Title : A Mile In His Shoes

Author : Marie Noire

Summary : Grima is found, wounded and near death, and taken to Minas Tirith to answer for his crimes. Gandalf cautions Aragorn to be merciful to Wormtongue, but Eowyn will have none of it. Gandalf attempts to make Eowyn see why Grima is the way he is... with a little help from a Palantir.

 

"Over here!" The small knot of foot soldiers made their way across the fen to the rider who was gesturing toward a small outcropping of scrub-bush. "There a man wounded in there." Pushing the twigs aside, a filthy ragged figure was seen, panting in panic and undisguised pain. An arm was thrown over his face, and he cringed from the light, muttering to himself. Clad in what had once been clothes of some finery, now smeared with dust, grime and filth, the man's wounds were evident. The broken remains of arrow shafts protruded from his shoulder and back, the streaks of dried blood coating the tears in the cloth.

He reached out a trembling hand. "...Water.." he gasped. "I beg you..."

"He's dying," one of the soldiers remarked in low voice. "Better to end it. Those wounds are too deep and too long had."

The rider shook his head. "He'll live. Get him out of there and give him water. So long as we're able, we must keep him alive. He's to be brought back to the city."

"Water..." the wounded man begged again in a faint voice as the rider turned his mount and rode back toward the encampment They had found one that would be of interest to the King, if they could keep him whole until they returned home.

***

The journey to the White City was long and painful, an unending cycle of denied sleep and waking pain. Grima found himself bound by the wrists and tied to one of the soldier's horses, pulled along (or dragged, as the case may be) like a sheep being taken to market for slaughter. And indeed, he knew all too well that it was more than symbolic. He was a traitor to Rohan... and Gondor was a close ally now. He would be taken before the king and made to pay for his crimes. He only hoped he would die on the rode before they ever arrived... he dared not contemplate what torture a Rohirrim emissary might choose to meet out upon him.

***

It was a bright day, and the banners of the King danced in the breeze over the city. Queen Arwen and the lady Eowyn looked like warm meadow sunlight and cool forest shadow as they sat in the Courtyard of the Fountain, talking. Trumpets called in the lower gates, their clear sound bourne upward on the wind. News for the King, from those a-field..."Shall we see?" Arwen asked, rising. "Perhaps Prince Faramir has returned with word from Ithilien."

Eowyn flushed slightly, gathering her skirts as she joined the queen. "There is some cause for commotion, I can hear, but I think it is not from the East. Come, my lady."

Grima wished with all of his might that he could sink into the ground. Being led bound through the city streets on the way to the palace was torture. Bright sunlight and exposure were not natural for him... he was a creature of darkness and solitude. His heart, apparently the only strong organ he possessed besides his mind, was beating a rapid tattoo of fear in his thin chest. It irritated his abused lungs, making him wheeze and cough. He swallowed the blood that gathered in his mouth, wincing at the coppery, metallic taste.

King Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, ruler of Gondor and Anor and Isildur's Heir, still sat uneasily on the throne in the great Hall of Minas Tirith. It was his by right, although he claimed it with reluctance. In his heart he would ever feel it more proper for each man to rule himself first. Yet he would not deny destiny as he had so many times in the past. To vanquish the evils of the world it had been needed for him to shoulder the burden of kingship, and so he did. He would that and more, should it at last bring an age of peace to Middle Earth.

Near the king's side, Gandalf the wizard stirred at the sound of the trumpets call, his expression unreadable.

"What is it, old friend?" Aragorn asked quietly.

"Unfinished business," Gandalf murmured in reply. "Where is Lady Eowyn?"

Grima stumbled as they shoved him into the throne room and he soon found himself sprawled on the marble floor, coughing and retching, blood dribbling thinly from his lips, mismatched eyes glassy with pain. With great difficulty, he focused on the King of Gondor... it was not until he saw Gandalf that he shied away. Fear rendered him immobile for a few long seconds... then, painfully, he rose to his knees, but no further. Head bowed, he concentrated on breathing on his stubbornly beating heart.

The captain of the guard approached and bowed before the throne. "My lord King Elessar, I bring you a captive from the plains of Dunland. brought to you for justice."

Aragorn drew a deep breath, weighing his reaction carefully. He had limited interaction with the former advisor to King Theoden of Rohan, but all the times he had encountered Grima Wormtongue had been unpleasant. The mood of the room had grown tense at Grima’s arrival, as if a snake had been cast in their midst.

