Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 03

Even as the room darkened, the narrowness of her immediate future suddenly became clear. If she had no other acceptable choice — if her only alternatives were submission to Wormtongue's schemes or a headlong flight into exile — than disobedience was the choice she must make. And I must make it now, before the King tells Wormtongue of my intrusion, and all hope of discovery passes.

Éowyn strapped a knife to her leg, wearing it high enough on her thigh that it was concealed by her tunic. Slinging one of her smaller swords across her back — there's no hiding that, though the sight of me bearing a sword is common enough that few will take notice — she purposefully marched back towards Wormtongue's quarters, indifferent to consequence. How could it be worse than what's in store for me, should he remain free to act as he will? Yesterday was only a preview. Whatever might befall, I have an opportunity to avoid that fate. One last chance to save myself from him.

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The lock shattered with a single blow. She flung it into a corner, sending it skidding across the flagstones, and immediately regretted her impulsive violence. Why didn't I just pick it again? Oh well, now I'm committed. One way or another, this will soon be over. Sliding her sword back into its sheath, she flung the chest open and plunged her hand inside, retrieving the mysterious cylinder.

There has to be a way to open it. Again she prodded, poked, and twisted, but nothing seemed to work. She brought it to her ear and gently shook the contents. There's definitely something inside. But what? She considered using her knife to pry or cut it open, but there seemed to be no seam or discontinuity to afford purchase. And what might I damage if I did? No, there has to be a way to open it without using force. Something related to the hand, perhaps?

She placed her own directly over the design, though the inlay was small and her hand easily wrapped around the cylinder's entire circumference. Nothing. She stroked a finger around its outline. Nothing. She tried to match it fingertip to fingertip, but hers were far too large.

Suddenly, she remembered something her brother said. They'd managed to steal a few precious hours alone, sharing tales of the land, of their people, and of battle. In truth, she was most interested in the latter. But along the way, he'd said something that now seemed vital.

"That accursed white hand! It points towards Isengard...which has, I fear, become an armed fortress harboring great evil, though none can approach closely enough to know for sure, and those that do are never seen again. Yet these endless companies of orcs are coming from somewhere, and we've driven them out of most of their usual hiding places in the hills. There's a foul reek that hangs over that pace, and this wasn't the case until very recently; a reek and a looming sense of threat, as if some sickness of the mind emanates from Orthanc that turns even the hardiest will away. It is, I guess, some sort of black wizardry. Mark my words: there will be war with Saruman one day. He claims to be our ally, but he cannot be trusted."

There'd been much more, but at the moment she fixated on the relevant words. A white hand. Pointing....

She clutched the cylinder and looked around, orienting herself. Isengard is...that way. She aimed the fingers of the hand in that direction, trying to decide if the faint vibration she felt was real or imagined, and pressed her thumb into the center of the inlay. With a soft noise, a previously unseen seam appeared, and as she lowered the cylinder in surprise one end clattered onto the floor.

Well, if there are any to hear the alarm, I've definitely sounded it now.

Inside were four small vials of grayish powder, each bearing an even smaller version of the white hand. What could this be? It would be the height of folly to test it on myself, but to whom could I bring it for answers? There's no one in Rohan with an alchemist's skill; we're warriors and craftsmen, not mystics. Her momentary surge of hope again grew slender, and she peered into the depths of the cylinder, looking for an answer she didn't expect to find. But then....

There's a slip of parchment inside! She withdrew it and unrolled the delicate material, staring at a page filled with words and symbols she couldn't read. Her education was more extensive than many in her land, and sufficed to tell her that they were Elven runes, but the language was thoroughly unfamiliar. Not that I know more than a common greeting or two in any Elven tongue. Anyway, I think I'll need to decipher this myself, somehow. I don't know if I can trust anyone else with this secret, and Wormtongue has too many ears among our people. She tucked one of the vials into a hidden pocket, then carefully wrapped the parchment around her knife, slipping it back into its scabbard. Retrieving the fallen end, she resealed the cylinder, put it back where she'd found it, and closed the chest. Now I really regret breaking the lock. Well, perhaps I'll have some answers by the time he discovers the damage.

