Chapter Text
It’s a filthy winter. A filthy, filthy cold winter. Everything that is about to unfold is winter’s fault.
In Edoras, Éomer would call the nights murkey because they allow a person to drink in the dim, smoke filled corners of a tavern then drip away into inky alleyways with someone or other and attempt mutual warmth in stable lofts after a bit of discreet conversation held only with eyes. But here? Traveling northward to visit such-and-such a village because his uncle has decided that Éomer must take on the duties Théodred once saw to in order for him to learn what it is to wear a crown. Frigid. Filthily so.
Not that he minds traveling to and fro between towns and villages. Quite the opposite, it’s vastly superior to being cooped up in Edoras. But the cold sits ill with him. It’s been a winter of little snow, just these sharp days of wind chill and chapped lips. Nights of hard earth and ponds with thin, fragile ice that could be glass. It breaks with a look. Howling wolves on distant hills bring fear and exhilaration.
These are all things he loves. For there is something about being outside when nature is unforgiving and seeks to humble a man. Éomarc summers are sultry, languorous affairs. Winters, though, they remind a man how small he is in comparison to the greatness of the world.
But this winter? Not so much.
Which, Éomer supposes, has to do with how the whole business was handled before he left for parts far-off. Théoden had said, Théodred had forty years of learning kingship, we must catch you up. And then he had looked at Éomer in a strange manner Éomer doesn’t have a word for. But it’s been that way since March. This is what happens when the nephew lives and the son and heir dies.
Not that Théoden means to be cruel — and he isn’t. He isn’t cruel, because he’s Théoden and Éomer would never say that cruelty is in his nature. No, Théoden is kindness and honour and fatherliness and generosity of spirit. But it’s this look. Éomer can’t shake it. How it burrows into his marrow and reminds him that there is no undoing all that has happened. He cannot play happy family hard enough to bring Théodred back because nothing will bring Théodred back. Nothing will un-ghost him. He will forever linger as a shade in the shadow of the dais saying: you are wearing the crown that ought to be mine.
To which Éomer would happily reply: Please resurrect yourself, cousin-mine, take this from me. I don’t want it.
Anyway, the dilemma is the presence of a certain oath-breaker-traitor who is currently prodding the fire into good behaviour. Théoden had said, Oh and take Gríma with you. It will give him something to do, make him useful. He’s the cause of some of Éomarc’s ill, so he might as well be used in the cure. And he knows the Wold, it could come in handy.
Mostly, Éomer suspects Théoden was finding it difficult looking at both of them. It is mid-December. Théodred’s birthday is in a matter of days.
‘I think the fire is fine,’ Éomer says. Gríma glowers at him from across the flames. ‘It’s quite large enough.’
‘It is cold, my lord, and it keeps away unnecessary wild animals.’
Éomer backtracks: he was lamenting winter and the cold. Because cold necessitates fire to stave off the chill of night air. And the dark, which Gríma does not enjoy. Also the wild animals. All those howling wolves, screaming foxes, humanesque shrieking of big cats.
But, fire also lights up Gríma’s face with unhallowed shadows. It marks out deep set, pale eyes that dart about, frantically absorbing every person, every object, every blade of grass, every tangle of weeds. It highlights cheekbones, the thin mouth folded into a scowl, pointed nose. The fire does not soften these features, nor does it make them attractive, but it does cause them to stand out.
And so Éomer finds himself staring. Initially, he told himself it was because he did not trust Gríma. Then, he told himself it was because Gríma has one of those faces that a person can’t help but stare at; like a boat collision. Not that Éomer thinks of it thus, but he spent several days telling himself he did.
No, to Éomer’s great annoyance and horror, he likes looking at it. Like a boat collision but less for the transfixing nature of the ugliness of destruction, than for the striking and fascinating nature of destruction. So, he studies it. He thinks that if the snake is going to be around for a while yet Éomer may as well resign himself to it.
