Faramir Fiction Archive

Dark and Dangerous (PG-13)

Written by Helmboy

22 December 2007 | 7800 words

TITLE: Dark and Dangerous
AUTHOR: Helmboy (Email)
CHALLENGE: GRÍMA AND FARAMIR
CODES: LOTR, PG-13, AU, Challenge, Odd pairing alert: F/GW, E
DISCLAIMER: No one makes a dime from this. This is for fun.
FEEDBACK is welcomed and answered. I appreciate your thoughts about this effort.

Written for the 2007 Midwinter Swap

Request by Bell Witch: I prefer darker stories but do not require them. Winter theme not required at all. Any rating. I prefer human pairings but dislike incest as a happy relationship. Pairing with Éomer, pre-war with Halbarad, or I would like to see Faramir with Gríma somehow. (Like that would be happy.) Pre-war advisor Gríma comes to Minas Tirith or Faramir goes to Edoras. A rarer pairing, at any rate. Movie or bookverse fine.

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Part One

Meduseld, Edoras, Rohan

The air was brisk and the hint of snow in the wind told them in the most emphatic way that winter was coming. The grass that fed the horses so famed in this part of the world was brown and bent over, sullen at the loss of their fine green clothes. Fields had been harvested, fodder laid in and wood and horse chips gathered in mounds by houses to be used in the hard winter to come. Rohan was battening down for the storms that buried the small farmsteads and villages for months until the spring thaw. In that time, people would do the work of getting ready for the next planting season and that greatest time of all, the days of foaling.

At the moment, the nephew of the King and the second son of the Steward of Gondor were licking their wounds on the steps of the great hall after being denied yet again access to the monarch. The King’s ‘counselor’ denied it. Since the death of the heir, Théodred, in battle against the enemy, the King had slipped away from those who loved him and into the embrace of the enemy, the bestial creature, Gríma Wormtongue.

“He seems to be everywhere.”

“It appears so.”

“How do you bear it?”

Éomer considered the question and shrugged. “I have to face the truth and do what I can,” he said, the intensity of his aggravation about the situation evident on his handsome face. “We do what we can when we do not have the King’s ear.”

Faramir of Gondor nodded. “You live my life.”

Éomer of Rohan glanced at his great good friend, noting the flicker of pain that crossed his face before disappearing as swiftly as it had come. A frisson of anger at the source of Faramir’s grief spiraled through him and then was gone. Again, Éomer, fatherless son, was flummoxed at the attitude of Denethor, reluctant father of sons. That man was evil he considered for not the first time.

They stood together on the steps leading to the great door of the Hall of the Kings in Edoras. Faramir had come in place of his brother, Boromir, to discuss incursions by orcs and Uruk Hai on the trade routes between Rohan and Gondor. He had hoped to speak to the King directly but Théoden would not see him. He was told this was so by the King’s ‘counselor’, Gríma Wormtongue, whose smarmy statements thus had made his long journey practically useless. The obsequious little man had offended him in ways that surprised him. “Where did this beast come from?” Faramir asked.

Éomer sighed deeply. “He is the creature of Saruman.”

“Really?” Faramir asked, surprised. “Why is he here?”

“He’s been here for some time. I have had to fight the enemy in the outlands and when I came back, he was here. Since Théodred has gone away,” he said, pausing for a moment around the lump in his throat. “Since that has come to pass, he has made himself Indispensible to the King.”

“Then perhaps you should dispense with him,” Faramir replied, a slight but humorless grin on his lips.

Éomer nodded, his own grim smile in place. “I dream of it daily. He is wily and keeps to places where he can be seen by others constantly. He also keeps his own bodyguard of thugs from many places close about him.”

“I have seen one of them myself in Osgiliath,” Faramir replied.

They were silent a moment and then Faramir shifted, turning to look back at the banners snapping in the constant breeze that swept the hillside. “Then perhaps it might be a good thing to band together and make this problem disappear. Surely, between the two of us, we can resolve this problem.”

Éomer stare out at the plain stretching in all directions, the life’s blood of their people’s hope, grasslands of high quality. He would give his life for this land and her people and consider it a worthy task. Turning slowly, meeting Faramir’s eyes levelly, he nodded. “It would be an act of great patriotism to do this thing.”

“It would bind our two peoples together as adversity always does,” Faramir replied, warming to the idea.

Éomer nodded and then smiled genuinely, the first time since Faramir had arrived. “For Rohan and Gondor,” he said quietly.

Faramir merely nodded.

