Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

La Dādiva	By : SatIsis Category: -Multi-Age > Het - Male/Female Views: 1414 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-La Dādiva
- 1
La Dādiva
(The Gift)
Chapter One
By Suten Net

Rating: R
Pairing: Gríma/Éowyn.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Characters: Gríma, Éowyn, & everyone from Middle Earth I can fit.
Betas: Phantom of the Fox, Tara-hime, Jenee; (Frau Eva), Zanne Chaos, AmeriaSaillune39, and the members of the Gríma/Éowyn Yahoo!Group.
Notes of the Authress: Many thanks to the Gríma/Éowyn Yahoo!Group.
Disclaimer: I own the story, but nothing else. No money, just fun. Applies to all chapters.

***

      Gríma, called Wormtongue, absently licked the blood welling up from the corner of his mouth. The gesture was at once unconscious and soothing. He had been summoned. A great whoosh of air from the opening door made him look up. The door slammed against the wall as Saruman appeared from beyond the threshold.

      You have failed me, a statement, not a question, and then a hard glare, wipe that blood off your face. Saruman turned on his heel and strode back into the room, expecting immediate compliance.

      Gandalf the White Gandalf the fool! Saruman paced wringing his hands, Does he seek to humble me with his newfound piety?

      Gríma sidled through the threshold; his eyes taking the details of the room in. It was dark and shadowed, neer had he seen it such before. Neer had he seen Isengärd in such a state either.

      There were three who followed the wizard: an elf, a dwarf, and a man, Grímas steps brought him closer to Saruman with each word. Saruman sneered with each sniff of his overlarge nose,

      You stink of horse. Gríma opted wisely for the silence as he made his way out of the dark room.

      The man, Gríma turned at Sarumans voice, was he from Gondor? Saruman arched a steel brow.

      No, from the North, Gríma patted the blood at the corner of his mouth. He wanted out of this horrible room, "one of the Dunadain Rangers I thought he was. His cloth was very poor and yet he bore a strange ring, his face contorted at the memory and he indicated on his finger where the dark haired man had worn the ring.

      Two serpents with emerald eyes, the room was so cold his nose began to run; he would give Saruman his precious knowledge so he could be dismissed from this stifling room, one devouring the other crowned with golden flowers.

      Saruman went to his library and Gríma obediently followed, yet hung back at the rooms threshold. It was far colder in that room. With hands like spiders, Saruman plucked a book from his shelf and sat. His nails grazed the pages, seeking out what he wanted.

      The Ring of Barahir. A pause.

      So Gandalf Greyheim thinks he has found Iseildors heir: the last king of Gondor he is a fool! The line was broken years ago. He snapped the book shut, contemplating. Gríma kept silent and watched Sarumans violent mood swings with interest.

      It matters not. The world of men shall fall. It will begin with Edoras. When Saruman fell into his own dark musings, Gríma walked out of his maters chambers. Though his mind cried Out! Out! he dared not draw attention to himself.

      He found an empty room that was not so dark, nor so cold, and sat upon its bed. Two days gone from Edoras and he was still no better than when Hama and his guards had thrown him bodily from the Golden Hall. At least he was still alive, miserable, but alive. He collapsed on the bed, pressing his handkerchief against his bleeding mouth. He was exhausted from his long ride and soon passed into sleep.

* * *

      He had been summoned and found himself in much better spirits after resting. Still bleeding at the mouth, he pressed at the blood with his soiled handkerchief. Sarumans Chambers were foreboding as before, but now it did not press on him so. Today Saruman sat, sure of himself, and listened intently to Grímas words.

      Théoden will not stay at Edoras. It is vulnerable he knows this. He will expect an attack on the city. They will flee to Helms Deep: the great fortress of Rohan. Gríma glanced at Saruman to find the wizards inner machinations showing through his eyes.

      It is a dangerous road to take through the mountains. It will be slow; they will have women and children with them. Sarumans mouth twitched and would have smiled -- if only it remembered how.

      He stood up abruptly and strode out of his chambers. Gríma skittered behind him. Down dark hallways and down dank stairwells into the dismal outdoors; he followed Saruman. His eyes swept the Orc ridden grounds of Isengärd and he suppressed a shudder.