Gríma’s face is beyond pale and made entirely of angles; far too pointy and jagged, like rock cliffs. But, it fits with the rest of the body which is, for all intents and purposes, a jumble of limbs loosely strung together and dropped into clothes that drape, that fold and enclose, that secret him away into shadows. Like linens swathed about the bodies of the dead. There is nothing about the oath-breaker that could be called attractive.
Yet, here Éomer is. Making a study of him.
Which is the fire’s fault. And the fire exists because of the cold. Therefore, it can all be blamed on winter. The longer he is traveling with Gríma, the more the season gets under his skin, the same as how Gríma gets under his skin. Though winter, unlike some, hasn’t committed treason. A fact Éomer repeats to himself whenever Gríma looks at him with that hooded expression of his. The one that can only be described as cunning, sly, wolfish. And, if the light is right, terribly hungry.
Life has become a bit complicated since the war.
[As he drunkenly told Éothain during the nine days of midsummer jól: I dislike Gríma because I find him confusing.
How so? Éothain asked.
I don’t like him because he is a traitorous, oath-breaking son of a bitch who is rude, mean and cheats at cards. Yet, that said, the thought of anything bad happening to him upsets me.
That’s called having a basic human decency, Éomer. Having a good heart.
It’s called being constantly annoyed by the man’s existence. ]
Producing two potatoes from his saddle bag Gríma carefully places them against the embers of the fire. When he catches Éomer staring he shrugs.
‘Where did you get the potatoes?’
‘The last village we were in. I purchased them thinking they would be an improvement over hardtack. Plus, they would be something warm to eat and the thought of that delights me. Because I am cold.’
Feeling that he ought to add to their supper, Éomer roots around in his pack before triumphantly pulling out a flask. ‘Aha! Réamwín?’
It is with some consideration that Gríma eyes him. Which makes Éomer think there is a good reason the other man is always complaining of being tired. It must take such energy to be constantly suspicious of everyone and everything. The very thought of it exhausts. It also annoys, he had thought them past this cagey half-dance of two steps forward, two-steps back. He had thought it clear that the world wasn’t out to get Gríma.
[Gríma had said, back around the coronation of Aragorn, I think I might have mispriced Háma. To which Éomer replied, Yes, you did. Then Gríma sat awkwardly, playing with the hems of his sleeves before saying, I suppose I might have mispriced you, as well. Though perhaps not so poorly as I did Háma.
A statement that made Éomer think: Oh. Then nothing else because his mind went off to rummage about in the memory bin holding up bits and bobs declaring: aha, remember when you both could have a functioning conversation about normal things like weather and the state of the roads?
And, because Éomer is a man of grace and wit, he said, It’s a marvel what your eyes suddenly are able to see once you stop committing treason. And when you manage to dislodge your head from your arse.
This prompted Gríma to scuttle away for the remainder of the day and Éomer took himself to a tavern with Éothain in order to complain about the state of the world and how people, all people, are stupid.]
Gríma completes his calculation of Éomer’s motives and, deeming them apparently trustworthy, gives a small nod. Éomer happily takes a drink then passes it over with a wæs hæl. Gríma returns the sentiment, takes a sip, then passes it back. They continue this exchange for several minutes.
‘How long until they’re done?’ Éomer asks, nodding to the potatoes.
‘A while yet.’
‘Tarocchi?’
Gríma shrugs. Sure, why not. They can play a game. So long as Éomer does not cheat as he did last time. Éomer rolls his eyes. Declares that he did not cheat. It isn’t his fault Gríma got distracted and stopped card counting, or whatever it is he does to win every game.
The cards are pulled out from Éomer’s pack and handed to Gríma, ‘Since you lost our last game, you can start this one.’
From the folds of dark grey and blue clothes emerge Gríma’s hands as two slender, thin boned birds from a hidden brush. Éomer stares at them. Gríma shuffles. Éomer glances up to catch Gríma watching him watching Gríma’s hands. Gríma’s face betrays no expression save for his pale eyes which are questioning. They spend a long moment searching Éomer’s own before dropping down to the cards.