It was evening the following day when Gríma came to the balcony, filling his lungs with the brisk and frigid air. He was his usual self, unhealthy, shifty and unattractive. He sniffled and wiped his nose on a handkerchief, which he replaced into his pocket. His clothing, of good quality, had not been cleaned in a long time and his hair was unwashed and slicked down with an oil that gave a slightly sour odor.

He had come out to escape the malevolent gaze of the Rohirrim that found his presence an affront to all that they stood for. They hated him with a special fury that tested even his resolve. Saruman had not understood how proud and independent the Rohirrim were but he was finding out for himself. It was another grievance against the wizard that he stockpiled in his mind, a grievance that he would hope to avenge someday. As he stood in the shadow of the open doorway, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, prepared to fight or run, he found himself staring into the slightly drunken eyes of Faramir of Gondor.

“You surprised me,” he said. “I didn’t expect anyone to come out after me.”

“You underestimate yourself, Gríma,” Faramir stammered, moving to stand beside the smaller man, filling his lungs as he did with the cold air. He exhaled loudly and smiled, looking down at the fascinated creature beside him. “Tonight, I am a friend to all men.”

“Really,” Gríma said, smiling in spite of himself. “It’s the drink talking. I have few who would call me friend.”

“Really?” Faramir asked, rubbing his face with his hands. “Why is that so?”

“Ask me when you are not in your cups, my Lord Faramir,” he replied caustically. “Or better yet, get your slanders from your friend, Éomer.”

“Friend,” Faramir asked, his expression falling slack. “Éomer is not my friend.”

Gríma blinked a moment and shifted his feet, staring at Faramir as if to find the joke somewhere on his face. “You appear to be great and good friends.”

Faramir snorted and turned, glancing around him to find a post to lean against. Finding nothing, he sighed. “You presume a lot, Gríma. I am here for Gondor. I feel nothing for Éomer. He is an uncouth horseman, nothing more. I on the other hand am a man of court and cultured as you can see,” he said, bowing slightly and wobbling. “I am required to be chivalrous to all whom I encounter, even those born in a barn, when I am on a mission for my people, but that is all. Besides,” Faramir said, listing slightly as he turned to glance back at the doorway. Looking with exaggeration that no one was listening, he turned back and whispered, “He’s not my type anyway.”

Gríma stared at Faramir as if he had just fallen from the sky. Part of his mind, the evil and devious side warned him against drawing conclusions that allowed anyone to come too close to him. Another part of his mind was smitten, even fascinated and it began to war with his usually careful and cruel natural bent about people. “Not your type.”

Faramir grinned slightly and moved closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level. Leaning closer, he smiled broadly, winking. “He’s not my type.”

“What exactly,” Gríma asked, his watery eyes blinking rapidly, “ is your type?”

Faramir sighed and took a deep breath again, looking at Gríma with a clearer and much steadier gaze. “I like them dangerous, Gríma. Dark and dangerous, if you know what I mean.”

Gríma looked at him, considering what he was saying with surprise, his innate suspicion rising. “Dark. And Dangerous.”

“Yes,” Faramir said, unbuttoning his tunic and stretching his arms, his chest revealing itself for a moment. Smooth skin, slightly tanned with freckles and a small white scar bared itself, revealing a chest full of well-developed muscles. An accomplished archer and horseman, Faramir of Gondor was deceptively well made and it showed briefly. Lowering his arms, he sighed and shrugged. “You’re a man who has lived a little bit, experienced and worldly. You know what I mean,” he said, turning and nodding to Gríma.

Gríma looked at him a moment and then found himself nodding, even though he was struggling to understand the full meaning of what Faramir was saying. “I do. At least… I… perhaps you can enlighten me. So we both understand each other without confusion of any kind.”

Faramir paused and turned, staring at Gríma with a serious expression. “You don’t know what I mean then.”

“I didn’t say that,” Gríma hastened. “I just want to know if we truly are clear… that is, if we truly are together in what we know.”

Faramir suppressed the urge to laugh as Gríma’s words trailed off. His face was schooled to a seriousness that was hard to maintain but he continued, considering the small and unattractive figure with a regard he did not feel. “You know what it’s like.”

“What what is like?”

Faramir managed to show an expression of slight surprise. “Power. Power and privilege. After a while, when one has anything and everything they want, when they want it, you find yourself craving more.”

“Ah,” Gríma said, nodding. “That I can agree with.”

“Sometimes, when you have sated every urge, every desire and need, you find that what was good once before doesn’t even move you. You find yourself craving other things. Dark and dangerous things.” Faramir whispered the last, moving closer, his eyes narrowing as he held Gríma’s gaze. “You find yourself needing things that only certain people can give you. You find yourself seeking out those who might understand what a man like you or me might desire, men who have known much and wish for more. Things beyond the mundane.” Faramir moved closer, pausing just before the smaller man, making him look upward.

