Summary: After a visit to Gondor and Dol Amroth, Éomer King returns to Rohan, and finds that a number of irritating problems await his attention— not least of them Gríma Wormtongue.
Notes:Beryll's original story, "Gríma" can be found here. Since we are dealing with a post-liberation Rohan, I have used the following assumptions from Beryll's tale—

1 No visit by Gandalf and Co. to Rohan. Theoden was liberated from his thraldom to Wormtongue by the shock of Theodred's death.

2 Wormtongue has been obsessed with Éomer (not his sister), and for this reason, begged his life from a victorious Saruman; thereafter keeping Éomer imprisoned during his brief tenure as Regent of Rohan.

3 When the heroes of the Ring War liberated Rohan, Gríma fled, not back to Saruman (who had been defeated as one of Mordor's allies), but southwards. He foolishly confessed his love to both Éomer and Eowyn before doing so. However he was recaptured on the border, and taken into service by Éomer as a form of revenge.

In addition to these assumptions, which are inherent in Beryll's tale, I have further assumed—

1 that Eowyn, having been married in name only to Gríma during the Regency, later met and fell in love with Faramir Prince of Ithilien;

2 that Gimli Son of Gloin was present at the Siege of the Hornburg, when the last of Saruman's Uruk-hai garrison was defeated;

3 that, in recognition of Gimli's help, Éomer ceded to him the Caves of Aglarond;

4 that Erkenbrand of Westfold was part of a "resistance force" which joined the Army of the West during the Siege of the Hornburg

The King's Worm
by Grond

Éomer King, returning to Edoras from the realm of Gondor, found himself perhaps less happy than he expected. True the lust of battle had long faded since the last big Orc-route. But he was still unscathed, "and he was young, and he was king; the lord of a fell people" (as the bards were wont to sing). His visit to Gondor had been truly successful. He had formed part of a raid, led by his brother-in-law, to clear the remaining Uruk from the Mountains of Shadow. He had seen his sister again, settled in Emin Arnen and heavily pregnant. He had been honoured by the High King in Minas Tirith; and he had finally settled with Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth the treaty which would result in his marriage to the Lady Lothiriel—but maybe not quite yet.

Why, then, did this sense of disquiet sit hard upon his breast-bone like a lump of undigested porridge?

Éomer was not by nature an introspective man. He was in fact inclined to act first and think (if absolutely necessary) later. Thus it had been an act of mingled impulse and revenge to make Gríma Wormtongue his liegeman. Gríma's famed caution had deserted him before he fled, and he had revealed to both Éomer and Éowyn the reason why he had kept Éomer alive during his brief tenure as ruler of Rohan. Wormtongue was in love not with the sister—as men had whispered—but with the brother. Thus when a Rohirric border patrol had dumped its miserable prisoner at Éomer's feet, he had not hesitated to take the man back into his service.

In practical terms this had worked out very well. Gríma was already well-versed in such niceties as the exact tithing due from each community; and indeed, was able to advise on such delicate matters as the most advantageous match for the King. It had been he who had pointed out (quite rightly, as Éomer speedily perceived) that a royal match with any of the daughters of the leading swordthains would lead only to recriminations and dissent amongst the very men on whom Éomer relied for his chief support.

Also, it pleased Éomer to bring such a problem to Gríma. The King was not—as a general rule—consistently vindictive, and he used his knowledge of Gríma's weakness sporadically rather than relentlessly. Nonetheless, there had been times—when surveying the ruin of what had once been a thriving homestead, or facing the crop of half-Uruk children which had sprung like mushrooms amongst the outlying communities following the invasion from Isengard—that he had been half inclined to murder his reluctant henchman in the most lingering way he could devise.

As the King and his eored swung up the river-valley towards Edoras, Éomer finally identified the source of his disquiet. He had left Wormtongue alone in Edoras for several months, under the general supervision of the Second and Third Marshals. Perhaps—given the hatred in which Gríma was still held throughout the Riddermark—this might not have been wise. However, it would have been equally inappropriate to be dragging Gríma with him to Gondor. Men would have begun to whisper that Wormtongue held the nephew in as deep a thrall as he had the uncle. Éomer could not afford that kind of gossip; so he had left Gríma in charge of the Chamber of Records, telling him not to provoke Erkenbrand of Westfold by his unnecessary presence; and to keep an exact record of the excess spending of Eothain of Eastfold—without actually granting him any authority to curb that spending. Perhaps that too had been an error of judgment; in spite of Gríma's assurance that he could deal with Eothain's fondness for bullying, and general thick skull. If anyone was going to bully Gríma, Éomer belatedly realised, he would prefer to do it himself.

