Chapter Text
Grima Wormtongue had been dragged howling to the dungeons of Edoras. His hollow pleas to the King still rang in the halls and corridors of the palace like some pitiful spirit. Eowyn closed her eyes at the sound. The King was recovered and she was overjoyed. Saruman had been leeched from her beloved uncle at last, and her heart grew strong again at the thought that her brother and his men may return to the capital. She felt no pity at all for the snake that had been dragged away. He was implicit in the plan to destroy the King and deserved all that was coming to him. The men had been instructed to extract every piece of information that he knew of Saruman’s plan by whatever means necessary. From the sound of the Grey Wizard’s warning, they needed every scrap of information they could, and fast.
Eowyn had the heart of a warrior. She was willing to fight and die to protect her home and her family. However, her uncle seemed more hesitant and less believing of the gravity of the news that their visitors had brought. She felt frustrated but that was nothing new. Her whole life had been spent dreaming of valor whilst being forced into a cage of meekness and passivity.
That evening the men returned to the throne room to report to the King. Their knuckles were bloody and they looked exhausted. The King had looked up expectantly before realizing that Eowyn was still present. He was contemplating sending her away. Ladies should not hear of the horrors than men must resort to extract information from those that are guilty. She caught his gaze, her eyes begged him not to send her away and he relented before the words had even formed on his lips.
“What news?” Theoden asked expectantly.
The men looked sheepish, “He claims he knows nothing, my Lord.”
“The lies!” the King spat.
“We worked him hard my Lord, but he told us nothing.”
“That damnable snake!” Theoden cried, “He would see us all burn to ashes. Work him harder. Work him till he has no breath left to scream!”
The King shook with anger and he looked tired. He shoulders stooped from the weariness of the White Wizard’s poison and the guilt he felt at letting himself become so blinded. Eowyn could see all of this clearly.
She took his hand, “Let me go to him.” She said, “He will talk to me.”
“No.” said the King, his voice hoarse.
“There is only one thing that we know he wants,” she stated evenly, “if I show him some kindness then perhaps he will speak.”
The King shook his head, but she went on. “My Liege, isn’t it worth trying? I will be in no danger and it may help to save our people.”
Seeing that she would take no refusal, a tired Theoden reluctantly relented.
***
The worm had been kept in the crypts beneath the Great Hall. It was pitch black and cold down there and the smell of damp earth filled the twisting passages. Eowyn carried an oil lamp which lit the way. She had tied her hair back in case he lunged at her and she was grateful that she had thought to bring her shawl as the cold still air cut through her long skirts. Her skin still shuddered with what she intended to do. How could she be kind to the snake? Just the sight of him made her sick. His pale sallow skin had dogged her steps for months now and the sound of his voice made her want to wretch. Those silky poisoned words that slipped so easily from his accursed tongue plagued her thoughts at night. The snake had always spoken truths to her, exposing and cold truths. They were penetrating and perceptive and they made her want to reach her fingers into that mouth of his and wrench out his forked tongue with her bare hands.
The guard unlocked the door of the last cell. It was in the deepest and coldest part of the dungeon and reminded Eowyn more of a tomb than a cell. A tomb not unlike her cousin Theodred’s, and the worm had been instrumental in his death she was certain.
“I will wait for you just outside the door my Lady.”
“He is bound is he not?” she asked.
The guard nodded but replied, “Even so,” as he wrenched the door open. It squealed loudly on its hinges.
Moving in cautiously she could not see Wormtongue immediately in the oppressive dark, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim yellow light of the lamp in her hand. She found him soon enough, hands bound behind his back and laying in a fetal position on his side. His bonds were attached by a chain which was secured to the wall. He had been stripped of his thick woolen outer layers. She could see them dimly in another corner of the cell, curled up in a heap like a sleeping dog. They were out of his reach, the chain prevented him from moving more than a foot in any direction. He shivered on the floor. His thin shirt was torn open to his chest and his feet were bare. As she approached him she could see that the pale skin of his chest was bruised and his white shirt was stained with blood. He winced against the light and looked up. He stared at her as though she was a dream. He tried to sit up but found he could not. She watched his struggle unblinkingly and with no pity in her eyes.
“So,” he rasped through a voice hoarse from screaming, “they have sent you to break me.”
She stood as tall and solid as a statue, and just as cold. “As perceptive as ever I see Grima.”
Something flickered in his expression as his name passed her lips, though it might have simply been a shadow from the glimmering light in her hand. She set it down close to him but still out of his reach. Kneeling she forced her hands to reach for him, suppressing the shudder of revulsion she felt. As her hand came forward she saw him flinch away from her, fearing some new blow to the face or body. This created a small chink in her armor, she realized that somewhere deep inside she did feel a small amount of pity for him. Bracing herself against the cold flagstones (which felt like kneeling on ice) she hoisted him upwards to sit him upright. The effort had obviously hurt him, though he made no other noise than a sharp hissing intake of breath as she had pushed him up. She removed a water skin from over her shoulder and began to open it. His dark eyes, framed with newly forming bruises, watched her every move. His greasy black hair hung in front of him and with a shudder of revulsion that she could not suppress she touched it and tucked it away from his face.
“Drink.” She said briskly, holding the water towards him.
“I see,” he murmured and did not move to take a drink, “very ingenious. Those thugs have given me my vinegar and now you will feed me my honey. Sweet and soothing my Lady coos into my ear and eases the pain away and, soon enough, out spill my secrets. Prized from my lips as easily as a harlot would open her thighs.”
Eowyn stood in disgust and backed away from him.
“I am not your lady and never will be worm,” she spat.
Stooping to pick up the lamp, she stalked back to the cell door.
From the dark his weak voice pleaded, “No, please stay.”
She knew then that she had won. Placing the lamp down she paced over to his pile of clothes and retrieved his thick woolen robe. She threw it at him without a word before calling to the guard to let her out.
She explained all to the King when she returned.
“He was suspicious, but in the end, he asked me to stay. Perhaps after some more persuasion tomorrow he will be more willing to speak to me.”
Theoden had looked tired but agreed to her plan.