"How long has it been since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price, Gríma?"

Pushed against the pillar, its coldness felt like nothing in comparison to the shivers that Éomer's voice was gifting him. Gríma averted the fiery gaze and caught a glimpse of Éowyn's shadow as she headed back to her chamber. Éomer's grip tightened as his eyes spoke in his stead.

And then it just dawned on Gríma the situation he was in: alone with him, face to face with his promised price, in a risky yet awfully pleasant position.

His insides twisted, as many times before, and he felt his desire surging once again. For he had been waiting. So, so long.

If only things had gone differently. If only Saruman hadn't just taken Théoden's mind but also...

"No," Gríma uttered with difficulty. "You're wrong." He got a hold of Éomer's wrist and from there, slowly climbed on top of the Marshall's hand. Timid, unexpected caresses followed.

"That's just too bad," he said as he felt Éomer's grip far looser.

The newfound realization already piercing through the fingers still touching Gríma's face.

"I wished I could have whispered in your ear too."
















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