Grima shivered as he waited for some pronunciation as to his Fate, eyes fixed on the tiled floor. However, familiar footfalls permeated his illness and haze and he looked up just in time to see Eowyn walk through an open doorway to his right, following a splendid elf-lady who could only be King Elessar's wife. To Grima's eyes, however, the elf-queen paled in comparison to the Lady Eowyn. He had not thought to ever lay eyes on her again and, as such, this was an unexpected rewards for all of his pain.
Queen Arwen touched Eowyn's arm gently, and the fair-haired woman started, her look of utter revulsion at the sight of Grima still evident even as she was drawn aside.

Aragorn merely said, "I recognize Grima, son of Galmond as the one you bring before me..and I ask you, Captain, what justice can be served on one who is unable to stand before judgment? Let him be properly tended and healed, and then we will hold court on this matter." Aragorn looked sternly around at the officers present. "Let it be known that I will not be led by undue haste or unwarranted zeal. I know there are those among us that would not hesitate to slay this man before me, and perhaps not unjustly, but I will allow no such action on him. Let us be patient."

"Aragorn the Merciful..." Grima hissed under his breath with contempt. Even in his own opinion, it would be kinder to slay him on the spot. He would likely never be strong enough to 'stand before judgment' as the king so politely put it. His lungs were shot, he had lost a great deal of blood, was starving and fevered. He would be astonished if he even survived the night in a damp dungeon cell. "Do not waste your pity on me, my lord." he said louder, his voice low and raspy but still mildly seductive in tone... his natural tone, actually.

"I have found that pity is never wasted, Grima, son of Galmond, but it was not with pity that I spoke. There is much to consider in your case, and there is time and place for it. Now is not that time."

Grima looked back down at the floor with what could only be described as disappointment. "My lord... I am dying... would it not simply be kinder to put me out of my misery now? Rather than have me linger for whatever I have left?" His voice had lost its caustic, cynical edge for once and was soft, almost pleading.

Aragorn's face remained stern, but the look in his eyes softened. "Death is a gift given to all mortal men, Grima, but it is not given freely. The measure of your days is not in my hands to set as yet. you may see cruelty in kindness, but it does not change the laws of this land. Go be healed, and await what doom is to be laid upon you."

Grima nodded dully, strands of his oily hair falling to hang lankly in his face. Only his posture hid the tears gathering in his mismatched eyes... tears borne of a lifetime of hurts and betrayals. He's spent his entire life accepting Man's cruelty... now the one time he looked forward to it, it was denied him. Eowyn gave a strangled cry of protest, the image of indignation and anger. Gandalf glanced over at her, together with most of those within earshot. Aragorn beaconed her forward to speak.

"My lord," she said with a bow. "Forgive me for speaking plainly before you. You yourself were witness to what ruin this creature wrought in the house of my kin! Mercy and kindness are wasted on such a villain! If there is need of justice, let it be given to my hand, and I will do it. Give me your permission to seek my vengeance on him and I beg you the blade with which to do it, and I will serve the justice the law demands from this murderous traitor!"

Grima's head snapped up, startled by the venom in his beloved's voice. He'd always known she disdained him... hated him even... but such blatant malice? That she wanted him killed immediately was no surprise... that she wanted to do it herself was. He swallowed tightly as he looked her, upon the creature that his cold heart had been moved to adore and worship... to love. Even in battle-fury, she was beautiful... fire and glory, a righteous avenging angel. But with her hatred fixed upon him, he quailed, shying physically, blue eyes filled with tears. "Eowyn..." he whispered under his breath, though likely only an Elf would have heard him and the warmth and pleading in his voice.

Aragorn took Eowyn's hands in his, holding her gaze. "Nay, Lady, I would not have blood spilt here even were it my own vengeance. So a dark a violence is better suited for battle, and this opponent is not worthy of your sword. I hear your words of accusation, and they will be heard the more in time. Calm yourself, and prepare them for the time when they will be most suited." To the guards near, Aragorn said, "Remove him to a secure chamber, and see that he is well-cared for."

The sight of Aragorn holding Eowyn's hands was a more piercing torture than any human could have purposely thought of for Grima. To see his beloved shield-maiden willingly, nay eagerly, accept the touch of a man was wrenching. She had rebuffed any and all attempts by him to touch her... indeed, the attempts of any man were met with coldness from his ice-princess. But here she was, pressing her white palms to Aragorn's more sword-roughened one.