Moving closer, so they aren’t playing around the fire, Éomer takes up the dealt cards and inspects them and, deciding they’re good enough, declares that they shall play. Gríma duly deals out the talons. Éomer, as forehand, plays the first trick.
The first round is completed in relative quiet. An owl hoots from nearby trees. Dry grass rustles. Above them, the moon is almost full. The horses make content horse noises. It has, thus far, been a snowless season. Éomer hopes it will continue thus. At least until they complete this collection of visitations and return to Edoras.
‘Have you seen your sister recently?’ Éomer asks.
‘Not since before the war. Let us say it’s been two years.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘Usual enough, my lord. She’ll be along soon, though.’
Éomer takes a trick with a triumphant ha.
Gríma tuts: ‘I let you have it. To make you feel better.’
‘Aw, isn’t that sweet of you,’ Éomer mocks before laughing. ‘Has she sent word?’
Gríma hums a question of: how do you mean?
‘How do you know she’ll be along soon,’ Éomer clarifies.
‘I just know.’ Gríma pauses to carefully collect his trick. ‘It’s a twin thing, I think. Or, maybe it’s a galdorcræft thing. I don’t know, could be both. Or neither.’
‘Oh yes, I always forget you’re twins. Who was born first?’
‘Brynja.’
‘So, you’re the baby of the family, if I remember the order of your siblings rightly.’
And what a face Gríma pulls. Éomer smirks, happily takes a trick then buries himself into his cards. Gríma is winning by a slim margin but Éomer firmly believes he can catch up, if not overtake the man. He wishes to win again if only to put a damper on Gríma’s ten-games-in-a-row streak. When Gríma wins it is expressed in the most subtle preening Éomer has ever witnessed. When he loses, it’s a night of sour expressions and grousing about how he is certain Éomer cheated.
‘Do you miss her?’ Éomer asks.
‘Who?’
‘Your sister.’
‘At times.’ Gríma takes another trick.
‘How often do you see her? What’s the average?’
‘I don’t know,’ an elegant shrug. ‘Once every few years. Her husband has itchy feet so they tend to travel much of the year, but keep south in winter months.’
Right, that makes sense. Éomer picks at the edge of a card. Turns over a question he isn’t sure how to ask. He believes Gríma to be a relatively solitary creature. Oh, he speaks of this sister here and there, but Éomer’s image of Gríma has always been of a man alone. Therefore, how can he answer Éomer’s question? Which is: how can a person, who has defined himself in relation to his family, understand himself and his role in the world when there is no family left?
Éomer has always been a son, cousin, nephew, brother. Now, with Éowyn married and in Gondor, he is nothing. He supposes he is a nephew. But barely that, for he believes the role of Heir Apparent to have irreparably altered his relationship to his uncle.
That, and his living and Théodred dying. But there’s no point in dwelling on the irreversible.
‘I’m sure your sister will not be nearly so negligent as mine,’ Gríma says in a terribly quiet manner. As if he felt he oughtn’t be saying it at all. ‘You and Éowyn have a different relationship, my lord.’
‘Yes,’ Éomer mutters. ‘A nonexistent one.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘How far would you go?’
‘A strained one.’ Gríma catches himself and he freezes, a wild animal that has caught the scent of a predator on the wind. But Éomer sees no cause for such a reaction. What has he to say in response to this truth? He and Éowyn are strained. Have been since they came away from Aldburg after their mother’s death. Anyway, he delivers truths to Gríma by the handful. It is only fair the gift of “this is not what you wish to hear but it is what you need to hear” is passed back to him. So he shrugs the same time as Gríma sucks in a breath between teeth and begins a long apology on speaking out of turn about things he knows nothing of — &tc. &tc.
Éomer sighs. He waits. Rulers are supposed to be gracious and patient so he works diligently to apply Boromir’s philosophy of letting people have the occasional run-on. The lord said to Éomer: There are some people you need to let speak. They have to natter for a bit in order to feel like they’ve done what they feel is necessary and have said what they felt needed saying.