Gríma did not move back, so entranced was he with the conversation and the strain of listening to a barely audible tone. He was entranced with the conversation and the man before him, a tall and powerful man with startlingly intense eyes.

“And it’s about desires, Gríma. Desires that you do not dare share with others. Personal desires,” Faramir whispered. Then he moved back and stared up at the skies for a moment. Turning his gaze toward the silent figure beside him, he smiled slightly. “You don’t really believe that Éomer qualifies as that sort of man, do you? That he has the imagination for such things?”

Gríma swallowed hard and nodded. “No. I do not believe he is such a man.”

Faramir nodded and sighed. “Good night, Gríma.” With that, he turned and walked inside once more. Gríma watched him go and when he was gone from sight, he gasped. He was so surprised and entranced by the strange conversation that he had not noticed he was holding his breath. Licking his lips, he turned and looked out at the darkened plains once more, lost for a moment or two, his thoughts in turmoil as he sought to understand what had just happened.

Part Two

“So I am a man of limited imagination, not the sort who would consort with dangerous dark entities,” Éomer said, smirking at Faramir, who stood by the window of Éomer’s room, a glass of wine in his hand.

Faramir turned and smiled, raising his glass. “We both know that is not true. You are a deeply disturbed man.”

Éomer laughed, raising his glass to his friend. “To dark and dangerous thoughts.”

They drained their glasses and Faramir moved to the chair near the fire, flopping down and putting his feet on the grate. Éomer lay back on the bed, rubbing his bare chest with his fingers. He was tired but felt more relaxed at that moment than he had been since the appearance one day of Gríma in court. “You shouldn’t be here,” Éomer said. “What if Gríma sees you?”

“I’m leaving,” Faramir said, putting the glass on a small table by the door. He rose and looked at Éomer. “We must not fail. We shall have only one chance to do this thing.”

“If you can take it, what would it cost me but pleasure?” Éomer replied with a smile.

Faramir smiled and nodded, walking across the room to the window, he opened the latch and peered out, stepping through and closing it behind him. The storm outside was gathering but the storm inside had finally taken a turn for the better. If they accomplished what they planned to do correctly, Gríma Wormtongue would be gone from their lives in a few days. Gone and unlamented forever. With that thought, Éomer fell into the first peaceful sleep he had experienced in months.

The next morning, Faramir walked into the dining room where most of the senior members of the court took breakfast together. He looked like a man nursing a hangover, as most of the court was that morning as well. He walked to his place at table, an honorable seat due to his station and accepted food and drink from a serving girl. He stared at the food, resting his head on his hands as he yawned deeply.

Sitting nearby, watching Faramir with hawk-like eyes since he had entered the room, Gríma Wormtongue was thinking hard. The conversation the night before had unsettled him and he had been unable to get a good rest. The unspoken in Faramir’s words was as eloquent and disturbing as the spoken. Images unbidden had come into his head and he once more considered how it felt to be talked to by someone who seemed to want his company. It had felt good, he thought, very good indeed.

Since coming to Edoras, he had found no one with whom to talk since everyone around him loathed him, even those he paid well to protect him. Saruman’s gold and his own promises of future wealth kept him safe in a court filled with people who would use him for archery practice at the first available moment. His ego-driven self-importance and a deeply cultivated sense of personal grievance made him aggravated that no one suitable was available with which to talk. He was on his own and alone and as long as his power and purse held out, he was safe.

Then this one came, this Steward’s son and he had with his brief conversation overturned his carefully cultivated sense of place. Now he found himself having visions, both erotic and disturbing, the same sort he had at Isengard among Saruman’s mad demons. However, this time the attraction was beautiful and hinted at a sort of deviousness that was tantalizing. He would have to speak with Faramir again and see if his thought processes held without the lubrication of drink.

Éomer sat near to Faramir, talking to his sister, the other object of Gríma’s obsessive fascinations. To him, she was an ice queen to his strident warrior king and in his fantasies, Gríma had many a disturbing vision to while away long lonely nights. Now, he considered, if Éomer was gone, then it would be easier to fulfill the orders of his master and find for himself both a queen and a kingdom.

Then there was the Steward’s son…

Gríma sighed. He made a vow to talk to the lanky blond again. In private.

Éomer rose, nodded politely to Faramir and then walked with two other Rohirrim out of the hall. Faramir did not appear to be interested in Éomer’s exit and it appeared to Gríma that Éomer had little interest in the Gondorian. Perhaps he had been wrong in assigning a friendship where there was none. Again, fact was validating impressions and he found himself staring at Faramir in spite of himself.