Trumpets sounded into the quiet afternoon air, as the King's party approached the walls of Edoras. Guards at the great outer gates sprang into life, folding back the massive wooden barriers to allow the eored ingress. A familiar sense of being back under duress descended upon Éomer, as he acknowledged the scattered cheering of those of his folk not engaged in the fields or on the horse-pickets at this time of day. He had been bred and trained as a fighting man; and the exercise of statecraft came hard to him.

Craning his neck as the horses made their way up the steep roads to Meduseld, Éomer could discern several figures gathering on the high stone platform before his Hall. He would have to take reports from both Erkenbrand and Eothain before he even set lips to the welcome-cup! Maybe later, he would corner Gríma in the Chamber of Records and find out what had REALLY been happening in his absence. Perhaps one of those small figures up there was Wormtongue himself—hopefully palpitating in joy at his Lord's return. A slightly feral smile curled the sculptured lips of the king.

Grooms and guards rushed forward to help the royal eored dismount on arrival. As Éomer expected, the two stone seats set at the doors of Meduseld were occupied by his Marshals. Swordthains and riders were arriving to greet their sovereign's return. On the edges of the crowd hovered the womenfolk, waiting to hear that an inevitable feast would shortly be declared and that their leisure time was therefore over. Éomer had been aware of how much depended on the kitchen women for some time. A chance-remark once dropped by Gríma had suddenly shown him just how much disruption the simple words "And I declare a feast shall be held forthwith..." could wreak within a large household. From that time onwards, he had always tried to give notice of feasts. In fact, he was thinking of arranging one for three days hence as the occasion on which to announce his formal liaison with Dol Amroth. He must consult Gríma sometime about the best way to break that news to accommodate the inward-and-backward-looking swordthains, some with marriageable daughters themselves.

Now where was Gríma? Clearly, not amongst the welcome party. Well—maybe that was wise. He would see Wormtongue within the Hall soon. In the meantime—here was old Erkenbrand, wreathed in smiles; and a rather taut Eothain. Éomer sighed inwardly. What had the Marshal of the Eastfold done now?

Éomer doffed his helmet, allowing his golden braids to tumble over his shoulders, and turned gravely to receive Erkenbrand's welcome. The older man (in Éomer's opinion) kept him waiting overlong before he waved forward the pretty girl (who just happened to be his niece) to present the Cup of Welcome.

"Westu Éomer hal!" he intoned.

"Westu...al!" mumbled Eothain, a beat behind.

Éomer noted with irritation that the younger Marshal, who inclined to vanity and wealth-displays, had acquired in addition to the heavy torc of double-plaited gold-wire which he habitually wore, a pair of massive gold wrist-pieces of intricate and unmistakeable Dwarf-crafting. It didn't help that these were so exquisite that Éomer instantly coveted them for himself.

"How fares the Realm of Rohan?" he enquired formally, firmly suppressing any personal considerations (Wormtongue, he thought, would have been proud of him).

"Well, My Liege, well!" replied Erkenbrand serenely, "We are hosting a delegation from Aglarond, led my its Lord, Gimli. They have decided," he paused and shot a covert glance at the younger Marshal, "to linger in Edoras awaiting Your Majesty's return."

"Gimli Son of Gloin? Then he's welcome here as a Hero of the Ring War. I shall be glad to entertain him and his people for as long as he cares to stay!" announced Éomer who had learned in Minas Tirith who was beloved, and who was not.

At this, Eothain dropped his eyes and went pink, whilst Erkenbrand raised his and studied the pale blush-and-blue of the early evening sky in rapt attention.

("Have you noticed, Lord," asked Gríma deep in the chambers of the King's memory, "how, when Erkenbrand of Westfold studies the ceiling, it means that he disapproves of the speaker, but will not protest because the honour of Rohan or of a Marshal of the Mark is in question?")

"Does the Dwarf-Lord have a particular reason for this visit?" asked Éomer carelessly.

It was Eothain who rushed into speech.

"Trading merely, My Liege. Nothing that need conc...er...UPSET Your Majesty!"