Not a one in the hall noticed Gandalf's piercing gaze on Eowyn, or his sad sigh as Grima was taken away.

Grima could barely walk, made heavy by pain and sorrow, and he leaned on the arms of the guards. He was taken to a small, well-lit room with a fairly-sized, comfortable bed, a chair and table. A small healing room form the looks of it, given that it was sparse and clean and alive with candles. He was laid on the bed in considerable more gentleness than before and told gruffly to stay put.

With a sigh, he turned his head away from the sunlit window, the light hurting his eyes, his head already pounding from both his illness and grief. He did not sleep, but he lay still as death, almost as an Elf might.

The light had waned before Grima stirred again. The key turned in the door's lock, slowly opening. Aragorn entered, no longer garbed in his crown and royal finery. He stood for a moment, his attendants lingering in the doorway. Grima, senses always acute for eminent attack, tensed and shifted as though to move away from the King, though his wounds prevented him from any true means of escape.

Aragorn frowned, giving a small sad sigh. "Do you ever lower your guard, Grima Wormtongue?"

"No one has ever given me reason to lower my guard, Lord Elessar." Grima replied respectfully enough, his voice low and raspy, blue eyes appraising. "I did not think the exalted Heir of Isildur would be the one to tend me... surely you have more important matters to attend, my liege."

"King I may be, but I've the hands of a healer, too, and you know as well as I that your wounds are grave indeed." Aragorn drew close by the bed, taking a pan of steaming water from the attendant.

"Yes... that I know." Grima relented, lowering his guard but not letting it go entirely. Despite his instinctive dislike of the man, bred entirely by Eowyn's affections for him, Grima knew Aragorn to be an honourable man.

With a tender gentleness, Aragorn began to clean off the wounds that were readily apparent. He was surprised that Grima wasn't dead already, judging from the degree of infection. "These wounds are deep, and inflamed. How did you come by them?"

Grima was stoic as possible, wincing only slightly when his wounds were probed and cleaned and stitched. Pain was nothing new to him... even to this degree. "Halfling arrows... I made the mistake of violence in the Shire. The halflings are suitably jumpy of late... I made a sudden move and they fired."

Aragorn paused, startled. "Hobbits did this?" he asked.

"Aye... slender little arrows have they... but deadly. I am only alive because they are not used to shoot at a grown Man. Their aim would have been true, had I been smaller prey." Grima nodded.

"Your words trouble me," Aragorn admitted, resuming his work. "I know the Shire and those that live there; they are not normally given to violence and war." Carefully finishing off his work, Aragorn sat back. "But the world is changed, and not all for the better, if so peaceful a people have become so."

"They were rightfully given to it in this case. Saruman and I were in their midst... but we were caught. Frodo wanted us to be turned loose... offered me solace. But Saruman would hear none of it... he told then I had done things I had not... that I had murdered and eaten kin to Frodo. I lost my temper and struck at Saruman with a blade... killed him. When I ran... the halflings shot me." Grima's skin was still fish-belly pale and mottled with bruises and smeared from many cuts, but his eyes were piercingly bright as he spoke. Aragorn couldn't help but have a grudging respect for the man's will to survive. To strike out at a wizard was a bold, desperate thing itself, but to strike a fatal blow...that was heroic and far more daring that Aragorn would have thought the son of Galmond to be. Grima hissed softly when a particularly nasty wound on his back was cleaned and sewn, the cut slicing over already repeatedly abused flesh. HIs pale skin bore the ever-white marks of old scars everywhere... marks of cruelty and malice. If one could choose to ignore the evidence of pain in his eyes... one could not deny the testimony of pain on his flesh.

Aragorn had only actually spoken to Grima once before, in Edoras. It had not been a pleasant encounter, and Eowyn had been correct in her reminder of Grima's treachery toward her uncle, Theoden and brother, Eomer. Even with Grima's calculating manner and viperous speech, Aragorn could see him to have been the tool of evil rather than the villain himself. This was a twisted and ill-used man before him, and a dangerous one. Aragorn did not foolishly underestimate him, but neither could he condemn him outright either. However strange the feeling, Aragorn felt the seeds of compassion and pity for Grima.

"I am... not familiar with the law of Gondor since you have come to power, my liege." Grima said softly. "What can I expect if I do manage to stand accused before you?"