Éowyn, rising and smiling, excused herself to Faramir and left him to dine alone. One-by-one, the Rohirrim in the room left until they were the only two in the hall. Gríma watched Faramir, admiring the beauty of his hair and the mannerly way in which he ate his food. Life among rough horsemen had been difficult for a man who aspired to great things and Gríma found himself even more drawn to this obviously refined man than before. Rising, carrying his glass, he walked down the long table and paused before Faramir.

“Good morrow, Faramir. I was wondering if I might join with you as you dine,” Gríma asked, sitting as he spoke.

“Of course,” Faramir replied, sipping his ale. “You appear uncommonly happy this morning. I am told you are a morose man.”

Gríma shrugged. “What care I of the musings of barbarians.”

Faramir smirked and nodded. “Good point,” he said.

“I was curious,” Gríma began slowly. He paused and thought. “Do you remember our conversation last night?”

Faramir considered Gríma’s words even as he spotted three men of Gríma’s guard moving to stand around the room. He shrugged. “I remember everything.”

“Indeed,” Gríma said, smiling. “And tell me more if you will about your theories and desires. If you do not mind me asking.”

Faramir stared at him, holding his gaze until just before Gríma’s wavered and then he smiled slightly. Leaning forward on his elbows, he considered his foe carefully. “I can presume you speak of what motivates my pleasure.”

Gríma swallowed slightly, unnerved by the reaction this man could coax from him. “What does motivate you, Faramir of Gondor?”

Faramir leaned closer and dropped his voice to a husky whisper. “Many things, Gríma. Many things that one would hesitate to speak of in more than a hushed voice. My father is a hard man and I have learned to be hard too. I have learned to find for myself what I cannot find in my family life. I seek out men for my pleasure who understand what I need. I find in certain… methods and practices such pleasure, such intensity that I find more mundane pastimes inadequate to move me no matter how beautiful the partner. Such things are best kept secret. There are few who would understand.”

Gríma nodded, his gaze focused intently upon Faramir. “I agree. Few understand the burdens that leadership and power cast upon one. And such things, they are not for everyone.”

“No, they are not,” Faramir agreed, whispered softly, his face even closer to Gríma’s. He could see the rise of Gríma’s intense fascination and so he leaned back, shrugging. “Of course, you are here and I am in Gondor. What can ever come of it. Perhaps you can convince Éomer to play such games with you.”

“You bring up the hated name of my foe and ruin my visions without a care, “ Gríma winced.

“Then remove the hated name from your life and you will be free of such vexation forever,” Faramir replied, turning once more to his food. His reference was casual and even Gríma blinked.

“Removed the hated name?” Gríma asked.

Faramir looked up and nodded, biting into his bread with relish. “Why not?”

“Kill the nephew of the King,” Gríma said, watching Faramir closely.

“Remove the nephew, acquire the niece,” Faramir replied. “You think your pained and woeful efforts to woo her are not noticed?”

Gríma leaned back, color draining from his pale face. “I am not aware of what you imply.”

Faramir snorted. “If you say so. But consider how much freer you will be without the shadow of Éomer everywhere you turn.”

“That would be true, if I was so inclined,” Gríma said. “You seem so cavalier to suggest regicide. Do you not worry that someone might chop off your head at some point in future?”

Faramir shrugged. “I am the spare. My great and much beloved brother is the heir to the throne. Unless…”

Gríma watched Faramir, transfixed. “Go on.”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. Or so they say,” Faramir replied, finishing his breakfast.

Gríma looked at Faramir as if he had transformed himself into someone completely new. The unspoken inference was that Faramir planned to kill his own brother at some point in future. Some small remaining corner of Gríma’s soul that was still capable of decency was shocked and a bit appalled, but the greatest part was enraptured. This man was someone Gríma Wormtongue could call friend. He watched as Faramir rose, wiping his mouth on a cloth. “You are going?”

“I cannot have a meeting with the King and so my business is finished here,” Faramir said. “I must leave before the winter comes hard and my return is made more difficult than it already is.”

Gríma half raised, holding out his hand. “Do not go. Stay a while. I will see what I can do about the king. I would like to speak with you further about matters we hold in common. If you could but wait a day or two, perhaps it will be of great personal benefit for the two of us.”

Faramir considered Gríma and then nodded slowly. “I am always interested in my own personal benefit, Wormtongue. Have no fear in knowing that.” And with those words, Faramir turned and walked out of the hall.

Gríma watched him go, his heart racing and his chest tightened with barely contained excitement. He was filled with emotions about Faramir and Gondor, about Rohan and power and revenge. He would have to explore these themes further with this, a man nearly as amoral and self-motivated as he was. The thought of it made him hard.