"Lady Éowyn, my impetuous and disobedient vixen, I do hope you intend to compensate me for that lock."

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The unsheathing of her sword was an invisible kinetic blur that ended with its point indenting his vulnerable neck. He jerked backward in fright, but moments later his back was to the wall with no apparent change in the sword's pressure. There was nowhere to go. Not that I have much hope of escaping her blade should she decide to use it. He steeled himself as best he could; sudden violence was a probability he'd foreseen, though it didn't make the threat any less imminent. No, I'll have to make my escape via a different road.

"How long have you been here?" she hissed. "And how did you enter so silently?"

He tried to chuckle, but the sharp point of her sword still pressed against his throat. "My Lady, the answer to your first question is that I appeared just as you see me now. As for the other, may a respected counselor not have his secrets?" His eyes drifted downward, then returned to meet hers. "Don't we all have secrets?"

"Here's something that's no longer a secret: you will die, Worm." If there was any hesitation in her promise, he couldn't hear it.

"Yes? And what then, love? Even if my blood doesn't drip from your sword, when the King's counselor is found dead upon who will the suspicion fall? She who spreads unkind epithets amongst the people? She who breaks into my quarters, is expressly forbidden by the King himself to ever do so again, and then defies him immediately thereafter? How quickly can you run? And where in this perilous world would you go, my love?"

"Stop calling me that, snake!" Beneath the cover of her bluster, she realized the hard truth in his words. Though she most certainly wished him dead, and dispatching him in a painful and bloody fashion would be momentarily satisfying, his death would eventually be blamed on her. Her sentence might not be imprisonment, nor even exile, but might be her own death...for betrayal was treated harshly in times of war. If she escaped or fled, she'd be hunted and hated by her people, forever loathed as a traitor to her position, her country, and her own family. She would never see Théoden again. Nor even dear Éomer, who — despite his own abhorrence of Wormtongue — would never countenance the dishonor to their family.

I can't kill him. I have to destroy him another way, and for that I need more time. Her sword wavered, the tip now digging into his chest. He risked a parry.

"Lady Éowyn, lower your blade. Despite your threats, despite your..." he gestured at his damaged chest "...unkindness to my property, despite your apparently insatiable yet pointless curiosity regarding my secrets, I don't threaten you in turn. I merely foretell. And I've told you: I wish to help you."

"Another lie." The sword dipped another few inches.

"A simple statement of intent. For, Lady Éowyn, I think if you look with clearer and more dispassionate eyes at the situation you now find yourself in, I'm the only one who can help you."

"You? From you issues naught but ruin and despair!" The blade fell to her side. "And here I stand on the very edge of ruin myself. Your foul taint bleeds everywhere."

He leaned forward, but he'd misjudged the moment and it was too soon to begin an approach. Whip-fast reflexes snapped her blade back to attention, this time aiming at a most sensitive target considerably lower on his frame. "Wormtongue, I may lose everything if I kill you, but so will you. Don't you value your life?"

"Most assuredly. Perhaps more than most. But there exists another path, for both of us."

"More words? More manipulation? I'll sever your tongue before I let that happen again."

"No tricks, my Lady. If you wish to keep these events between us, then make this promise: I will speak, you will listen, and when I'm done you will decide what to do with no interference from me. But I won't offer this help under threat. I don't, even now, wish to reveal your crimes to the King...though what may happen in my despite is beyond my control....but instead retain an earnest hope that you'll see the wisdom of what I'm about to say. First, though...." He gestured. "Would you please put that prod away?"

She stared, eyes narrow and suspicious, for a long while. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, she slid the sword back into its protective scabbard. Her barely restrained fury sill burned, but she would listen. However at the first sign of a trick....