"Not upset him, eh?" roared a bass voice at the foot of the wide stairs, "Since when has misconduct amongst the King's officers been a matter for complacency? Now tell him what our quarrel is, you miserable excuse for a Marshal, or face the Axe of Gimli Son of Gloin!"

The Dwarf-Lord stumped heavily up the stairway, hair and beard flying behind him in the light breeze. Éomer noted with dismay that he wore his iron corselet of intricately linked rings, and carried at his belt his famous war-axe; the very same which had hewed forty two Orc-necks when the Hornburg was liberated from Saruman's rule.

"And you, Erkenbrand of Westfold!" continued Gimli in a voice that could be heard all the way up the valley to far Dunharrow, "Well may you stand there pretending you don't know anything about this matter! I'm disappointed in you, Erkenbrand, by Durin's Beard I am! I'd thought better of your honour when you came from your fastness and helped us regain Hornburg. Lord King, am I to be choused and chivvied out of my just payment merely because Eothain is a thief, who lodged my security with a treacherous Worm?"

Éomer froze. What had happened here in his absence? And where, in the names of all the Valar, was Gríma?

"I'd best hear all the details, Eothain!" he said, "What exactly is in question here? Those pretty bracelets of yours?"

"Lord..."

"Pretty bracelets!" interrupted Gimli at full volume, "Éomer King, those wrist pieces cost my best goldsmith a full week's work! We Dwarves always give our utmost to the things we make. The value merely reflects that dedication. The price was not in dispute. I'm not unreasonable—the man requested time to pay, and we signed an agreement to this effect. But now he alleges that he HAS paid, and the agreement (with MY signature, Éomer King) has apparently disappeared. With great reluctance I lodged it with Gríma Wormtongue—who is notorious throughout the Free West—in the Chamber of Records. So either Gríma has fled with Eothain's money and my agreement; or Eothain has silenced Gríma and destroyed the agreement. I would like to know which!"

"Thank you, Lord Gimli." replied Éomer, privately resenting the Dwarf-Lord's haughty tone, but reminding himself that 'A King Must Thole What A King Must—Until the Time Comes to Strike'.

"My Lord!" Eothain approached and attempted to loom over the King, "I must protest! This Lord-Shortarse is accusing me falsely of unspeakable practices! I demand satisfaction—my sword against his vaunted axe. Let combat decide justice, as in the days of our longfathers!"

"My axe is ready for your neck, Oathbreaker! Strawhead!" responded Gimli, fuelling this promising imbroglio.

Éomer stopped thinking and trusted his instincts.

"SILENCE!" he allowed his fear and anger to feed into his voice, and felt it resonate satisfactorily from his chest-bone right down into the pit of his stomach, "I WILL NOT ALLOW PRIVATE BRAWLING IN MY COURTS!" he took a deep breath, and came back to himself, exhaling on a downward-inflexed word, "No-o-ow! The answer to this riddle appears to reside—as is often the case—with Gríma Wormtongue. Ohtar!" he turned suddenly on his squire, "Go find Gríma and bring him here! If he is not in Meduseld, then he should be at work in the Chamber of Records. You!" he pointed at the nearest of his own eored, "Go with him and give any assistance. If Gríma is too unwell to walk here, you will bring him!"

"No! My Lord!"

Éomer turned in apparent courtesy to a flustered Eothain.

"I...er...Gríma's locked in his chamber! He flouted my authority and behaved insolently. I'll go and get him immediately, My Lord and..."

"No, Eothain. You will remain here. You are a party to this quarrel, and Gríma is, if not a third party in it, then at the very least a key witness. It would not therefore be proper for you to consort with him without impartial witnesses present. Give me the keys to his chamber. Since when has he been imprisoned?"

"Three days, My Lord."

"And who has been in charge of the Chamber of Records in his absence?"

"I...er...have the keys in safekeeping, My Lord." replied Eothain reluctantly.

"Then I will take those as well. You!" Éomer summoned another member of his eored, "Go straight to the Chamber of Records, unlock the door, and look inside. Do not touch anything, but bring back a report of the state in which you find it. I apologise" said the King blandly and in a raised voice, "that I am forced to request your help before you have even set foot inside Meduseld, or broken your fast, but we are in a like case, my friend. Thank you."

Éomer took the keys with scant thanks from Eothain's hands, and waited whilst the two parties departed on their missions. He did not allow himself to think about Gríma's possible treachery. He was King. It had been his judgement to trust in Gríma's new-found love. Now he must abide the consequences—whatever they might be.