Gríma carries on for a bit before the apology slows before dwindling out.
‘There’s nothing to apologize for,’ Éomer says to Gríma’s worried face. ‘I asked a question.’
‘I spoke out of turn, my lord —’
‘I heard it once, I don’t need to hear it again.’
Gríma clamps his mouth shut and ducks behind his cards.
//
The game ends when the potatoes are done. Gríma won so he’s looking terribly pleased with himself. Éomer says, ‘I let you win. To make you feel better.’ And Gríma primly replies, ‘You did not. I am simply better at this game than you.’
‘And we’re always playing a game.’
‘That’s right, my lord,’ a cool stare, ‘I don’t think we’ll ever stop. Save for when one of us dies.’
//
The next morning is a gauzy, low, purpling pink sky. A light dusting of snow sits gayly on grasses, dry ground, their saddles and bags. The White Mountains are shadowed figures at this early hour and hunch against the western skyline, waiting for the low sun to illuminate them. Then, they will glint like diamonds.
Gríma continues to be noticeably quiet. As opposed to his usual quiet. It makes Éomer want to shake him, tell him to calm down, that everything is more or less fine. Well, nothing is fine, but no one is going to do anything to him.
‘Apple?’ Éomer asks, taking one out from his bags. Rubbing it on his tunic he passes it over.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Gríma secrets it away into his cloak. Éomer supposes he must have a pocket or three in there where he keeps gods’ know what. Poisons, maybe. Secrets of state. Small, sharp daggers that slide between ribs slick as hot oil. Or maybe it’s just a lot of snacks. He does have a tendency to be able to produce food at any given moment.
‘You weren’t wrong, you know. Last night.’
‘My lord.’ Gríma’s face betrays nothing as he mounts his horse.
They ride in silence for the first hour of their journey. Éomer turns the Éowyn question over in his head. He isn’t entirely sure what he missed. She accused him once of not understanding her and he can’t, exactly, deny that.
‘I don’t think I ever understood what it was she wanted,’ Éomer says before he can stop himself.
He receives no reply save for an askance look from Gríma.
Éomer defends himself in the face of Gríma’s relentless silence: ‘I was always away. And she never told me anything. Asking Éowyn how she was doing would only reap an: I’m fine, or, Oh, you know. No, I don’t know, that is why I’m asking.’
Gríma now studies the sky with great intent so Éomer quiets himself. This conversation is not a wise one. Few conversations with Gríma are wholly wise. Or, at least, few conversations with Gríma over the last three years are wise ones. Prior to that, it was hit and miss. Depended on what he figured a person’s role to be in the grand game of Éomarc politics.
But, Éomer thinks, this conversation contains no new information. It’s just him picking away at old scabs, most of which Gríma is already acquainted with, if only by dint of being in the King’s household. Éomer and his sister never quarrelled quietly.
‘I never stopped her from doing what she liked,’ Éomer insists after a moment of thought. ‘Did you hear otherwise?’
‘She wanted to be a rider.’
‘Well, yes, but that’s different.’
‘How so, my lord? What if your sister wished to be, oh I don’t know, a great blacksmith or merchant. Would that have been more palatable? Would you have countenanced her taking up ironmongery?’
‘Well, for one, she wouldn’t die if she was a blacksmith or merchant. I mean, I’m not sure how I would feel about it, my sister as a blacksmith.’
‘But if your lady sister went to you and said: my dearest dream is to work in a smithy. You would have said, Smith away sister-mine.’
‘Well, I don’t know that working in a smithy is appropriate for anyone in our noble house.’
‘You do understand what I’m getting at, my lord?’
Éomer does and does not but wishes to pivot the conversation. Except Gríma is saying, ‘It can be safely assumed that your sister will die eventually. The human condition is our mortality, after all. So if your sole motivation for nay-saying her one wish is keeping her alive, you are fighting a losing battle.’
