The Promised Price
by Alex

Gríma watched him ride in with Théodred in front of him on his horse. He saw the despair on his face. He had long watched the King's nephew. He had been a gangly youth, but now he was a man, a handsome man indeed. Gríma licked his lips and watched Éomer and his companions carry a wounded Théodred into the keep.

He knew they would try to talk to Théoden. It wouldn't matter. The King was completely ensnared by his Master. He only listened to Gríma.

"Your son is badly wounded, my Lord." Éowyn said in her soft, sweet voice, pleading that the uncle she knew heard her.

"He was ambushed by Orcs. If we don't defend our country, Saruman will take it by force." Gríma felt his beauty almost as a pain as the young man spoke passionately. His dark eyes flashed fire. Oh, how he wanted to ride him like the Rohirrim rode their steeds. He wanted to break him and make him his own.

"That is a lie! Saruman the White has ever been our friend and ally."

Gríma barely paid any attention to Théoden mumbling something. His attention was riveted on the furious young man who threw the Orc helmet on the floor, speaking of Orcs and the white hand of Saruman.

Gríma looked at him. "Why do you lay these troubles on an already troubled mind? Can you not see? Your uncle is weary of your malcontent, your warmongering."

Éomer was about to explode. He could hold his tongue not one second longer. "Warmongering? How long has it been since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price, Gríma? When all the men are dead you would take a share of the treasure? Too long have you watched my sister, too long have you haunted her steps."

You, thought Gríma, you are the promised price.

"You have gone too far, my young friend." Gríma nodded to the soldiers, who grabbed Éomer, one on either side. "Take him to the stockade. I will deal with him shortly."

Éomer sat in the dark, damp cell and waited. He had no clue what Gríma planned to do with him. Perhaps he should not have acted so rashly, but Théodred would die. His heart was heavy, so heavy in fact, that he wondered that it still beat at all. He could not protect Théodred, though he had tried, fighting at his beloved cousin's side. He would die to protect Éowyn, though.

He didn't even look up when Gríma Wormtongue came into his small cell. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"My fine Rohirrim, you do not look so fine in a cell."

Gríma looked at the long blond hair and thought that he would love having his hands full of it while he took the proud young man. He wondered if he could make Éomer cry for mercy. He wondered if he had any mercy in him.

"Stand up, Éomer."

Éomer did not move. Gríma brought his hand from the folds of his dark robes. He held a small club. The blow landed on the prisoner's left side. He doubled over in pain.

"Stand up, Éomer. Your uncle yet lives. You are not King. Do as I say."

Éomer slowly rose, not quite able to stand up straight, but too proud to let the pain show on his face.

"I will have you this night, Éomer son of Éomund."

Éomer spoke one word, "NO!"

The second blow hit his right side. Gríma's already pale face was white with rage. He looked at the handsome face of his prisoner. And he spoke in a calm, cold voice. "I will have you or your sister. The choice is yours."

All the fight left Éomer. He let Gríma strip him. He stood still while clammy hands touched his chest, his shoulders, his ass. He fought back the urge to vomit when Gríma kissed him. He was silent as Gríma parted his robes and told him to drop to his knees. He did, ignoring hot tears that ran down his cheeks.

"Suck it."

Éomer tried. He flicked his tongue over the flaccid penis, trying to make it harden, knowing that things would not go well for him if he couldn't. Gríma shoved him across the stone floor and fell on him, forcing him onto his stomach. Éomer grunted as fingers were shoved inside him. He waited for Gríma to take him, then finally realized that he couldn't.

All of the rage from his impotence was focused on Éomer. It was his fault for being so placid. Violence and resistance excited Gríma, not some silly boy who rolled over and mewled like a kitten. He reached over and found his little club. He would make the pretty nephew of the King pay. He hit Éomer's naked legs with the club, his pale ass next, leaving red bruises.

"You seek to humiliate and thwart me! You will not succeed. I will have you."

Fear, cold, ugly fear ran through Éomer when he realized what Gríma planned to do. He was a soldier, no innocent in the ways of men who spent long periods without women, but he had never even thought of such an invasion. Gríma parted the cheeks of his ass again, forcing the club into Éomer's tight opening.

Éomer tried not scream, but the pain and humiliation would not be denied and he screamed, a hoarse scream. He didn't mean to struggle either, but he did. Gríma ripped the bloodied instrument from him and entered him then, hard and able now, excited by his pain and futile struggles.

"Oh, my beautiful one, you please me so much!" Much to Éomer's relief, he was so pleased that he came quickly, collapsing onto Éomer's back and kissing him with his vile mouth once more. Éomer lay still and panting. He wished if Gríma were going to kill him, he would do so now and get it over with.

The pale ghost of a man finally rose from his back, adjusting his clothing. He spit on the figure on the floor.

"Perhaps I shall see now which of you is better, you or Éowyn. Do you think she would enjoy it?" He turned and left Éomer on the floor, naked and bleeding, his teeth clinched in rage. Éomer vowed he would see Gríma dead if he ever got the chance.

Gríma stood against the wall outside the stockade, tears coursing down his face. What little humanity he had was ashamed of what he had done, ashamed that he had hurt that one, the one he had loved since the first day he had seen his fair face and his yellow hair. He cursed himself for what he was and went back to the Great Hall to attend to his Master's business.

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