Gimli son of Gloin did not improve matters by sidling up to the King and announcing in what was meant to be a confidential whisper that he, personally, would never have trusted one who had befuddled the old King, made Rohan ripe to fall into the hands of Saruman, and himself been regent for the wizard during the late disastrous occupation. Only the intervention of stout-hearted men from Gondor, aided by his own indispensable Dwarf-expertise had won back the Hornburg from the usurping Uruk-hai and unspeakable Dunlendings, whispered Gimli thunderously.

"Gríma Son of Galmod owes this realm reparation!" announced Éomer curtly in response to this diatribe, "I choose that he pays in terms of personal servitude to the King. He is my Liegeman, and any harm that comes to you, My Lord Gimli, by his agency or action, will be personally recompensed by me!"

"Well, you can't say fairer than that!" huffed Gimli, mollified, "Maybe I'll stay for supper after all!"

"Wait but three days, My Lord, and you shall have a feast such as you may report favourably even to the renowned cooks of Aglarond." invited Éomer suavely.

"Don't mind if I do," responded Gimli instantly, "I will say this for your kitchens, Éomer. What they lack in finesse they more than make up for in quantity!"

Digesting that equivocal compliment, Éomer detected motion at the foot of the stone stair and, disdaining courtesy, craned over to look.

It was the single rider from the Chamber of Records. He took the stairs two at a time and laid the keys on the parapet next to the King.

"It's like a tempest hit the place My Lord!" he reported breathlessly. "There's parchments all over! And what looks like bloodstains on the floor."

"How much blood?" asked Éomer, his heart turning a somersault.

"Oh, just a smear, My Lord. No-one died in there, if that's what you're thinking."

"Ahem!" Eothain cleared his throat nervously, "The Snake resisted arrest. I was forced to use force My Lord. And we may have...er... slightly disarranged the room."

"Well?" Éomer turned once again to his rider, "Would you describe it as disarranged?"

"I'd describe it as ruined, my Lord." replied the man emphatically.

The Rohirrim were not a people who kept many written histories and detailed records. Nonetheless, what there had been of them—including stories and epic verse—had been in the Chamber of Records, together with the business documents of the realm. Éomer briefly closed his eyes. Without his Worm, who knew exactly were everything was housed, the restoration job would be impossible.

"And you never thought to mention this little accident earlier, Eothain?" queried the King, his eyes still searching the paths to the stairs.

Ah, here it came at last; a bedraggled little procession moving slowly because the stripling Squire and the burly golden rider were forced to keep pace with the shorter, darker figure who cringed between them, leaning for support on the Squire but (the King was relieved to note) walking hesitantly on its own two feet.

"Get a chair!" he ordered curtly, not caring who obeyed the order; and overriding Eothain's mumbled explanations about the arrest.

Éomer caught only a brief impression of a marred white face as his Liegeman crept slowly up the steps towards him. Not until someone (the Squire probably) had settled Gríma into the hastily-placed seat did the King dare to take a longer look.

It could, he supposed, have been worse. What one man—one fit, strong, trained fighting man—could do with fists and feet had been done; and done thoroughly. Gríma's left eye was swollen shut by a massive discolouration. Blood clotted the brow above (all caused by a fist, wearing a decorative ring, Éomer judged). The left cheek and jaw were misshapen, distorting the mouth on that side (probably a passing boot on the way down to hasten the fall). More worrisome was the way that Gríma sat hunched in the chair, one hand pressed to his right side, and how his breath came in shallow gasps. Both boots would do that, once he was down. He'd be lucky to escape broken ribs. And he'd been unattended, locked in his room for...how long? Three days? Had they, wondered the King, remembered to feed and water their prisoner? No wonder Gríma looked so frail, so unaware. So old.

Éomer was outraged. Whatever the outcome of this debacle, Gríma would be unfit, for some time to come. The Chamber of Records would be unusable. Now Éomer would not be able to explain just what he had achieved in Gondor. Gríma was to ill to appreciate any of it. The king would have to wait to find out how things had really being going in Rohan in his absence. Gríma would not be able to tell him yet. Gríma was hardly fit to defend himself against Eothain's allegation. Gríma wasn't even fit...fit enough to...

Not fit enough to take to bed.

