallow hard and clench my hands into fists. Despite the cold, I find the great caverns stiflingly claustrophobic. Somehow, the high, arching ceilings only add to this feeling—giving me the impression of being trapped at the bottom of a well. I growl in frustration and several of my neighbors shoot me disapproving glances. My mother catches the sentiment and hisses “Hush, Léoma!” I force myself not to glare at her.

I find it strange how even here, in the bowels of a fortress under siege, we women have arranged and divided ourselves by class and community. We do not stand or sit throughout the chamber, but rather cluster against the walls and pillars with impromptu “streets” running between us. Families huddle together. Normally free-ranging children are kept close by their mothers’ sides. The refugees of Edoras clump together in groups of ten or twelve, always slightly apart from the rustics of the West Fold.

The only constant movement is Lady Eowyn and her few helpers as they hurry up and down the by-ways, distributing food and blankets to the assembled people. Only a few minutes ago, my mother hinted rather pointedly that I should join the aides. I will not. I cannot bring myself to serve these people—to help ease their suffering. They deserve their suffering. While they cower here like frightened mice, these useless, petty women are defended by my brother. My little brother.

Tears sting my eyes, and I blink them away angrily. They came just after the evening meal—solemn squads of men already arrayed in grimy mail with swords and axes at their belts. With brutal efficiency, they split into teams of two and marched up and down the streets, assessing the refugees. Every man who was not in some way disfigured was immediately taken by the soldiers to the armories. Even those who had never bent a bow, even elders so old their hair was white and their arms shook, every one was pressed into service to defend the walls far above. I took little note; my own father was shot down by raiding hill men more than a year ago. Still, for a time after the last of them left, children cried for their missing fathers and grandfathers.

Little did we know, this was only the first wave of sorrow. Hardly an hour had passed when the soldiers returned. This time, they focused their gaze on families with older children. Already, every man over twenty was gone, and many of the older boys had accompanied them. Now, King Théoden’s men sized up every male child, questioning their mothers closely. My neighbor’s son Rynan was taken to the armories. He was ten years old. Ten!

My little brother Haela pressed close to me. I tried to edge in front of him, to shield his slight form from the soldiers’ hungry eyes. It did no good. He was spotted by a swarthy blonde warrior in rusted mail. At twelve, Haela’s lanky frame gave him away, though his arms were as thin as reeds. My mother pleaded with the man for about two minutes before dissolving in tears. I wouldn’t be so easily defeated. I planted myself between the soldier and my brother, arguing fiercely. I tried to use reason; Haela was no fighter, he had never used a sword before. I tried to inspire pity; he was only a child, and all we had left of Father. I tried to keep the dour man at bay by mere force of my will. It made no difference. The soldier merely set his jaw and repeated the King’s orders: “bring every man and strong lad—able to bear arms.” Despairing at last, I swallowed my pride and begged the soldier to take me in my brother’s place. At this, the man barked a laugh and repeated the response the Eorlingas have given since the founding of Rohan: “War is the province of men.”

But, Haela is not a man! I wanted to scream, but knew it would do me no good. My brother was dragged away, pure terror in his twelve-year-old eyes, because the King thought him a more likely soldier than his sixteen-year-old sister.

My face is sullen as I stalk up and down the small patch of stone allotted to the remnants of my family. I picture Haela picking his way through the crowded armory, surrounded by men two feet taller than him. I imagine how the armor will swamp him, how the helm will dwarf his tow head. I will not imagine what awaits him when he and his fellow children are arrayed for combat. I have seen orcs, of course, but I refuse to envision their dark, foul bodies anywhere in the vicinity of my baby brother. Always, though, my mind dwells on how my father returned to us—his body pierced by black, splintered shafts, his flesh hewn even after he was dead. A dull pounding is building in my ears. I can’t see; I can’t think. A strange fire, made of rage and terror in equal parts, runs through my veins. I have to do something. I have to do something!

There is nothing to do. I spin and slam my fist into the stone wall. The sound is sickening: the dull crunch of yielding flesh against sharp rock. It takes all my self-control not to cry out. I slowly retract my arm. The knuckles are bleeding, imbedded in places with glittering rock. I try to move my fingers and immediately regret it. Still, the pain clears my head. The fog lifts, and I can face people again. This proves to be a fortunate consequence, as my mother turns to me with a look of utter dismay on her face.

“Léoma!” She speaks in a whisper that somehow loses none of its sharpness, “What on Arda possessed you? You’ve likely broken your hand! And look, you’re bleeding . . .” Fortunately or unfortunately, Lady Eowyn herself chooses this moment to sweep down our street, her arms laden with bundles of rags. My mother summons her courage and clears her throat nervously. “Excuse me, milady? May I intrude for a moment of your time?”

Somehow, the King’s niece hears her muttered request and turns. Though she is dressed, like us, in a simple dress with her hair pulled back in businesslike braids, Lady Eowyn bears an unmistakable air of royalty. She holds herself very tall, but there is nothing willowy about her firm stance. Her face is set in strong lines that mirror the king’s, and her eyes flash like bright steel—hard and unyielding. I swallow, suddenly feeling very small and very foolish. The lady speaks, her tone courteous. “What do you require, madam?”

Mother wrings her hands. “My apologies, milady, it’s my daughter.” She seizes my hand, which is now dripping with blood and thrusts it towards the lady. “Might we borrow a rag to staunch this? She . . . she fell, you see, and cut her hand on a rock when she landed and I . . .”