“He took the bait?”

“Like the starving little weasel that he is.”

Éomer smiled and turned to the door, staring at it for a long moment. “We have to make our move soon, very soon. If we do not, you might find yourself in a situation that you find untenable.”

Faramir smiled. “Getting naked with a gopher is not in the plan. We should make our move tomorrow. The set up must happen tonight.”

Éomer nodded and watched as Faramir turned and walked to the door of the stable. Tonight, they would do the set up and see if Gríma would take the bait. If he did, then they would close the trap tomorrow. If that happened, Rohan and her King would be free forever. He turned back and began to brush his horse with strong strokes, his heart as light and easy as the day he first sat a horse.

Part Three

The following morning, in the stable of the King’s House

Faramir had not breakfasted that morning. He had packed his saddlebags and made his condolences to the family, holding Éowyn as she wept. The king had sat in a stupor as usual, his seedy disrepair unnerving as around him the court fell into despair. The night before, a tightening of security had rendered harmless the King’s Cohort and they stood nearby, glowering and showing such intensity of hatred it was painful to watch. He averted his gaze, making his farewells as he noticed Gríma nearby in the shadows. He was hovering, his eyes fixed upon the tall and noble form of the handsome ‘Spare’ of Gondor.

When he felt that he had made Gondor’s condolences well enough to the family, he turned and walked through the hall. People huddled here and there in knots of deep despair, mourning clothes adorned them and the women wore their hair free of cover. Overall, it was deeply depressing. Stepping out into the cold morning air, he surveyed the scene and fell in love with Edoras all over again. It was a very big city, deceptively so from the far off roads that led to the King’s house, which was perched on a magnificent and rugged outcropping of stone. It was as if the broken back of the world had thrust upward toward the sun, casting its bits and pieces here and there on the flat and wind-swept plain all around. Dramatic would be a small word for what he saw. Houses dotted the mound, winding streets of houses that made up the bulk of the capital of Rohan.

Villages further outward from the center complimented this great metropolis, adding to the commerce and artfulness of the people of this realm. He loved to come here, to spend time among the people who were so open and good. Rohan was a treasure of Middle Earth and it was his honor to be a friend of the family. They were his fall back people, the royal family of this kingdom and he felt a sense of homeliness here that too often he did not feel in Minas Tirith. His brother, Boromir, was his delight and his center but often he was gone and it was a bitter thing. Here, he was another son and brother and it was good for him to come.

He paused by the doors, staring back down the hall. Meduseld was a beautiful building, filled with tradition and skills of construction that called to your deeper instincts of place and value. It urged you to feel the power and strength of the people who built it. Gondor’s great hall was cold, overpowering and a testament to generations of kings. This was intimate. It was home in more ways than he cared to articulate and so with a heavy heart he turned and walked out into the cold and clear skied outdoors.

Snow packed beneath every step he took as he hurried to the stables. People gathered in groups around the hall, whispering and watching as he swept past. Down the slope to the stable he walked, nonchalant and calm appearing as he entered. Horsemen were there and they acknowledged him with nods. He nodded back and turned to the stall where his horse awaited, puffs of his breath hanging in the air around his head. It was cold and he stamped a hoof, ready to go wherever the young man wanted.

“I’m here, my friend,” Faramir said, rubbing the animal’s back with a handful of straw. It took only minutes to saddle up and tie his bags onto the saddle. Standing in the stall, waiting, he considered whether Gríma was smitten enough to take the bait he had laid out. It did not take long to get an answer. A tall man, one of Gríma’s, grim-faced and sullen, stepped from a nearby stall and walked up to where Faramir stood. He peered over the stall and then around the stable before speaking.

“Gríma told me to give you a message,” he said, his voice hoarse and low.

Faramir nodded, saying nothing.

The man shifted for a moment, disconcerted. “Gríma is going to meet you two miles from here, down the road towards Gondor.”

Faramir nodded again, his gaze never wavering. The man shifted again, nodding and turning, leaving silently through the back way. Faramir watched him go and smiled, tugging on the reins for his horse to follow. Walking through the stable, pausing in the yard in front of the barn, he looked back up at the hall, stark against the blue of the sky. The clouds had moved off a little and the sun was bright if not warm. Meduseld was magnificent he thought as he mounted his horse. Riding slowly down the winding road that led to the gates and freedom beyond, he noted the mourning that suffused the city.

People were streaming in as Faramir left, heading toward the hall and the coming funeral of their champion. He tapped his horses side, gathering speed as he turned toward the southeast and Gondor. Somewhere along the way, Gríma waited, ready to join him on the journey. The thought of it made Faramir smile as the bitter cold of the morning breeze stung his cheeks.