The King's musing stumbled to a halt; and he realised he'd been staring, aghast, into the one good eye of his henchman. Who stared back and moved one hooded eyelid fractionally in what might be the ghost of a wink.

Relief washing over him, Éomer addressed Gríma sternly.

"You're a mess. I thought I told you to find yourself something better than that tatty robe. Instead, you've clearly rolled all over the floor wearing it, and allowed someone to tear half the sleeve away. It doesn't sit well with my honour to have you constantly looking like a beggar!"

Gríma moved his mouth painfully and made some reply in a voice so thick and constricted that Éomer could hardly—even at close quarters—make out the words. He requested a repeat impatiently.

"Forgive...Lord. There appears...inexplicable interruption...in...laundry service."

Éomer didn't dare laugh in his relief; but Gimli, near enough to make out the reply, gave an explosive guffaw. Éomer suddenly felt much more confident.

"Now, listen to me Gríma Wormtongue!" he said, "My Lord Gimli here tells me that he lodged a document with you. Do you recall?"

Gríma nodded, not wasting words.

"And you still have this document in your keeping?"

Another nod.

"Then may I please have it? Now!"

Unexpectedly, Gríma leaned forward, holding his jaw and choking into his hand. Éomer started forward, calling to the women to bring water. But before he could touch the man, Gríma straightened once more in the chair, and smiled into his Lord's eyes.

Somehow there was difference in the battered face as it lightened. Éomer frowned in concentration; and then he saw. The swelling and distortion was gone from Gríma's lower face. In his hand he now held a flat, compact package, shrouded in oiled silk. He carefully removed the covering, and held out a tightly-folded parchment.

Gimli gave a joyous roar, and bounded forward.

"By Durin's Beard, that was a dangerous ruse, man! You might have died. D'you always walk such a precipice in your dealings?"

"Always, My Lord."

Éomer deftly reached, and twitched the parchment from Gríma's hand before Gimli could grab it. It was in surprisingly good condition considering it had been in the man's mouth for...how long?—the full three days (not daring to remove it in case someone summoned him unexpectedly)? He unfolded the stiff material and quickly scanned it. The King's reading skills were more limited than either Gríma's or Gimli's, but the gist of the agreement was clear. It was essentially what Gimli had described, and was signed by both parties.

"Hmm." mused Éomer aloud, "I notice, My Lord, that Eothain undertook to provide the gold. Your payment was for the craftwork only. Is that so?"

"It is." rumbled Gimli, looking suddenly alert.

"And yet," continued the King, "even though the gold was clearly handed to the craftsman, Eothain was unable actually to pay for the work. Perhaps he used all of his movable wealth in providing the raw material? Might that be so, Eothain?"

"As you say, Sire." replied Eothain stiffly.

"Ahem!" Erkenbrand entered the conversation with clear reluctance, "I have formed the impression, Sire, that some parts of the Royal Treasury have been disarranged recently."

Having delivered his firecracker, the Westfold Marshal resumed his intense scrutiny of the evening stars.

"Gríma? Do you have a record of anything removed from the treasury?"

Regretfully his Liegeman shook his head.

"All my records were in the Chamber, Lord. I hold it all in my memory, of course, but I fear the proof will be hard to recover."

Éomer nodded thoughtfully. He was beginning to see what should be done—given that he could not, at the moment, arraign the Third Marshal of the Mark for things so piddling as fraud, theft and bullying.

"Gríma," he said quietly, "you may go now. Can you make your own way to the kitchens? They'll find you something you'll be able to eat—broth perhaps, or bread and milk. And make sure that Edfrith looks at your injuries. She makes the best salves in Edoras. Ask them to find you somewhere else to sleep, too. Your room will need sweetening if you've been in it for three days. I know all about being imprisoned, believe me!"

"Yes, Lord." replied Gríma (who had done the imprisoning in his days as Saruman's Regent).

Éomer watched his Worm hobble slowly towards where the womenfolk clustered, and turned happily back to where Eothain waited, now flanked by members of Éomer's eored.

"Fine things, those bracelets," he remarked carelessly, "fit for a King indeed, would you not agree My Lord Gimli? Particularly since it appears that the King will have to pay for them. We'll assume, shall we, that the Third Marshal merely—ah—anticipated my commission to your craftspeople? So, Eothain, if I receive the pieces as a gift from you, then I shall not feel regretfully impelled to raise the taxes on the whole of the Eastfold, in order to recoup your debt. Erkenbrand? Do you—with your famed impartiality—judge this fair?"