He exhaled in relief. "I admit I'd feel even more comfortable if you'd set your weapon aside. You are quick to draw it and point it, but slow to put it away, and I don't wish to be flayed in the middle of an unfinished thought." She started to object, but he held up his hand. "Éowyn, I'm no physical threat to you. You know that. Even unarmed, you could incapacitate me in seconds. Nor should you fear me taking up your blade, for you most certainly also know that I'm no swordsman."

She thought back to yesterday's tête-à-tête. No physical threat! But against the real danger, no blade will serve anyway. Shrugging, she lifted the strap over her head and balanced the scabbard on his broken chest.

His lips pursed. "Both weapons, please."

She raised an eyebrow. There's no way he can see the knife, so how does he know it's there? Probably a result of his endless, infuriating spying. She shook her head in irritation and disgust, then bent over to unstrap the buckle around her thigh, laying the knife atop her sword and trying to avoid nervous glances in its direction. As long as he doesn't examine the weapons, my plunder remains safe.

"Sit, please. Make yourself comfortable. May I offer you refreshment?" He gestured towards a nearby table, on which rested a carafe of pale liquid and several glasses.

She looked around. The only obvious place to sit was on the bed, and she was not going to sit there. "I'm sure, Wormtongue, that any refreshment of yours is more that it seems. I decline your offer."

Could she know? he wondered, stifling his surprise. Nay, even if she happened upon one of the cylinders that contain my potions and powders, she lacks sufficient knowledge to break the spells of Orthanc and open them. It's no more than understandable caution on her part. Little does she suspect that, in this matter as in so many others, the actual danger lies in plain sight, "hidden" by its very lack of secrecy. Shrugging, he poured himself a glass of wine, then crossed the room to kindle a fire. She looked on with increasing impatience, but it was difficult to sustain the full fury of her suspicion as she watched him struggle to build a tiny flame. By the time one finally sputtered into existence, she'd tired of standing. Seeing no alternative she sat on the corner of the bed, her body tense, wary, and poised for action.

Though she had no way of knowing, he'd prepared his fireplace for this encounter the moment his spies reported on her meeting with the King. It was an opportunity he was sure would come, having long studied her impetuous ways, though even he hadn't expected her to return quite so soon. Hidden amongst the kindling were rare herbs that would erode her inhibitions, muddle the barriers between consciousness and dream, and make her more susceptible to suggestion; herbs he'd been secretly introducing to the hearth in the Golden Hall for months on end. And there was another, more dangerous component; a trick neither taught nor given to him by Saruman, but stolen during one of the Wizard's frequent absences from Orthanc. It was an enchanted root from faraway Khând that would, when burned, set aflame unquenchable sexual desire in any who breathed its smoke. His sneaking had eventually been discovered, and his punishment decidedly unpleasant, but aside from the pain the only significant result was that he never learned how to reverse the effect. But what need have I for that knowledge? This isn't a change I'd wish to undo. His only real concern was for himself; before the magic began to work he had to move beyond the range of its effect. After all, it's necessary for me to maintain control, and my lust for her hardly needs magical stoking.

He stared at the growing flame, anticipation quickly overtaking his satisfaction that all was going according to his design. The stage is set. The players are in place. The play is about to begin.

Taking a deep breath, Gríma began to speak. He employed no special powers of voice in this effort — not the Wizardly kind, anyway, though he concentrated on being as persuasive as possible — for no additional tricks were necessary. He would tell the unvarnished truth, and the fire would do the rest of the work.

"Éowyn, the King doesn't listen to you. Nor do his counselors, aside from me. Even your brother fails to hear you as you'd like. Why do you think that is?"

"They don't listen because I'm a woman...."

He stopped her. "While that's true as far as it goes, it's but the smaller portion of the real reason. It's because you're alone. Because you lack allies." Her frown deepened. "To whom do you turn when you need support?"

He waited. She was pensive. Silent. Sullen.

