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He slipped down the halls to make a humble offering, the sacrifice of a precious and perfect jewel, to one who would know how to appreciate it.
He’d stolen it away, tucked it into his dark sleeve, leaving no evidence of his theft beyond a few silent footsteps, their ghostly echoes slinking shamefully into corners and alcoves.
It was red, bright red, as perfect a thing as he’d ever seen. He’d selected carefully, knowing to what purpose it would rightly go, and now it burned in his clothes like a ball of flame.
He reached her quarters and observed her in her mute ruminations, late afternoon sunlight gleaming off of her glorious pale mane. He took a louder step, knowing that she would never know of his presence if he did not wish it, and caught her startled eye, smiling.
"Hail, fair lady," he murmured, allowing the slightest edge of warmth into his voice. She looked at him with sharp, large eyes, her gaze unwavering, curious. Could she smell it on him? Know what he had?
"I’ve brought you a little trinket," he promised, stepping forward, delighted when she did not step back. "Would you like it?"
He reached into his sleeve and withdrew a ripe, red apple, presenting it to her in a flat hand.
Windfola made a noise of keen delight and excitement and reached her vocal mouth towards it.
"Ah, ah, ah, my lady," Grima chided playfully, withdrawing his hand. "And how is this the right behavior for a lady’s mare? Have you learned nothing from your mistress’ elegant manners?"
Windfola whinnied and Grima relented, letting her shove her nose against his hand and devour her present.
Hand on the beast’s neck, he could feel the bunching and unwinding of ropy muscle beneath the skin as Windfola ground the treat between her strong teeth.
"They say animals are supposed to be good judges of character, you know," Grima murmured, petting her gently. "It makes me wonder what on earth is wrong with you, Winnie."
The horse had never shied from him, although the horse’s mistress had never cast him a glance without a shudder of revulsion following hot on its heels. It was a small victory, but if he loved Eowyn and Eowyn loved Windfola, and Windfola loved him…
A horse’s endorsement wasn’t much, but it was a hope to be held in cupped hands and hidden from the wind. And hope was rare in Rohan, for him as much as for anyone.
"They also say the way to a Rohirrim lady’s heart is through her horse, for she’ll trust and love the horse, and only speak softly to it, and feed it the finest things from her kitchen, but she will keep her husband in line with crop and spur and bridle," Grima added, petting down the smooth slope of Windfola’s nose and smiling at those large, lovely eyes. "Is this true, fair lady? If I please you, will I please her?"
Windfola nudged her head against him. Grima stroked her snout.
"No more apples today," he said to her. "So do not try to seduce them out of me. I cannot steal too many, you know, or the cook will kill me in my sleep and serve me for breakfast."
Windfola nudged him again, breathing hot, damp air into his clothes, unmoved by his objections.
"And you will get fat," he pointed out.
Windfola harrumphed. Grima petted her strong jaw.
"Now, you must put in a good word for me, my lady," he said. "We political animals must stick together, mustn’t we?" His hand slid down her nose and he removed it with a little noise of objection as she sought to lick him. "Enough of that, fair lady, you have already torn my skin half-off with your tongue, and I cannot risk losing any more—"
Footsteps. Grima and Windfola turned at the same instant and Grima removed himself from the horse and slipped out through the back door, throwing his black robes more tightly around him.
Perhaps a green apple, tomorrow.