‘You know what I meant,’ Éomer snaps. ‘She is my sister. It is my duty to keep her safe.’ And, he doesn’t add, it was something he promised their father he would do. Keep the family safe. And he has already failed his mother, his cousin, his uncle to a certain degree, therefore he has no plans on failing Éowyn. He adds, a bit defensively, ‘Did you not think the same thing before your sister married?’
Gríma raises a delicate eyebrow. ‘Hardly.’
‘You never worried for her safety?’
‘Brynja and I are a different case.’
‘But if she went to you and said she intended to take up the sword, would you have stopped her?’
‘I don’t see that I would have a right to. Owensel might have tried. He takes being head of the family very seriously. But good luck to him. Brynja has a tendency to get her own way. If Brynja asked my opinion I would give it her, but I wouldn’t think to stop her. Perhaps it’s different, since we are twins. Perhaps I would feel as you do, were she younger than me.’
Éomer picks at the pommel of his saddle. Across the fields comes the cry of a hawk. Éomer squints southward to search out the dark brown body flying against the pale blue. Similar colour to a certain oath-breaker’s eyes, Éomer thinks. Then he becomes annoyed with himself for the thought.
An unwanted addition: Except, the sky is less watery.
‘Would you like a truth, my lord?’ Gríma asks. ‘Or a passage through to another topic of conversation?’
‘Would you tell me the truth whether I wished to hear it or not?’
‘No, my lord. I would keep it to myself.’
‘No, no, go on. I’m curious.’
‘I believe your sister resented you, a little. Your freedom, your occupation, that you were Third Marshal and privileged with responsibilities and could make a mark on the world while she was relegated to stand on the side. Though she would always deny it.’
‘You had occasion to ask my sister if she resented her kin?’
‘It came up from time to time.’
Éomer mutters that this sounds dubious. It sounds more like something Gríma would ask in order to stir the family pot. Which was always his favourite past-time.
‘She was always circumspect, my lord.’
‘She always told me she thought you a snake but I assumed she just meant your mannerisms.’ Gríma gives him a look of: try harder. ‘That said, she once told me that you had a habit of sounding wise when, in fact, all that could come from you is poison.’
‘I sounded wise? Huh.’
Éomer rolls his eyes. ‘So,’ he asks, ‘what advice did you proffer?’
‘I would never say I offered advice. Indeed, I wouldn’t dare presume. But, I do recall a conversation wherein I said that should a person’s wanting for something, let’s say an occupation or a title, become desolate and despairing it can breed resentment. I believe I went on about how it must be hard to be alone with a brother always otherwise occupied and an ailing uncle...’
Éomer says nothing into the pause Gríma provided for the expected commentary.
‘The long and short of what I said, my lord, was that a life can shrink on itself. If you let it shrink for long enough, all that you will ever be, is the small, safe, inconsequential thing you allowed yourself to become. Your life, your options, no greater than a pinhead. And sure, there might be good and pure motives for such self-containment; responsibility to family, or a sense of obligation to a patron. But do such motives matter when, at the dusk of your life, all that is left of your soul is duty and expectation? It is you who must live with that shrunken ghost of what you once were. It is you who are the once wild thing that haunts the abandoned possibilities of your life.’
‘There is honour,’ Éomer counters.
‘Lady Éowyn said the same,’ Gríma gives him a side-long look, ‘though she sounded less convinced than you.’
Uncertain of where he wishes to go next on the forever winding road that are conversations with Gríma, Éomer opts for a pause. To contemplate the horizon. And the interior of Gríma’s mind, which Éomer assumes to be not unlike their conversation. Complicated. Full of contradictions and tension. He imagines it as a long, winding trail through darkened woodlands, or the treacherous marshes in southern Éomarc. The ones where, should you misstep, you sink till water and mud and grass cover you entirely. Your body may be found hundreds of years from now, looking as if you just fell in and thought to take a bit of a rest. Except, you are dead and all your family are dead and there is no one to claim your body and give you a name.