"Éomer, yes...but your brother is rarely here, and so you can't rely on him. No one else listens to you because you exercise no power beyond what rests in your sinews. You err in thinking of power only through the narrow lens of a warrior...as mere strength, or something to be wielded by point, edge, and bludgeon." She bristled, glancing at her sword. "That is indeed one form of power, worthy and necessary on the field of battle, but what have you gained with it elsewhere? A grudging respect for your prowess, perhaps...yet you're not even allowed to fight. That is because you're a woman, but the societal change you'd need to amend that situation will take generations of slow effort. Even if you're successful, you won't live long enough to see it. But tell me: has that process started? No. Your problem isn't that you aren't allowed to ride or fight, it's that you can't even begin that conversation, for no one with any influence will listen to it."

"So again, what power do you have? If you say 'yea' and another says 'nay,' and others support the latter position, you will fail. Which you do, over and over again. You think you can triumph on your own, but you need allies. First one, and then from that one will follow others. I do not speak of physical power, for these are wars that take place within hearts and minds, in whispered hallway conversations, or while leaning across the table in Council. I speak of personal power, but also political power...for they are the same. This is the way to get others to listen to you, and the first step on the path to the King's ear. And if you doubt, I ask you to consider who would know this better than me?"

She felt that his words must somehow be wrong, but she was unable to articulate why. Am I not the King's niece? Does he not love me? Why, then, should I never be able to gain his trust? If only he was rid of his foul counselor....

"What is it that you really want, Éowyn? Is there naught that you desire? What means do you possess to achieve your needs? If it can't be killed or wounded, what tools do you have?"

She glared at him, but had no response. He had, while he talked, moved closer, and she felt a growing discomfort at his proximity. But the unwelcome urges of yesterday were absent, and for that she was grateful.

"You believe you already know the answer. You blame your weakness in all matters on your sex. But do you not see that your sex is your power?"

Startled, she jerked backwards, sliding further onto the bed and leaning heavily on her outstretched hands. Did he just suggest that sex was my power? She measured the distance to her sword, for despite her vow, she would bleed him if he started this ploy again.

As if he'd read her mind, he soothed, "calm yourself. I did not say 'sex,' I said 'your sex.'"

She didn't relax, but she no longer eyed her weapon quite so keenly. Allowing herself the briefest of sighs, she finally spoke. "It's my baggage and my burden. No one sees me as I am...neither warrior, nor counselor, nor even...." She stopped, disturbed at the near-revelation of a secret she'd prefer hidden.

He supplied it for her. "...nor even a woman. That's what you were going to say, isn't it? That you're not honored with the same lustful approaches as other women?"

"That's not...I...no. No! I only mean...."

"Or did you mean something higher and more pure? That you're not adored from afar, as are the heroines in the great romances that soothe young dreamers to sleep? That no dashing prince will be coming to sweep you off your feet and spirit you away to his glorious kingdom?"

Her mouth twisted with distaste. "I don't mean that either!" she snapped. "It's...." She came to yet another halt. What do I mean?

At some point while the tension in the room ebbed and flowed, Gríma had removed and hung his formal outer clothing on a rack, retaining only a basic shirt and breeches. When did he do that? She couldn't remember, and found it disturbing that she hadn't noticed while it was happening. The immediate effect was to render his already slight frame even less threatening, but she remained wary of dropping her guard.

"Not a single one of your praiseworthy skills with a blade can help with your problems. You need an ally. Yet you've no idea how to make this happen." Again he moved closer, and again she shifted backward on the bed until her feet were no longer touching the floor. "For I say to you, Éowyn, that you're wrong on both counts. You are indeed the object of romantic yearning, though you don't realize it because you don't look for it in yourself, and thus cannot easily recognize it in others."

Does he mean from him? Probably so. She retched at the thought. But are there others? I've never really considered it. What if...?

"As for lust...." Her expression turned sour, even as he grinned. "Your ears might burn with humiliation and rage if you knew the extent of it, and I rather suspect that more than a few of the Rohirrim would experience your furious wrath via the flat of your sword." He chuckled. "Yes, I heard about that. But there's so little that you know. Were sexual desire for you an army, even Mordor might fear its mighty numbers."