He paused at the door of his chamber, wondering if he should go in search of Gríma before he turned in. Abruptly dismissing his Squire for the night, the King walked several steps in the direction of the tangle of guest-chambers behind Meduseld, where he suspected Gríma might have found a bed. But he soon abandoned his intent. The jumble of half-formulated thought and barely-felt emotion that had resulted from his inopportune insight, counterbalanced his need to talk to Gríma about all that had occurred. Best to wait until morning!

Yawning widely, the King stumbled into his room, slammed the door and shot the bar noisily home into its groove. Let them leave his bathwater and food outside tomorrow, and wait until he was ready!

Several clear lamps shed a mellow glow on the well-worn furnishings, their scented oil suffusing the room with a pleasant smell of ripe apples. It reminded Éomer of the storage loft where he and Theodred had played in the hay when they were both much younger. His mind sheered off from the memory of that beloved cousin, and the half-guilty feeling that he was occupying the dead man's place. However, the familiar scent insensibly soothed the King as he stripped the new gold bracelets from his wrists, and pulled back the curtains from the royal bed.

Gríma Wormtongue, staking his all on one throw, and praying incoherently to any power listening that he had read his King aright, met Éomer's bemused stare with a faint smile.

"How very wise of Eothain." he noted.

Éomer flung the gold onto the bed before Wormtongue and regarded him balefully, hands on hips.

"What are you doing here?"

"Forgive me if I misunderstood, but I recall that you told me to find another bed for the night."

"I didn't mean..." protested Éomer.

"Did you not, Lord?" asked Gríma softly.

"No I did n..." but he paused, and the denial faltered on his lips.

Gríma waited. He had made his pawn's move. Now it was for the King to check or take him.

Éomer leaned forward and fingered the scattered bracelets.

"Here! Have these! You won them and paid in pain, after all!"

Thus the King offered gold—coveted gold—instead of himself. Gríma shook his head and declined the gambit.

"I would rather the gold of your hair across my throat, Lord."

Éomer's eyes opened wide, seeming-black with desire or fear. His breath fell harsh in the scented air. Gríma saw that the King was snared; and that he knew it.

"The time has come," said Éomer, regaining authority with an effort, "to renegotiate, little Snake!"

Renegotiate. The last time Éomer had said that word it had held a thoughtless promise that Gríma had only half-believed. Now—reckless—he did not hesitate.

"What further...terms do you wish, Lord, in addition to what your faithful Gríma has fulfilled already?"

Unexpectedly Éomer laughed; a full, deep, reverberant sound in the rather charged atmosphere.

"I can't match your verbal swordplay, little Snake. Tell me—truthfully—are you a virgin?"

Taken aback, Gríma hesitated; then allowed the silence to become noticeable before he finally nodded with every appearance of reluctance.

Éomer whooped; then politely stifled it.

"I knew it! I guessed! Now there's something—ONE thing—that I know more about than you do!"

Resignedly Gríma nodded again, his one good eye tender and forbearing.

"Then you must learn, little Snake. Ah...I forgot! You're hurt."

"I'm not in my best looks, Lord, true. But..."

"He kicked-in your ribs. What did Edfrith say?"

"Er...it's not as bad as it looks!" improvised Gríma a trifle raggedly.

"Show!"

The King was not to be denied. He seized the coverlet under which Gríma cowered, and stripped it back.

Gríma's body was alabaster-smooth and, in spite of the abundance of rather greasy black locks that grew on his head, practically hairless. Against the stark whiteness of the fine skin, the bruises on his right side showed like dark thunderclouds. Éomer, light-headed with hard thinking, good food, and the prospect of love, sobered somewhat.

"Truthfully, little Snake, do you have broken bones there?"

The concern in his voice undid Gríma and he answered without due and prior thought.

"No, Lord. Edfrith said I was lucky. She gave me some foul-smelling salve to put on it."

"Good. But..." Éomer reconsidered swiftly, his lower lip caught in his strong white teeth, "we'll keep it simple to start with, little Snake. Maybe in a few days..."

"Whatever My lord commands." breathed Gríma; and Éomer, caught squarely in the heady, hoary mix of power and passion that had snared so many before him (and would do so again), leaned forward to plant a rather experimental kiss on his Liegeman's mouth...