It occurs to Éomer that, between the two of them, it can be argued that Gríma knows Éowyn the better. A realization that results in some tensing of the jaw, some internal glowering, some heat of embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck.
He wants to demand: How is it you came to know all of this? What sorcery did you employ? What leechcraft was put in use? But sudden outbursts and accusations are not kingly and so, as he is trying hard to learn that strange and ephemeral art, he lets the anger pass.
Once it does, there is a second thought: Well, Eomer was never around and, truthfully, didn’t know how to talk to her so never really tried. He made a decision and that choice resulted in her loneliness. And her anger. And her bitterness.
There is sorcery and there is just being a member of the household and always around. And when you are around conversations happen. Meduseld leaks like a scuttled ship, anyway. There are few secrets in those walls, beautifully carved and painted. Lined with the tapestries of their history. The secrets that are maintained are the sort that people cannot put words to.
In addition, Éomer is growing a little tired of enmity. He and Gríma have had three years of it; surely it can be put to bed. After all, Gríma did say to Éomer that he was willing to try and improve. One must give the man a chance.
[Gríma, after Pelennore, in one of Minas Tirith’s thousands of courtyards: I do promise, my lord, to attempt to make the morally correct choices for the foreseeable future. To which Éomer replied, So no promises on being a more pleasant individual?
Gríma visibly despaired, It’s going to be one or the other, my lord. Either I am nice or I am good. Pick one.
Well, ultimately it’s my uncle you should be having this conversation with. But, if you seek my opinion, I will say that I’ve heard too many sweet voices saying evil things to trust niceness as a conveyer of goodness. So, I’d take you being prickly and difficult but good (more or less) over nice but untrustworthy. I believe it’d be an improvement over your being both unpleasant and untrustworthy.
Gríma smiled his viperish smile, Aw, and here I thought you enjoyed my company.
Your conversation from time to time, Éomer owned. And our backgammon games. But you already know that. Overall, though? I think it will suffice to say that we are very different people and leave it at that.
How tactfully put.
I’ve been informed I need to improve. Kingliness doesn’t involve bluntness to the point of being rude. Apparently.
No, my lord, that can lead to wars. Best we avoid such outcomes. Be pleasant and personable to all you meet, liberal handed and generous, but make sure you always carry a large stick.]
Feeling Gríma watching him, Éomer returns his attention to the conversation and hears the familiar: I spoke out of turn, I apologize, my lord.
‘You really need to stop saying that.’
‘Which part?’
‘All of it.’
‘Very well, my lord. What would you prefer?’
The one downside of unpleasant but moral Gríma is that it means Éomer must deal with this quandary: Is Gríma being earnest, attempting to best please the future king, or is Gríma shit-disturbing? Impossible to tell.
‘I only mean that there’s no need to keep thinking you’ve spoken out of turn. It’s exhausting to keep hearing it.’
Gríma hums something beneath his breath. Éomer waits but there is no follow up so he takes it to be an agreement.
Since they are down the path of awkward and strange conversations, Éomer decides he may as well continue into the depths. He says with heavy suspicion: ‘You paid a good deal of attention to my sister. I know what it is men said about that.’
‘Men speak about all sorts of things, my lord.’
‘And Gandalf said much the same, after you left Meduseld,’ Éomer continues. He twists to look Gríma full in the face but the man won’t meet his eye. Gríma’s lips thin then disappear. Éomer marks this reaction, thinks there’s something in it but doesn’t know what. It is a nervous look, also a drawn and tired one.
‘I think I recall his exact words,’ Éomer says. 'Éowyn is safe, now. That is what Gandalf said after your departure.’
Gríma’s chin juts out and his face turns from whatever strange emotion he had been feeling to fury and disgust.
‘Gandalf said that? Greyhame had the gall to suggest what? Lathspell indeed!’ Gríma sneers as he launches into his views on the loathsome wizard.