"You can expect a consideration of all that is put before me," Aragorn replied. "I have met Saruman. I know his speech was his most potent weapon, and I know that he had the power to sway the the hearts of the mightiest of men. You need not fear my judgments, nor those of my lands. For now, rest. You will not be ill-treated here."

Grima swallowed tightly. "You have my thanks, my lord." he said in a soft voice, shivering slightly. "And... let me offer belated congratulations on your marriage to the Lady Arwen... your love for her is apparent... as is hers for you." His tone took on a hushed, more dreamlike quality. "Would that we all were lucky enough to look upon those we love without fear."

A shadow passed over Aragorn's face unnoticed, replaced by his normal unreadable calm. "Thank you," he said.

**

Gandalf sat in his quarters, smoking a pipe as usual, looking out over the White City as repairs continued on it. Restoring it after the battle would take years... but there were scars he might be able to heal sooner than that. The Lady Eowyn was a formidable foe in battle, but in matters of the heart, she had much to learn. Mercy... that was something he feared she did not know. The reappearance of Grima had been an unexpected one, something he had not considered. More shocking was the effect it had on Lady Eowyn. She was not a woman given to emotional outbursts by any means. The intensity of her vitriol against Grima was startling. Yes, mercy was the lesson needed here, a dose of compassion.

He nodded and walked over to a small, obscure pedestal. On it, a grey cloth of an elven weave was wrapped tightly about a round object... one that had given him much worry in days hence. Now he would use it, ever so carefully, as a tool. The defeat of the Dark Lord of Mordor had removed much of the peril of using the object before Gandalf, but it was still no easy thing to do so. Gandalf had already spent many hours with the king discussing that very matter. In this case, though, it would prove most useful, Gandalf thought.

Eowyn took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself, to tell herself that he was not worth her fury. She was warrior. And he was no more than an irritating rat that scurried between her feet in fear. She would not allow herself to be ruled by his presence. Oh, but her blood boiled at the idea of him laying tended in a bed while her uncle had been doomed to die broken and dirty on the fields.

Gandalf was standing by the doorway leading to the balcony of his chamber, looking a great deal like an old man lost in thought as she entered. "Mithrandir." she said to capture his attention, having adopted the name that both Aragorn and Faramir seemed to call him by most often.

The Wizard turned to look at her, pipe smoke still wreathed around his head. "Come in, my lady," he said quietly, ushering her beside him.

"You asked to see me?" she asked, sitting near the table where a curiously wrapped sphere seemed to be. Her crept into her throat as she thought of what this must be. She'd heard of Denethor's fascination with the seeing stones... and of Saruman's use of one. WHat was Gandalf up to? Gandalf sat opposite her, ignoring the parcel and looking full into her face, his blue eyes deep and penetrating. Eowyn met his stare for a few short seconds, trying to keep her bold, hard facade... though she was eventually forced to look down at her lap. CUrses, how did the wizard manage to make her feel like an errant child at times? "What is it you wish of me, MIthrandir?"

"I wish to know how you are faring, Eowyn," he answered simply. "We had not had chance to talk since the King's crowning."

"I am faring well." she said evasively. "I have been... getting to know the Queen. I think she is thankful for the presence of another female about, even if I am only human."//

"So is the queen, now," Gandalf said with a gentle smile. "And yes, your presence is a comfort to her. But what of you, Eowyn? You were most grievously hurt on Pellanor Fields." Gandalf paused, taking a pull on his pipe. "In more ways than one, too."

"My arm is mending and the fever has long departed." Eowyn said, holding out her arm for inspection. "It is still a little stiff and the joint aches when the weather is damp... but I can use it and fight with it still."

Gandalf's eyes glittered through the haze. "Fight? Are you still reading for battle, Eowyn? Against whom?" The wizard shifted in his seat. "Eowyn, many mourn your uncle's death, and your grief is not undue. Yet I think Theoden would not have wished for you to hold on so tightly to it. He wanted you to go on, to cast aside the tragedies of your life."

"I am carrying on with my life. I can function and work and behave as a lady of the court when I need to. What worries you so?" she asked, touched by the wizard's concern, but also confused by it.

"Your outburst today in the King's court worries me," Gandalf answered bluntly. "That was not the act of a warrior, but of a vengeful woman still mired in despair. I know enough of you, lady, to know that this is not your nature, and so, yes, I am concerned."

Eowyn sat back, fair face hardening. "How am I supposed to react to that traitorous snake in my midst? When the farmer sees a viper in his fields, he chops its head off, he doesn't stop to wonder at its presence."

