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"She is not yours to have, Éomer," Gríma hissed under his breath. "She is unlawful to you, and you know it so well, you strutting warrior."
"And you yield to him, Éowyn," he thought, clenching his sweating fingers around the earthenware pint. "Is there anything you will deny him? For all your ice, you too burn when the heat is too fierce. When your brother tells you to burn."
Neither of them heard him, because the din was high in Meduseld, the very roof beams seeming to expand with joyous noise. The air was heavy with the scent of mead, sweet and intoxicating, and the sound of the fiddles was maddening. Not jarring or high-pitched, only far too sprightly for his taste. He wanted to break the instrument, tear the strings from it to silence it, because all the jaunty reel did was tear his peace of mind asunder.
He saw her dance, her hair undone, and jealously stabbed at him immediately. What would those tresses feel like to the touch? Éomer would know. Surely he would know, surely he would have wound his desirous hands into the golden mass to pull her close and into a kiss.
How he hated Éomer, hated the proud bearing and the arrogant manners.
Hate always flickered in him, lighting the darkest nights into spectacles of wild and jealous fantasies. He knew what they did, how many unspoken laws the siblings broke, though he had never seen it. He had heard it, time and again, and surely that was enough.
He knew her voice, even when it broke, and even when he stood outside her door, pressing his ear against the dark wood to listen. He knew all their voices, and these two cut the sharpest when they strayed from their reserved cadences to turn needy and breathless.
Her words cut the sharpest when they were not words. When they were a shapeless litany meant only to encourage her lover.
The images always came unbidden, because he was weak. Sickly, weak, and drunk on her presence, and each time she even glanced his way, he would be gladly blind to the venom in her gaze. She could have him hang from the edge of her sword in seconds, and she could paint the cold stone floor with his helplessly burning blood, but not even that would stop him.
What chance did he stand? If he ever mustered the courage to make a move, Éomer would certainly beat him into pulp, and Éowyn would gladly aid her brother in the bloody deed.
Those two were brother and sister, now united in both blood and bodies. Her blood was on his tongue as his kiss was on her lips.
He had no place in that bond. He was Gríma, only a worm crawling on his belly in the dust, and they were far above him. He was dirt and dust, and they were gold.
"Éowyn," he said, silently, ever mindful of when he could utter her name. It mattered little that the noise was far too high for anyone to catch the name as it fell whispered from his mouth, but he would not risk it. "He sullies you. Taints you in both body and spirit."
Yester-eve, the words had all burned on his tongue when he had seen her in the hallway. "You reek of him, of your brother the wild rider," he had wanted to say. "I can feel the sweat that surely slicked your skin."
He had not even managed to utter the first word.
Her beauty had silenced him, and all he had done was slink further into the shadows as she passed. She had been blind, lust-blinded, and he would not have caught her attention even if he had stood in light rather than shadow. He had stayed in the shadow, pressing up against the hard and cold wall, not even breathing as he saw Éomer emerge from her rooms. A wicked little plot on their behalf, for one to tarry while the other rushed. And who would have thought ill of those two, the golden siblings of the Golden Hall?
Éomer's heavy steps had echoed in the hall as he had run to catch up with his sister. "One last kiss," he had laughed as he caught her, as careless with his words as he was with his manners. She had not denied him, Gríma had bitterly noted, clenching his hands into fists as he breathed in the cold shadow.
Even he, the serpent, Wormtongue, had more right to her fair mouth than Éomer did. His hands would be far less unlawful on her pale skin.
He rose, far too quickly and clumsily, and the men closest to him jostled him unkindly. Leaving his perch by the far wall would mean giving up his chance to see her, but that loss he could handle. As he crept along the wall, his shoulder dragging against the wide tapestries, the crowd in front of him parted, dissolving his shield of spectators. Éowyn had made them move, made them step aside to allow her room to dance, and now she nearly danced into his arms. He shied back, as did she, and it was no trick of the light that made her pale.
Now would be his chance to tell her what he had seen. It would be his chance to turn the tables and set her mind reeling with fear.
His courage faltered, again making what could have been into something that never would be.
He was dirt and she was gold, and her luminance burned his words to dust. All he could do was turn on his heel and flee from the hall, pushing his way through the crowd. How he wished he could scatter to the four winds like the pile of ash he certainly was.
Flee, you coward. Worms like you deserve nothing.