Gríma angry, truly angry, is a rarity. He affects anger at times, when it suits him. But more often he will be annoyed or frustrated or put-out. But fury? Not usually in his emotional range. Éomer thinks it to be akin to watching a trembling lid atop a kettle of boiling water. Sure, it may be clamped down tightly, but water and heat are powerful. Eventually the lid will come undone.
‘He is one for grand statements,’ Gríma seethes, voice raising. ‘Always pretending to know another’s business. Walks into a situation and acts as if he understands all the particular nuances and knows what is best for all involved. Worse still, declares he knows another’s motivations, their interests, wants, desires and fears. He is not all seeing though he damn well thinks he is.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘No, that is exactly what he does. He walks in and declares: this is fact. This is what I see so it must be the truth. This person thinks that, and that person thinks this. Does he inquire with anyone? Does he ask anyone their views? He swans into Meduseld, makes estimations based on information that may or may not be relevant, and declares them fact. Gods, if I had an ego bigger than all of Gondor and the kingdom of Numenor combined I’d do the same. Gandalf knows nothing. He has never known anything. You all chase around after him like dogs to their master. Do you wish to know how I came to seemingly understand your sister so well? It wasn’t by leechcraft or sorcery or whatever other nonsense you might think.’
Éomer opens his mouth to reply but Gríma ploughs forward without waiting.
‘I do the same as Gandalf. Only, I don’t dress it up as some great wisdom or knowledge only wizards can access. Look at me, I am the all knowing Gandalf. The wise Saruman. Hardly. What they do is the same as what I do: pay attention to details, track patterns, make inferences, then throw a few out and see which ones stick.’ Gríma stops for a deep breath. He closes his eyes and exhales again. Then he glances at Éomer in some embarrassment. ‘My apologies, my lord. I didn’t mean to go on thus.’
‘Oh no,’ Éomer replies, smilingly. ‘Please, continue. Tell me how you really feel.’
Gríma purses his lips then returns to a more somber appearance. His voice drops back to its usual quiet cadence. ‘What I mean to say, in all of this, is that I paid no inappropriate attention to your sister. At least, that was never my intention. We would speak from time to time. Hard not to, as we were all a bit cooped up in Meduseld. You understand how it gets, don’t you, my lord? I always assumed it was why you would knock off as soon as you could, after visiting. Not that I would presume to know my lord’s motives —’
‘Didn’t you just tell me that presuming motives is exactly what you do?’
Gríma gulps in a breath, holds it, then lets out a short, hoarse laugh. Éomer looks over and catches sight of a fleeting expression he has but rarely seen: honest, open amusement. It is almost a pleasant sight. Gríma’s laughter is more often mocking. His amusement, sneering.
Éomer wonders how he can make it occur again. Then thinks: no, gods no. Those thoughts are only supposed to happen in firelight. Not in the middle of the day after an exhausting conversation.
‘Very true,’ Gríma is agreeing. Then, somber again, ‘I will admit I would perhaps ask questions that were not always appropriate.’
This immediately gets Éomer’s back up. All thoughts slide out of his head as he asks: ‘Such as?’
‘Um, do you resent your uncle and your brother? How does it feel to have no close friends or relatives save for an ailing uncle? If you were to die tomorrow would you feel content with the legacy you are leaving behind? What do you value most in a potential husband? I believe I particularly asked after the importance of age, intelligence, soldierliness, and general nature.’
‘Uhuh.’
Gríma quickly continues: ‘How do you feel about your marriage being used as a puzzle piece in the greater political game? What are your thoughts on Gondor? What are your views on your cousin’s ability to lead the country when your uncle inevitably dies? Do you believe humans are inherently good or evil and does this view change based on whether we are discussing it at an individual level or in large groups? Are honour and duty really that important?’
Éomer’s first thought: This is possibly the most Gríma list of questions he has ever heard.
His second thought: Well, this line of questioning does explain a lot.
