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Dark and Dangerous (PG-13) Print

Written by Helmboy

22 December 2007 | 7800 words

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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.

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2 Comment(s)

Awesome. I’d like to say something intelligent about four sections/four seasons (starting with summer) but I am all hung up on awesome. AWESOME! F’awesome. I totally like my story, it’s awesome!

— Bell Witch    Monday 24 December 2007, 8:40    #

I am delighted you liked it, Bell. Much pleasure back to you on your nice comments. HUGS!

helmboy    Thursday 27 December 2007, 4:02    #

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