Éomer Imagine: Hearts Fire.

Éomer Imagine: Hearts Fire. Part Thirteen

"Your son is badly wounded, my lord." Éowyn eyed her ailing uncle as he nonchalantly stared off into the distance, his milky eyes showing only disinterest at the sound of her soft voice. The king had not moved himself from his throne in days now, and instead had taken up residence in the Great Hall. His soiled clothes radiated a putrid smell as soon as anyone tried to get close enough to help the monarch, and most of these attempts were swatted down by Gríma Wormtongue, who himself had also taken to staying in the throne room along with his master.

"He was ambushed. By Orcs..." Éomer had now stepped forward, folding his arms across his broad chest in a show of annoyance. "-If we do not protect our country, Saruman will take it by force!"

"That's a lie!" Scoffed Gríma, who had smugly revealed himself from the shadows behind the king. "Saruman the White has only ever been our friend and ally."

Éomer instantly struggled to control himself in the presence of the aide, and did not realise that he had carried out the impulsive action of reaching for the hilt of sword when he had heard the tone of his slimy voice. Gríma himself did noticed this however, and shuffled off to place himself by Théoden, kneeling down as the monarch faintly whispered his name. 

"Orcs are roaming freely across our lands. Unchecked. Unchallenged. Killing at will-" The young lord bent to pick up a heavy iron helmet from the floor, something that he had discovered while searching for the wounded Théodred, ponderously tossing the armour so that when it landed, everyone could witness that it's surface was marked. "-Orcs bearing the White Hand of our 'friend' Saruman." His voice was now practically dripping venom as he stood to tower over Gríma, smirking wildly when he saw the man physically squirming, cornered.

"Why do you lay these troubles on an already troubled mind?-" Wormtongue gathered the courage to move past the lord to grab at Théodens hand and menacingly place it in between his own. "-Can you not see? Your uncle is wearied by you malcontent...your warmongering..."

"Warmongering??"

In an instant, Éomer was on top of the aide and had him pinned savagely to the wall by his collar, preparing to strike a blow. Out of pure fear and shock, the little rat had started calling out for help from Lady Éowyn, who only smirked back at them with a raised eyebrow as she gathered her things to leave. Wormtongue thoroughly deserved how ever brutal her brother would decide to be, and she didn't want to stick around to watch.

"How long is it since Saruman bought you?? What was the promised price, Gríma? Once all the men are dead, you will take your share of the treasure??" The prince glared into Grímas eyes, but found himself astonished when he followed the snakes gaze to view Éowyn as she walked out of the room, closing the doors behind herself. "Too long have you watched my sister. Too long have you haunted her steps." Éomer spat as he tightened his grip around Grímas neck, pressing his face roughly against Wormtongue's cheek while readying his free hand to throw a punch. Only this time, Gríma did not flinch. Nor did he squirm. He simply looked behind the young lord and nodded to the approaching guards, who seized Éomer tightly by each arm and sent a harsh kick into his stomach.

"You see much, Éomer, Son of Éomund. Too much." Gríma sniggered as another guard came by to try and control the prince and his struggling. "You are banished forthwith from the kingdom of Rohan, and all of its domains, under pain of death."