...which deepened from something soft and tentative into a startling and fiery business, which left Gríma's lips stung and swollen.

"Eorl's Oath, but I missed you!" gasped the King, punctuating his disjointed narrative with trails of fierce kisses and bites to Gríma's throat and across his upper torso, "The Uruk-raid...couple of close calls there...White City...we're only a client kingdom, little Snake...need to...ah...and Dol...Dol..."

"Dol Amroth!" murmured Gríma languorously, stretched and loose beneath his Lord's ministrations, "Did you snare...sn...?"

"Yes!" Éomer exhaled the word into the soft flesh above Gríma's navel, "But...later...I'll tell you later... right now I want no foreign woman in my bed. Only you!"

As Gríma's back arched, and he spasmed in ecstasy at the attentions of his Lord's tongue and skilful hands, he had no quarrel with that. Kings must marry; that was their destiny. But there was a world of joyous reality to be had, if rules could but be bent a little.

Later, when the King's snores were reverberating through Gríma's injured ribs as he lay close to Éomer's side, he resigned himself, between love, noise, and acute discomfort, to sleeplessness. (Naturally he had lied about his injuries. Edfrith had told him straitly not to move the strapping that bound the fracture for at least three days. He would probably pay for this disobedience for the rest of his life.)

Love, he decided, was a dreadful thing—especially when it was one's own. It disabled a whole range of possible actions. He'd once heard it likened to holding a serpent on the blade of one's spear; but (living, as always up to his eke-name) for him it felt more like BEING the snake, impaled and unable to inflict harm on the source of the agony. There was nothing for it, he had decided a while ago, but to use his formidable talent for plot and counter-plot in order to grapple his Lord forever to his side. So far, his strategy had worked in a most satisfactory manner. The King had finally bedded him, and had promised to take him much more fully as soon as he was well enough to withstand the rigors of penetration for the first time...

His claim to virginity was, of course open to interpretation. There had been the rape when he was thirteen; but he doubted if the other party would even remember the scrawny dark child he had been then. And it hadn't actually been fully penetrative. Had it? Then there was that girl who'd take him on, for a dare, when he was sixteen; but as she had made it her business to tell the whole village that he was useless, that could hardly be said to count. No, on the whole, he could say with perfect truth that there were aspects of him that were still virginal. And that he came to his Lord with a pure (and hitherto untenanted) heart.

He was pleased that Éomer had managed the Dol Amroth business. A newly-arrived foreign queen would need Gríma's friendship in the midst of all these insensitive Strawheads. Also—and this was the real reason for Gríma's approbation—any stray dark hairs on the King's pillow would instantly be attributed to a nocturnal connubial visit to the Royal Bedchamber, rather than to a visit from Gríma (which no-one would credit).

Gríma intended to keep the affair secret as long as possible. He must explain that to the King as soon as he was able. That lovely, mad idea about the wrist pieces—what had Éomer been thinking of?

Well—love, supposed Gríma fondly. Only someone deeply lost in it would have carelessly gifted him with only ONE of a match-pair, and then suggested he wear it (in public too!) on his left wrist whilst its twin adorned the King's right. Anyone with half a brain could put two bracelets together and make a budding affair! In fact, Gríma doubted whether any of the Rohirrim could summon up even so much intelligence, but certainly the Lord of Aglarond would get the point fast enough. And what Agalarond knew today, the Hornburg would, Gríma suspected, know tomorrow!

Éomer, Gríma decided in drowsy content, was a vain, foolish, beautiful lover. Truly he was merely a couple of degrees brighter than all the golden clods he ruled. How fortunate, then, that he had his loyal Gríma to do all the hidden, interesting, unbecoming parts of governance. Love, thought Gríma to himself as he finally succumbed to fatigue, was not such a bad thing, after all.

The great cooking fires flickered low in the mead-hall, but Erkenbrand of Westfold showed no sign of leaving. The womenfolk had long since ceased top drop him hints, (civil at first, then less so); and sought their rest, leaving him several jugs of the best mead. On the opposite bench. Gimli son of Gloin clashed his pewter mug against Erkenbrand's drinking-horn and matched him (ale against mead), draught for draught.

"Rather stupid of Eothain to fall for such a simple trick!" observed the Dwarf wiping beer-foam from his moustache with the back of one gnarled hand, "How did Wormtongue manage it?"

