“Greetings, Son of Denethor.”

“Son of Gálmód, Westu hal.”

In a blinding spear of summer light Boromir was caught blinking, retreating, off-guard.  A more perfect place for ambush he could not have imagined: the corridor was long and little used; high, narrow windows created heated shafts of morning sun and long, cool, stretching darks.

From these shadows now emerged Gríma, King’s Counselor, his pale face lit with false brightness.  To the Steward’s Son he inclined his head obsequiously, and smiled.

“Ah, the lords of Gondor have ever been our good friends.”

He could see now his instincts had been correct.  Boromir had been shaken by his audience with Théoden King; his eyes were narrowed in defense.  The time was right.

Gríma’s smile broadened.

“I believe my path may lie with yours a while; may I walk with you, my lord?  I would have a word.”

The soldier swayed a little on his feet, uncomfortable, impatient, eager to withdraw.  His nostrils flared as Gríma drew near; the air in the corridor was close.

“And what word from me might satisfy you, Counselor?”

“You mistake me, my lord!”

Heavy lids fell demurely over dark eyes, like a skittish horse or a courtesan.

“It is not my satisfaction I seek but yours.  I wish only to assure myself of your comfort.  It has been some time since we had such a distinguished visitor from the South grace the halls of Meduseld.  Have you been well accommodated?”

Politeness caught the Steward’s Son in his own distaste, chagrinned.  He felt his shoulders unexpectedly loosen, and nodded.

“Aye, Counselor, I thank you.” 

“Then all is well.”

Gríma’s shiny smile dulled as he turned carelessly down the hall, though the son of Gondor followed readily enough.  He modulated his visage into one of pity as the pair passed from the window’s reach and dimness closed intimately about them.

“I must only regret that you have come to us in such troubled times.”  Pale hands twisted together.  “The King, as you have seen, has not been well; a pall is on this house and throughout his lands there is unrest.  We cannot offer you such merriment or richness as you may be accustomed to.”

“To a weary soldier, a few nights rest in a comfortable bed and a fresh horse to speed me on my way are precious gifts, and rare.”

Tap, tap, tapping in the dark, Boromir’s footfalls became a steady counterpoint to the whisper of Gríma’s robes as they passed together through a stretching dimness.

“You are gracious, my lord.”  Another dip of the head, now, and straighten.  “And what is this errand to the North that takes you from us so soon?”

“A fool’s errand perhaps, Counselor, but my own.”

Such a trifling evasion; the Captain of Gondor was worthy of more, thought Gríma.  Still, he bent around it like a gnarled willow in a soft breeze and summoned a worldly smirk.

“Ah, I take your meaning.  An affair of state, perhaps, best left unstated.  And when may we look to your joyous return?”

“You may look, but I cannot say.”

“Well … of course Rohan will be happy to aid you in whatever way she can.  The fates of our great houses have ever been linked.  Though we plow our fields apart, they lie side by side.  The flood that drowns one crop will drown us all.”

Hazy light from the next opening reached out to them, darkening Gríma’s pale hair and glancing off his colorless face to fall jealously on Boromir’s dark hair and beard and heat his fair skin.  The Steward’s son laughed, lightly, rumbling.

“I am a soldier, Gríma, not a farmer.  If you would have words with me you must make them plain ones.”

Dark eyes met light.

“Then all is well in Gondor?”

“As always, Counselor.”

Gríma suppressed a shiver as the two men passed once more from clarity into dark.  The pride of Gondor seemed an almost palpable, shining thing about the Steward’s son.  Still, many a man had been undone by pride.

“Yet, I must wonder …”

He dropped his words idly across their path like dainties for Boromir to sniff at.

“What could make the great Lord Denethor send his heir and favored son away from his house when the flame of Orodruin glows ever brighter in the East.”

Again, Boromir’s laugh sounded in the darkness, but wryly.

“I assure you, Gríma, not even my father has the power to send me from my city were she in need of me.”

“Then the Steward remains well.”

“And, as ever, retains Gondor’s vigilant watch upon the East.”

“I am relieved to hear it.”

Marching between them Boromir’s assurance was like the Rammas Echor; Gríma’s gaze glanced away, ahead, as if distracted by another oncoming patch of brightness.  He paused in the dark.

“Yes, your family has done such venerable service to the Realm. That there have been Stewards longer in Gondor than kings it is well known, and we are sure never to see the winged crown worn again in the White City.  Unless –”

Ahead, on the other side of sun Boromir stopped beyond Gríma’s sight, but his silence clanged dully in the Counselor’s ears, so used was he to listening.

“Oh!”  Gríma spread his arms, his cloak fanning out behind him in a deferential bow; “I beg your pardon, lord, I was just musing; you must forgive me.”  Yet he gained only the appearance of a vulture cooling his wings.

When Boromir reemerged Gríma slid readily to meet him.

“Certainly your most noble father could serve Gondor no better for want of that crown; even as you will someday, my lord Boromir.”

“I do not hasten the end of my father’s rule by wishing, Gríma.  I am more than content to wait upon my time, and content that it should be the rod of the Steward and not that crown of a King which comes to me.”

Gríma’s watery gaze drifted out the nearby window, betraying concern.

“Ah!  Would that the King’s son and sister-son felt as you do, lord.  Théodred and Éomer have ridden far from Edoras of late, depriving the king and his house of their spears and their sympathy.  Their absence worries the King, and I believe, in his state, that can only do him harm.”

Gríma lost himself in a flinch as the warm solidity of the Steward’s Son formed itself beside him, and startled to feel the rumble of Boromir’s rich voice inside his own hollow chest.

“I will not believe this of Théodred, Gríma, but Éomer … his youth has oft led him to rash judgment.  What need in Rohan could there be that keeps them far from home?”

One dark eye appraised the Steward’s Son.

“What need is it that takes you, lord, so far from Minas Tirith?”

Boromir’s gaze reached out toward the horizon, as if trying to grasp his own answer.

“Perhaps the same, Gríma; perhaps the same.”

Now Gríma draw closer, as if this lack of an answer had created a vacuum between them, and reached for a note of sympathy.

“And what of your brother, Faramir?  Surely he must miss your strong and guiding hand.  But then, I hear he has long been a pupil of the Grey Wizard.  Gandalf Greyhame has ever been a troublemaker and meddler in the affairs of Men.”

“So I have often heard it said.”

A cloud passed over the sun; Boromir frowned.

“But Mithrandir is still an honored ally of Gondor and of him I will say no more.

“And of my brother – nothing.”

Faster than thought Gríma found himself back bent nearly out the window, the sun beating about him and burning his ashen face.  Boromir rose over him like an eclipse; so close dark hair fell in Gríma’s eyes and blinded him.

The growl of the soldier’s razored voice shivved through Gríma’s struggling and panic.

“And now our ways must part, I think.  Do not believe, Wormtongue, that since I have devoted my life to the sword I do not grasp the use of subtler weapons.  You seek to know my purpose, my strengths and loyalties and how you may use them to your better purpose.  Then know this:  my loyalties lie with Gondor, and all in Rohan who remain vigilant against the rise of Evil.  You could parry sharp words with me until the end of days and still not find what you seek.  There is no weakness in Gondor.”

Then, he was released, to fall panting like a fish on sand.  Two strong steps and the Steward’s Son was beyond reach, already cloaked in darkness, though his voice flew back and lay reverberating like a struck spear in Gríma’s heart;

“Nor in me.”