‘Those are all less subtle than I would expect from you. Also, were you trying to rope her into committing treason? Or thinking treasonous thoughts?’
‘I perhaps phrased them differently. I did aim for delicacy. Whether I achieved it is not something I can vouch for. And, theoretically, several of those questions would require treasonous thought by their very nature. That is, of course, if one wishes to catalogue thinking as an act of treason. Surely a man’s mind is his haven? Thought counts for nothing.’ A beat. ‘Has Lady Éowyn said anything with regards to, um —’ He falters.
‘No,’ Éomer shrugs. ‘Not to me at least. But as you know, we aren’t exactly one another’s confidants. All she ever said to me was that you are a shivery sort of person, that you make her uncomfortable due to the twin reasons of knowing too much about people and a tendency to stare as if you’re picking a person’s soul apart, penchant for appearing out of thin air when people think they are alone, and that you have a habit of speaking words that sound wise but probably aren’t. Granted, that list of questions you grilled her with probably didn’t help.’
‘I never grilled her, my lord.’
‘You do see how it could come across, though, can’t you? Why Gandalf, and others, would make assumptions?’
A hum as Gríma produces the apple Éomer gave him and takes a bite. He chews thoughtfully. ‘Did you, my lord?’
‘Make assumptions? Yes. Of course.’
Another hum. Gríma takes a second bite. Éomer watches the apple slowly turn in his hand.
‘I had wondered,’ Gríma says.
‘I was under the impression that for the last few years you cared little for the opinions of those of us at Meduseld.’
Gríma faces him, his brow furrowed, then a slow, serpentine smile. Éomer has absolutely no idea how to interpret this so doesn’t.
‘So, did you care?’ Eomer asks.
‘No,’ said very loftily. ‘I have never much cared for the opinions of others. If I did, it would be a paralyzing experience. I move through the world differently than you, my lord. The world moves around most Éothéod in a way that it does not move around me. Though Edoras is generally better than other places. Big city, lots of to and fro with other people.’
‘Right.’ Éomer awkwardly eyes Gríma who shrugs dispassionately.
Wind kicks up, dances flakes of snow around in whorls. They dust across Éomer’s face. He inhales the sharp, clean scent. The sun has plucked itself up enough to make the land glint. Winter turns the world into the finest laid jewelry where every piece of land, every tree and hillock and dale and stream and river are well cut, precious stones.
They are making slow progress towards Armagh, one of the larger towns in the north. The largest being Sechnail, the seat of the Thane of the Wold, then there’s Imair, Alstadt, and Armagh.
Gríma takes another bite of the apple. Then, in a contemplative manner, he says, ‘To return to our initial conversation about siblings and their life decisions, in my experience, people resent being constrained. Even if it is done for their own good. Siblings being no different.’
‘What? You don’t manipulate yours into whatever your latest scheme is?’ Éomer stops. Briefly shuts his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.’
‘Manipulation is different from control, my lord. Owensel manipulated me into all sorts when we were children. Though, I suspect he would say he cajoled me. But wanting something and being told that you must remain confined to a certain position and role is hard enough to bear. But to be told it is done out of love? That it is in your best interest?’
‘I suppose. But she could have died.’
‘That’s her decision, my lord.’ Gríma takes another bite. Turns the apple around. Éomer hasn’t looked away and Gríma keeps shooting him fleeting, questioning glances. There is the keenest sense that Éomer has been here before. Only, not quite.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Nothing, my lord. I’m saying nothing.’
‘You’re absolutely saying something. You have kennings nested inside kennings. Meanings within meanings.’
‘Do I?’ Feigned innocence.
‘Absolutely. Háma once said that a single line from you was, in reality, an entire stanza.’
Gríma goes silent and finishes his apple with an air of distraction. Éomer sighs, pushes hair out of his face and thinks he could have phrased that better.
But the scene is over. Their brief moment of honest conversation, gone. The older man has turtled, how he does when he feels he has shown too much of himself. The riding cloak hunches up, he sinks inward, becomes small.