"Oh—easy. He nicked the Treasury key from my belt and left it where Eothain could find it. Watched him do it—AND return it a coupla days later. After that, of course, it was just extra honey for Gríma when you got involved! I'll say this for him though—he don't flinch at pain if there's a good plot to be moiled up! At anyrate it clears Eothain from the King's immediate circle; which is good for both you and me."

"Hmm!" Gimli took another swig before asking, "What's about this feast the King's invited me to?"

"Ah! Well, I expect him to announce a formal alliance with Dol Amroth. It's what I'd do if I were he. Can't fault the Worm on THAT advice either!"

"That pale wench of Imrahil's? When he could have all these strapping Riddermark jades? Thought YOU had a candidate entered in those stakes, Erkenbrand! In fact I wagered six golds on her soon as I saw her!"

"My Sister-daughter? Yes, well, I had to make my throw, of course, in case anyone thought I was behind the game! But as I say, if I were Éomer King, I wouldn't touch any of 'em. Too much trouble at home (AND at bed and board!) if he picked on one over the others. No, no. The Worm's advice there was perfectly sound—AND he made it seem like the King's own idea too—gotta hand him that!"

There was another pause whilst both emptied their vessels.

"So?" asked Gimli, wiping his beard.

"So...ah! Here's my Sister-son. There'll be some news, I warrant. Frecca! Over here!"

The blond stripling made his way over to the bench looking somewhat dazed.

"Here boy," said his uncle kindly, "take a drop of mead. It's the best stuff. Now! Tell us!"

The boy took a swig straight from the jug, lowered it, and looked blearily at his uncle, awe in his eyes.

"How did you guess, Uncle Erkenbrand?"

"Never mind that, boy! Was I right?"

"Yes. The Worm's in his bed, even now."

"Ah! Now that's good, Frecca. Tell us what you saw."

"We... ell, " said Frecca (elsewhere merely known only by the title—'Ohtar'—Squire), "I did what you said, Uncle. Just went in to make sure the Royal Bedchamber was alright. The lamps had been lit—there was a powerful scent of apples in the room."

"Apples!" interrupted Erkenbrand almost to himself, "Hmm. The Worm knows about Theodred, then. Curse him! Yes—go on!"

"Well—the bed curtains were tight drawn. I didn't touch those—but—you know how it is when you... know there's someone there..." he tailed off uncertainly.

" Yes, yes. Go on, boy!"

"So I did as you told me. I waited until the King came. He had no idea of a visitor—I'd swear that! Just wanted his bed. He was yawning like...like an Uruk. He sent me off at the door...looked tired to me. I heard the bar go across, so I crept up and put my ear to the door."

"Yes, and...?"

"I heard him gasp—quite a loud breath. I was just wondering what to do if it was really a murderer in there with him, when he gave a sort of shout. There was a murmur, and then he said 'What are you doing here?' clear as anything."

"Yes? Yes..."

"And then someone said something about finding a bed for the night. Then there was some talk I didn't understand, and then Éomer King said 'Time to renegotiate, little Snake!' That was clear as anything too. After that..." the boy paused, and the red on his cheeks might have been the dying firelight—or not, "the sounds were what you'd expect. I don't think anyone left before I did."

"Good! Good. Thank you, Frecca; you've done very well. See what you can find out from the state of the royal bed tomorrow morning. You look tired, boy. Get some rest."

Once Frecca had made his way beyond earshot, Erkenbrand threw a triumphant look at Gimli.

"Well, that's five golds you owe me on the wager! Things will be much simpler now, you'll see. The important thing, Gimli, is that this is the Real Thing for Gríma Wormtongue. It's True Love, and a Romance in High Life. It took Éomer long enough. I'd been expecting this for...ooh...six months at least. Well, now the Worm's neutralised for independent plotting. He and the King will act as one. The vital thing...the REALLY urgent thing...is to get the new queen on our side. We must make sure we get to her before Wormtongue does. Then, if we need to remove the Worm—or even the King—later, we have a possible ally; AND we have our knowledge of the affair to use—or not—as we need it."

Erkenbrand rose unsteadily, tottered, and righted himself; not without aid from the Dwarf-lord.

"Heh! Time I was abed whilst I can still get myself there! One last toast! Here's to a most fruitful partnership between Aglarond and Westfold. The board's set for a new game—and this time I intend to be a player! Here's to new alliances!"

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