Gandalf shook his head sadly. "I do not excuse Grima's actions, or claim his choices were the wisest or with the least detriment, but will you consider that he is a man, Eowyn, and not just a slithering snake at your feet. Do you not think that he, too, was a pawn in Saruman's designs? Is there no place for your compassion concerning him?"

"Compassion?" Eowyn hissed as though the word were bitter in her mouth. "He does not deserve compassion... he showed no compassion to my uncle while he was helping Saruman enslave him."

"Deserve?" Gandalf repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Deserve? My dear lady Eowyn, long ago I recall Frodo Baggins said something similar to your words and I will caution you the same way I cautioned him. There are many that seem undeserving, and many of those that were deserving that did not seem to receive their due. But are we the ones who determine who is deserving and who is not? Come here," he said, drawing back the cloth from the bundle between them. "You know what this is?"

"A Seeing Stone." she said, paling slightly in the sunlight. "Pippin looked into one by accident while in Rohan... why have you uncloaked it now?"

"Much of its peril is gone, now that Sauron is destroyed. This stone is from Orthanc, the second of two in Minas Tirith now. It belongs to Aragorn, and I asked him for its use. There are few that can use them, and I do not make the request lightly or for a whim. What do you know of its capabilities?"

"I heard that it can... show what may happen in the future..." she said uncertainly. She did not make it her general habit to concerns herself with matters of magic and sorcery. A sword, she could handle... but a piece of stone that could reveal destinies?

"It is aptly named. It shows something of future events--more possibilities than destiny--but it can also reveal events happening now, but far away, and sometimes...." Gandalf stretched out his hand over the dark orb, moving it in a circle but not touching it. "...It will show things unseen, or long forgotten."

"You mean for me to see something... " she said slowly, though still averting her eyes from the orb. "What?"

"Look and see for yourself." The surface of the sphere seemed to shift, a muddied swirling of light stirring in it's depths.
Eowyn took a deep breath and held it, letting her eyes settle and focus on the small light that seemed to be glowing in the middle of the sphere. The mists shifted and swirled and cleared within the orb and see reached out blindly for Gandalf's hand, seeking reassurance. "Is this safe?” she whispered, disturbed but how fascinated she was becoming.

"So long as I am here to guide you, and you do not touch the palantir, you will be safe," Gandalf reassured her. The storm inside the orb cleared away to be transparent, filled with a soft light. "Look now, and think on what you see."

Eowyn nodded and looked, breathing quick and shallow as he squeezed Gandalf's strong hand. The light in the palantir faded to show the plains of Rohan, a village on the outskirts, far from the relative grandeur of Medusheld. There was a small cottage, they seemed to be approaching, the snow blanketing it almost up to the window sills. Eowyn felt as if her very spirit had been transported into the Palantir, as though she were standing right outside this ramshackle place, though she could not feel the whistling wind or stinging snow that swirled around her. Drawn inexorably in, she saw a small, snow laden figure pushing through the drifts, bare hands reaching for the half-on door handle and wrenching it open. After a few tries, it opened enough for him to slip inside.

Inside was not but warmer than outside, and even that was only thanks to the fact that the entirety of the wind could not get it. The figure pulled off the thin cloak it wore to reveal a small boy with dark hair and ivory-pale skin, circles under his red-tinged, too-bright eyes. His fingers shook as he hung the sopping cloak up and he began to cough violently, nearly knocking himself to his knees.

"What is this?" Eowyn whispered.

"Watch," Gandalf's voice replied, the wizard himself unseen.

The child managed to catch his breath and right himself, wiping a thin stream of blood from his lips with his sleeve. He glanced at the empty hearth longingly, then down at the floor, as though contemplating something. Then he stumbled over to the fireplace and began the painful process of putting wood and kindling in. A little more effort and he had a small fire going. He coughed again, into his sleeve, and pulled a blanket off the nearby bed; the thinnest and most patched one. Under the bed was a large, leather-bound book that was scratched and torn and dirty. He pulled that out and dragged it back towards to fire, curling up with it and the blanket, having to stop and cough every so often.

These coughs were not the dry, hacking ones of allergies.. or the throaty ones of a winter-time cold. These were deep and shook him from his feet, as though his very lungs were convulsing to expel blood.