The house was settled in a valley, barely seen from the road. They had gathered there, drawing comfort from the roaring turf fire and a plain but filling lunch of cheese, bread and butter and cold meat. The beer was strong but tasty, taking the edge off the ride from Edoras through the darkness of early morning. All they could do now was wait.

He stood by a tree, shifting on his frozen feet, cursing himself for his weak indulgence. He could be home in a warm bed savoring the death of a major rival, yet here he was freezing under a tree on the road to Gondor. He was thinking with his dick he knew but he could not and would not do other. Something dark and sickly sweet hid behind the handsome façade of the tall soldier from Gondor. He was the key to even more power than he already had. They could mesh their achievements and be stronger than any other coalition or single entity in the lands of the world of Middle Earth. Certainly, they would together be stronger than Saruman.

Saruman. The word stuck in his craw and he felt his bile rising. Saruman, who never had a good word to say to him, never a thank you or a hello, he raged silently. He would be sorry now. He would be sorry that his most faithful follower had taken bold steps toward his own shining destiny and had done it without his help. He, Gríma Wormtongue, was now the de-facto King of Rohan. It would be the happiest day of his life to receive Saruman in his hall, sitting on his throne, in his city, in his country. Saruman would rue the day.

As his cheer began to rise, Gríma noted a rider coming over the rise. He could see it was Faramir and so he turned, boarding his own horse with difficulty. Turning, he rode out to the road to meet the rider and waited, his breath forming clouds around his head as he sat. Faramir slowed to a stop before him and Gríma coughed, clearing his throat. “You took your time.”

“You whine too much, Gríma. You are lucky you are here. If you had not come, I would have had to come and get you.”

Gríma considered the pleasant expression on Faramir’s face. “You enjoy this sort of thing. You enjoy murder.”

Faramir smiled slightly. “Let us leave shall we?” With that, Faramir started down the road, moving at a decent pace with Gríma behind, working to catch up.

Darkness was coming when they reached a little house nestled in a valley. Faramir had turned down the road that led to the door, his keen eyes spotting what Gríma had missed. They arrived in the darkness, illuminated only by light streaming from tiny windows. Faramir dismounted and started toward a small barn next to the house. Gríma, watching, dismounted and followed, his wary eyes darting here and there are if expecting attack from all sides. The various knives secreted all over his body comforted him.

They entered a barn that housed a number of horses, their saddles stacked in the corner on the racks for such things. There were saddles of Rohan and Gondor. There was tack from places he had never seen. Gríma tugged the saddle from his horse and followed Faramir’s lead, rubbing the horse with burlap and pulling down fodder for the rudimentary manger that the two horses would share.

Faramir, finishing, turned and started for the house, leaving a puzzled and intrigued Gríma to scramble in his wake. The cold hit them like a sledgehammer after the welcomed warmth of the barn. Trudging through ever deepening snow, they arrived at the house and knocked. It opened and they entered, bending down to clear the doorway.

Inside, it was warm and cozy. Several men sat by the fire, some with pipes, others with jars of beer. They stared at the two of them without comment as the mistress of the house bade them to sit. She put food before them and beer and they ate without comment. The other men began to talk softly together and overall, it was comfortable. When Faramir finished, he rose and walked to the fireplace, joining the men seated around it. Gríma, standing beside the table, considered what to do. None of the men appeared too eager to invite him and even if they did, there was nowhere in the group to sit.

He stood for a moment weighing his options and then decided to be bold. He walked up and stood behind Faramir, the heat of the fire welcoming to him. As he did, a man rose and turned silently, walking to the table. He sat down and began to stuff his pipe from a pouch in his pocket. Gríma, watching him for a moment, moved to the empty spot and sat. For a moment, all was well if silent. Then all the men rose save for Faramir and turned, stepping back to stand by the wall behind them. Gríma, startled, looked behind him before glancing at Faramir. The Gondorian was silent and seemingly unconcerned about the men moving away. Gríma looked at the grim men staring at him and then back to Faramir, concern rising inside. “What is the meaning of this? Is there something wrong?”

“There is,” Faramir said softly. “Something very, very wrong.”

Gríma began to rise until one of the men stepped forward and shoved him back into his seat. He sat, glancing with fear from one face to another, beseeching with his eyes for Faramir to intercede. Faramir cleared his throat and sighed. “I would tell you what is wrong, Gríma, but there is someone else who can do a much finer job than I.”