      Send out your Warg Riders, Saruman said to a particular Orc and his lips drew back over his teeth in the semblance of a smile. He could see the Wargs, those great snarling beasts. Disgusting, frightful creatures they were, and Gríma made his way back up to his quaint little room amid the gloom of Isengärd.

* * *

      Gríma approached Sarumans Chambers. He had been summoned; againthis time to be questioned directly in regard to Helms Deep, no doubt. This time he had acquired a single candle holder to light his way through the dingy halls. It was then that a drop of molten candle wax splashed across the back of his hand; Gríma flinched. He quickly drew his other hand up to brush the cooling wax off. He suddenly found himself assaulted by Sarumans booming voice,

      What took you so long? Tell me of Helms Deep. Gríma followed Sarumans voice into his laboratory. He was making something insidious, conjuring destruction. Saruman was muttering under his breath, on how fire could undo stone, and his hair was uncombed. Gríma was starting to question Sarumans sanity.

      Helm's Deep has one weakness. Its outer wall is solid rock, but for a small culvert at its basewhich is little more than a drain, Gríma answered obsequiously. He let confusion twist his face as he moved to get a closer look at what Saruman was concocting in that strange cauldron. Gríma mimicked Sarumans words.

      How? How can fire undo stone? What kind of device could bring down the wall? Standing over Sarumans creation, he looked down into what looked like black pepper corns. He sniffed and then his breath stilled in his chest as Sarumans hand snatched out and held his wrist in an ice cold death grip. Very firmly, he pushed Gríma back and walked out of his laboratory, expecting to be followed.

      If the wall is breached, Helms Deep will fall, Saruman informed. Gríma walked quickly to keep up with Saruman. He still did not understand Sarumans plans and for once he spoke his mind,

      Even if it is breached, it would take a number beyond reckoningthousands to storm the keep!

      Tens of thousands, Saruman corrected. Gríma was growing impatient and it made his tongue unwisely loosen,

      But, my lord, there is no such force! And then Gríma found himself on Sarumans balcony, looking down. He could not believe at first what he saw. His insides were at once turning to ice and bursting into flame. So, this is what Saruman has been planning, was Grímas one rational thought. Amid the organized chaos below came silence at Sarumans command and his voice rolled over Gríma like crashing waves,

      A new power is rising. Its victory is at hand. This night...the land will be stained with the blood of Rohan! The dark and hideous horde below screeched and bellowed trumpets in jubilation. Saruman continued,

      March to Helms Deep! Leave none alive! TO WAR! Distantly, Gríma felt a tear roll down his cheek as Sarumans army turned about face and began to march; an army more than ten thousand strong.

      There will be no dawn for man, Saruman said quietly. Gríma stared at him, horrified. Saruman was mad. He backed away from the wizard who continued to gaze down upon his army as if it where a son to be proud of. Gríma went to his room, nearly running, and bolted the door. He leaned heavily against it, panting and wheezing.

      Saruman the White was a warlock; an oath breaker. It mattered not now whether Gríma had succeeded or failed as the end would have been the same. Death and destruction was all the White Wizard had to offer and Gríma, fool that he was, had failed to see what was so plainly apparent now. He was no different from Théoden, enthralled by Saruman to do his bidding. No, he was worse than Théoden - Théoden had been trusting, a trait Gríma did not possess. Oh, but the White Wizard was cunning, offering a prize so desirable no man could resist, least of all Gríma.

      That, however, was the not the most darkly amusing thought that crossed through his mind at present. Thinking Helms Deep impregnable to Sarumans forces, he had freely delivered to his cruel master the means to the end of his dreams. And those damn Rohirrim, so predictable, would make Helms Deep their tomb! It would be a fitting monument to the glorious fall of Rohan.

      Éowyn! His eyes and hands worked themselves feverishly, twitching.

      The army was enormous and their weapons many, but in the end it would only serve to slow them down. Surely a single man on horseback could travel faster. Spurred by desperation he hoped there would be enough time to warn Théoden enough time for them to escape the deathtrap of Helms Deep. Enough time to save

      Everything.

End of Chapter One
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La Dādiva