Eowyn watched the wretched little thing leaning close to the flickering firelight, eagerly peering at the text as he began to lose himself in what was written there. It seemed an odd contrast to the deplorable poverty around him, that this boy should have so thick a tome and be reading it as avidly as any scholar. His health was awful; perhaps he was dying even, but where was his family? Did he have no-one to tend him?

He read until he could no longer keep his eyes open and fell asleep with his cheek on the open page. His slumber lasted no more than a few moments, for the door slammed open with a trembling bang that shook the rafters. A large, heavy-set man entered in a drunken rage, Eowyn could practically smell the ale on him. He lumbered towards the startled child and bore down upon him angrily.

"Grima! You worthless little brat! I thought I told you to muck out the stalls before I got home!" he snarled, hauling the child up by his threadbare shirt.

The terror on the child's face was obvious, the pale face almost gray in fear. Grima.... Eowyn realized abruptly this must be the same Grima, only a child in this vision. The image in the palantir shifted; she could see the boy staring up with wide frightened eyes, a surprisingly clear blue. "I--I --I tried, b-but...." he stammered, his voice raw from coughing.

"Shut your mouth!" the man yelled, backhanding Grima hard, sending him crashing against the stone of the fireplace. Grima winced in pain, tears streaming down his dirty face in white tracks. "You are utterly useless! Ugly little vermin! I should have drowned you when you were born!" The man's gaze fell on the fire and he snarled again, the blaze no match for the one in his eyes. "Who told you to start a fire, you little maggot?"

"Please, father! It's so cold!" Grima pleaded, flinching and cringing as his father grasped him by the shirt again.

"Not so cold that you can disobey me, boy," Galmond snarled. His eyes fell to the overturned book lying open on the hearthstones. His face twisted into a furious sneer. "So, that's it, is it? Putting on airs and acting noble born, thinking you're above such things as work, eh? Burning my fuel to amuse yourself with stories, are you? Should we wrap you in fine silk and linen, then, and fed you dainties and wine like an Elf lord from one of those damned tales?" Dropping the quivering boy in a heap, Galmond scooped up the book.

"No!" Grima protested desperately, reaching for the book. "Please, father! Don't damage it!" he hiccupped and cried, coughing heavily through his tears, the bruise growing red and purple on his father where he'd been hit.

"No good's to be found in such things, Grima. Stories won't fill your belly or pay you coins. I let you learn your letters to humour you, but I was a fool to have done it. Spoiled you rotten, I did, and this is what comes of it!" Galmond raged on, brandishing the book and easily holding off his sick and weak son. "Well, we'll remedy that, Grima!"

Galmond flung the book onto the fire with a triumphant laugh. "The only good of it is as fuel, anyway," he said.

"But it was mother's!" Grima shrieked, pulling against his father as though he would dive into the fire to rescue the book. He knew there was no chance of beating his father and fell limp in his grip, crying like a lost soul and trying to curl into a ball. He sobbed hard, his entire little body shaking. "No...no...no... that's all I have... no, please..."

Galmond shoved him away in disgust. "Don't you speak of her to me, you worthless filth!" he snarled. "Why could she not have given me a strong and obedient son, if she was to be taken so soon from me? Would that she had lived instead of you!"

Grima crawled to the hearth, sobbing, the pages of the book burning to feathery ash. Helpless, he beat his fists on the unyielding stone. "I hate you," he said, low and angry. "I hate you!"

Without another word, Galmond grabbed Grima by his hair and shoved him closer to the fire. "Then we understand one another." he hissed.

Grima struggled and cried out when sparks from the fire landed on his exposed skin, burning the delicate flesh. "Let go! Let go!" he shrieked at the top of his lungs, his struggle suddenly doubling. HIs father, either unable to hold him or unwilling, let go and pushed him against the wall, where Grima remained, crying and clutching one eye. It had swollen shut, tears squeezing from under the lid, the tender eyelid blistering.

Grima reached out, half blind and in tremendous pain, finding his lost blanket by luck and feel more than anything else. Dragging himself into a dark corner, he wrapped the tatters around his shaking body, pressing his face to the cold stones. A cinder had struck his eye, lodging under the lid. His tears washed it out, but the damage was already done.

Eowyn sighed softly. She felt pity for the child crying in the corner, but this still did not excuse the grown man he would become. "Why do you show me this?" she asked Gandalf as the image of child Grima shifted and misted away.

"Because there is more to a person than what is before you, Eowyn. But this is just part, we are not finished."

"More?" she whispered as the a new image grew before her.

 

To Be Continued

 

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