Gríma looked at him as he rose, moving away from the seat that he had occupied. From the back of the room through curtains acting as a door, a familiar figure stepped. He stared at them and gasped, looking around the room wildly for any avenue of escape that was possible. There was none and so he sat, grasping his robes in his hands as he began to sweat profusely. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” he asked.

“I would think you would grasp the matter handily, Gríma. Wormtongue,” Éomer said, moving to sit on the chair next to his nemesis.

“You are dead. I saw your body myself.”

“You saw what we wanted you to see,” Éomer said, his voice soft with menace.

For a moment, there was no sound but the crackling of the fire and the sound of the wind around the corner of the house. Gríma turned shades of pale and outrage silently and they watched him, pitiless in their manner.

“What do you intend to do with me?” he finally asked, looking from Éomer to Faramir and back again.

“We have to discuss that,” Éomer said. He rose and moved to stand beside Faramir. He glanced at the others and nodded. They turned and filed out of the room, disappearing behind the curtains into another part of the house.

“You are dismissing witnesses to your foul deeds?” Gríma asked bitterly as he began to shiver with fear and tension.

Éomer looked at Gríma the way a predator looks at prey. Then he slipped his arm around Faramir’s waist. He tugged the tall man toward him and Faramir slipped his arms around Éomer’s shoulders. Without another word, Éomer leaned in and kissed Faramir on his lips, lingering for a moment before turning a triumphant expression to his enemy. “You have no idea how long I have waited to do this, Gríma. To show you how much contempt I feel for you.” He slackened his grip on his lover and moved back to sit before him, their knees nearly touching. “That you could think in the passage of ages of men that Faramir could ever want you just gladdens my heart to a degree that heals me of the many hurts that you have heaped upon my family. I can stand before you feeling nothing but pity instead of the fury of hatred that has been my lot since you came into our lives. You are responsible for the death of my cousin, Théodred and the enslavement of my uncle.”

“I did nothing of the sort, my Lord,” Gríma replied, glancing from Faramir to Éomer and back. “I have done nothing but serve the king and your family with all the skill and dedication I could muster. You are wrong.”

“Am I wrong to think that you would have Faramir too? That on top of all that you stole from me, you could steal him too?”

“He murdered you. He stabbed you with his own knife,” Gríma retorted, leaning a bit back from Éomer.

“And so it looked did it not?” Faramir said, moving to sit on the edge of a shelf. He grinned. “You died well, my friend.”

Éomer grinned at Faramir. “Thank you,” he replied, the softness of his voice tender and filled with love. He rose and stood, staring down at Gríma. Then he looked at Faramir, enjoying the beauty of light on his hair as it reflected from a lantern on a hook behind him. “What we have to do now, my true and most beloved friend is decide what to do about Gríma.”

Faramir nodded and smiled.

Part Four

Spring had arrived in the lands of the horse lords, bringing with it the promise of foals of great quality. The mearas among them had foaled in the sheltered crags of the spring and summer pasturages, encouraging a careful round up by the farmers who managed the herds. Birds had returned and green shoots were pushing up, providing excellent fodder for the animals after a long winter of dried feed.

The earth had been turned and farmers were hard at work planting and caring for the food that would carry them through the next winter. Flowers were beginning to show their buds and fruit trees fielded oceans of bright fragrant flowers, attracting bees to their nectar. The earth had taken life away for four months and now it was giving it back. The people were happy and busy.

Edoras was bustling with activity as a major hub on the trading route between one settled place and another. Shops were full of goods made in many faraway places and people came there for the monthly county days to exchange or sell according to need.

In the King’s House, activity was just as intense. The King was getting ready to go on his annual sojourn among the towns and villages of his people. Preparations for travel were being made and he was in his office giving orders to his loyal men, who were more than happy to do his bidding. It had been not long before that Théoden had been an invalid, captive to the manipulation of Gríma Wormtongue. Gríma’s name was seldom mentioned by anyone since that cold winter morning he rode out and never returned.

Searching his rooms, Gamma had found potions and other portentous objects in a small chest under Gríma’s bed. They appeared to have been part of the process that had kept Théoden enslaved. Now that he had been gone, life had slowly returned to normal and the king, restored, rejoined his life and his people with the focus and the will of old.

Upstairs, lying on his bed, a tangle of sheets and long blond hair, Éomer sighed. “Come here.”

Faramir stood at the window, staring out at the city as the morning breeze caressed his bare chest. He had just arrived from Gondor, meeting once again with trade guilds concerning practical items of mutual interest and security on the trade routes between Rohan and Gondor. He was Captain of the military units that made sure the trade caravans and other travelers were safe on the long circuitous routes from all ends of this part of Middle Earth.

“The day is going to be clear and bright,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to his lover. “The ride will be beautiful.”