Mother trails off as Eowyn calmly lowers her burden and takes my wounded hand in both of hers. Her fingers are cool against my inflamed skin. She turns my hand over, notes the absence of injuries on my palm, and carefully brushes some dirt from the gashes on my first two knuckles. “Straighten your fingers.”

I hesitate. “My lady, I . . .”

She silences me with a glance. Her gaze brooks no argument, and I suddenly realize that this woman does not for a moment believe my mother’s hastily concocted story. “Straighten your fingers.”

Slowly, though every joint screams in protest, I uncurl my fingers as much as I can. Eowyn probes each digit carefully, feeling the integrity of the bones. To take my mind off the growing pain, I study the lady’s hands. They are pale and smooth, not grizzled and dry like Mother’s. Still, I can see at once that these are not hands accustomed to embroidery. Her hands—like the rest of her—are not soft. They seem chiseled out of marble. She runs her index finger along mine, and I can feel a callus between her knuckles—the mark of many bowstrings. Her palms, too, are callused. The calluses run not along the heel of her hand, as they would on a laborer, but near her thumb. I wonder what made these marks. A sword? The reins of a horse? What wonders have these hands seen?

The lady looks up and flashes a slight smile that is purely for my mother’s benefit. “Fear not, madam, her hand is not broken. Those cuts are deep, though, and these rags are not fit for use as bandages. I’ve some supplies stored; if I may borrow your daughter for a little while, I will have it seen to. By your leave, of course.”

My mother sputters slightly. “I . . . of course, but . . . you needn’t trouble yourself, my . . .”

“It’s no trouble.” Eowyn cuts her off, inclining her head slightly as my mother hurries to curtsey. Taking me by the elbow, the King’s niece leads me away without another word. I fall in step beside the lady, who hesitates before releasing my elbow. “That was very foolish of you. We’re not waging war on our own fortress.” She comments coolly. I can only duck my head, shamefaced. She leads me into a small side chamber carved out of the rock. This is apparently a storage room of some type; crates and barrels line the walls. The ceiling is low, but the chamber is mercifully free of people, save Eowyn and me.

The lady proceeds immediately to one of the crates. She briskly sets aside her burden of rags, lifts the pine lid, and selects a few items. Turning to me, she takes my hand again and firmly wipes away the dirt and excess blood with a rough cloth. The woman then dabs my shredded knuckles with a stinging salve and covers each with a tiny, folded square of linen. These are held in place by a narrow strip of cloth wrapped in three tight loops around my hand. Her treatment is brusque, efficient, and pitiless, much like the tone in which she speaks. “You haven’t broken your fingers, but they’ll swell up all the same.” She tells me, her eyes on our interlocked hands. “The swelling could be more dangerous than the cuts, so you’ll have to use your hand—keep it loose.” She puts the finishing touches on the bandage. Though the wrapping is thin and covers only my first knuckles, I find that I can barely wiggle my fingers. They’ve swollen, just as she said. After a moment, the lady sighs. “Come with me.”

The far end of the storage room is relatively empty. Eowyn shoves a few baskets against the wall to make a clear space in the center of the room. From under a bundle of undyed wool, she draws a long, slim object made of gleaming leather. There is a slight rasp as metal is pulled free from its sheath, and then she stands before me, a slim sword in her hand. She steps forward with a sudden thrust, and I jump back in spite of myself. The lady ignores me, instead turning with the blade above her head to slash down at some imaginary enemy behind her. For a few moments, I watch in awe as her blade whirls through a dizzying combination of cuts, thrusts, and parries. Despite the deliberation in Lady Eowyn’s movements, I can see that this is no dance to her. The straining muscles in her arm and cool gravity in her face preclude any such fanciful descriptions. Eowyn wields death; beauty is merely incidental.

She freezes with the blade a foot from my face, and I jump back one more time. Our eyes lock, and I realize that I’m breathing as hard as she is. She straightens and effortlessly flips the sword to offer it to me, hilt first. I reach out, my bandaged hand trembling, to wrap my swollen fingers around the grip. Eowyn releases the blade and I nearly drop it, unprepared for the weight. Catching myself, I slowly raise the tip until it is level with my throat. My injured fingers protest this new activity, but I welcome the pain. Eowyn steps aside, and I sweep up and downward with the blade. My first strike: clumsy, uncertain, but mine, nonetheless.

My face flushes. I probably resemble a forester chopping wood more than a swordswoman. Hoisting the weapon, I repeat the strike, this time trying to connect it with a forward thrust as Eowyn did. The lady steps back against the wall, silently watching my crude attempts at swordplay. After a few moments, she asks, “What is your name?”

“Léoma.”

She waits, perhaps expecting me to give my heritage. I resume my exercise. My father is dead, and repeating his name to every stranger I meet won’t bring him back. Finally, she speaks, her voice stern. “It takes great anger to acquire an injury like that.”

I pause to look at her. What would a daughter of Kings know of anger and loss? For a moment, her gray eyes lose their composure, and the fire I see within burns away all my preconceptions. I realize that if Lady Eowyn seems cold, it is not for lack of feeling. Rather, the opposite is true. I don’t know why—and Mother would slap me for the presumption—but for a moment it seems I look into the heart of this noble, distant woman and see myself reflected back.

My mouth is dry. “My brother fights orcs tonight.”

Her eyes seem far away. “So does mine.”