“Any time I can ride with you it is beautiful.”

Faramir snorted and turned, perching on the windowsill as he gazed over Éomer’s body. A few new scars here and there but not much else changed. He was still powerfully built, muscular from riding and fighting and pale skinned from wearing leather armor most of his days. His hair was loose on the pillow, a soft yellow cloud that was his personal halo. Given the circumstances, it ringed his head with light. Éomer patted the bed and yawned. “Come. Be with me.”

Faramir rose and crossed the room, sitting down beside Éomer, his arms bracing himself over the prone figure of his lover. Looking down at him, noting dark lashes flush against his cheeks and his full red lips, he felt the love that was the best part of his life fill his heart. Leaning down, he kissed Éomer softly, his heart fluttering as a strong hand reached up and gripped his head gently. Callused fingers threaded through his hair and he sighed against Éomer’s mouth. “Rise and shine, lazy butt. We have a job of work to do today.”

“Do not remind me,” Éomer said, his hand falling to the bed. He frowned, his eyes still closed and sighed deeply. “I will be glad when that bit of business is over with.”

“We had to do it, Éomer,” Faramir said softly, lying back alongside his lover. “It was for the good of two countries.”

“I know,” Éomer said quietly.

“We for whom much is given, also much is expected. We do not always get to live our own lives,” Faramir whispered.

“If we did, much would be different,” Éomer said with certainty in his voice. He turned and raised himself up on one elbow, resting a broad callused hand on Faramir’s chest. “We would not part the way we do if this was so.”

Faramir nodded slightly, a wash of emotion filling him. He felt a sense of peace at that moment he received nowhere else in his life and it warmed him. With the back of his hand, he touched Éomer’s face, warm skin to warm skin. Dark lashes folded against pale cheeks as Éomer embraced the simplicity of Faramir’s soft touch. Éomer lay back and pulled the big man into his arms, holding him tightly for a moment. “In a moment,” he said quietly. “We will leave in a moment.”

“You are going to kill me.” Gríma looked from one to the other, his hands shaking in his lap. A tear slid down his cheek as he watched them stare back silently. He shifted in his seat. “I can tell you things, important things, things about Saruman.”

“And we are supposed to believe you,” Faramir said quietly, moving to sit on a chair on the other side of Gríma. He was between them, trapped, and it showed.

“You can. Why would I lie to you now?” he asked, looking frantically between the two of them.

“Because that is what you do,” Éomer said, his expression hardening. “You lie the way some people breathe. Nothing you could tell us now can be trusted.”

“But I promise you,” Gríma said emphatically. “I promise you that I will tell you whatever you want to know.”

“That is what we fear, Gríma,” Faramir said quietly. He looked at Éomer, who nodded. Rising, he pulled a thin rope from his pocket, grabbing one of Gríma’s arms. Gríma rose, struggling and Éomer countered him, helping Faramir tie his hands behind his back. Gríma screamed and cursed, struggling as hard as he could as they wrestled him and when the deed was done, he was let loose to fall to the ground.

He cursed and cried, barely able to raise his head high enough to see them. Turning and gathering their winter gear, Faramir and Éomer pulled on dusters and fur-lined overclothes. Éomer grabbed Gríma’s arm and pulled him to his feet, dragging him to the door. Faramir followed, speaking softly to the men who had stepped back out from behind the curtain at the start of the fracas. Then he turned and followed Éomer out into the darkling snowfall and closed the door behind him.

They rode down the trail and up toward the great tree that had such a significance for them. It had been a giant oak, many hundreds of years old and in its split trunk, rent in two by lightning, there was a blackened cavity. On a cold night months before, they had dragged an unwilling man up this same trail, half carrying him to the place where he would meet his end. They had discussed it for a long time, ruling out directly ending him themselves. They chose instead to give him back to Middle Earth and leave him inside the oak tree forever.

When they arrived at the spot, they sat uneasily, each delaying that moment when they would find Gríma there. He would still in all likelihood be frozen and the ghastly possibilities bothered even these two seasoned warriors.

“After you,” Éomer said, glancing at his lover.

Faramir grinned. “It is your country. You must have pride of place. I will follow you.”

Éomer sighed and smirked in spite of himself. He dismounted slowly and waited for Faramir, the two of them then turning and climbing up the slope. They paused before the tree’s broken interior, glancing at each other for a moment. Then Éomer leaned over and kissed Faramir. “All right. Let’s do this together.”

Faramir nodded and took a deep breath. “One, two, three,” he whispered and then they both stepped upward and peered inside.

“Oh, dear god,” Éomer whispered softly…

The End

11/10/2007

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