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He'll wrap you in his arms,Tell you that you've been a good boyHe'll rekindle all the dreamsIt took you a lifetime to destroyHe'll reach deep into the holeHeal your shrinking soulBut there won't be a single thing that you can do

You're one microscopic cogIn his catastrophic planDesigned and directed byHis red right hand

- "Red Right Hand," Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

[Saruman] walked away, and the hobbits made a lane for him to pass; but their knuckles whitened as they gripped on their weapons. Wormtongue hesitated, and then followed his master.

'Wormtongue!' called Frodo. 'You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can have rest and food here for a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways.'

Wormtongue halted and looked back at him, half prepared to stay. Saruman turned. 'No evil?' he cackled. 'Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding? You know, don't you, Worm? Will you tell them?'

Wormtongue cowered down and whimpered: 'No, no!'

'Then I will,' said Saruman. 'Worm killed your Chief, poor little fellow, your nice little Boss. Didn't you, Worm? Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe. Buried him, I hope; though Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me.'

A look of wild hatred came into Wormtongue's red eyes. 'You told me to; you made me do it,' he hissed.

Saruman laughed. 'You do what Sharkey says, always, don't you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow!' He kicked Wormtongue in the face as he grovelled.

- Return of the King, chapter "The Scouring of the Shire"

Many a gathered hobbit instinctively cringed as Saruman's boot came down onto the face of his servant, a sickening crunch heralding the breaking of a nose, and possibly more. Saruman turned and made off, confident in the knowledge that the beast he kept would follow obediently, whatever its injuries. For a moment, said beast tensed, pulling his legs beneath him as though readying to leap, coiling something within himself, like the serpent whose tongue he'd once been named for. The wild energy drained from him after a few long heartbeats, and the one who had once been called Grìma sagged where he crouched, sinking to sit in the dust of the earth.
Saruman turned on his heel to address his servant's apparent disobedience. He did not bother to issue another order to follow but returned to him, reaching down to grab his Worm by the collar, violently yanking the shrunken frame up in one fist by the filthy rags he wore. The Worm cried out, in pain or in terror, or some mixture of both.
Before Frodo could recover or speak a word, three hobbit-bows twanged and Saruman fell dead.

“Boy! Hurry up--”

A thin, dark-haired boy of perhaps ten years rushed to catch up with the impatient stride of his father. He struggled under the weight of the final grain sack as he hurried to get it loaded onto the cart.

Edoras was a full day's ride to the south from their home in Woodhurst, and his father's temper was short enough most of the time. The markets in Rohan's capital would be near full to bursting soon as the harvest wore on, and if they did not arrive early, they'd be pushed to the back of the line and would not get a good price, and they depended on the cut they took of the sales from the farmers to feed their own bellies during the winter, never mind the farmers themselves.

Grìma knew better than to duck the swat his father sent at the back of his head as he climbed up on the grain sacks in the back of the cart. He settled himself as comfortably as he might as Gálmód left him and took the seat at the front and gave the reins a snap, sending the horse on its way down the road.

The day was fair enough, only a few stray clouds dotting the sky like sheep, but Grìma's expression on this day was as dour as his name might suggest. There was an empty space beside his father, where his mother had sat this time last year, before the fever took her. The boy did his best to look anywhere else.

The crowd dispersed after a few minutes, many whispering and murmuring about the choice of Master Frodo Baggins. For his own part, Frodo pushed their misgivings from his mind. He'd made the offer of food and shelter and he would not rescind it, whatever the danger. Sauron had ruined much across Arda, and even the Shire had not been spared. He would not willingly add to such injuries.
The man laying in the dusty path leading to his own former doorstep was indeed in poor shape, that much was obvious. Pale, bruised, painfully thin, and now bleeding profusely at the nose. Frodo sighed and stood over Wormtongue, feeling quite weary. His companions waited nearby. Sam had already expressed his reservations, as Frodo had expected.
Frodo's pity did not override his caution entirely, however. He glanced back at Merry and gestured for him to stand close. Sam, of course, came forward as well. Frodo halted them a few feet back – close enough to intervene if necessary, but far enough to not crowd in.
Wormtongue was one of the big people, but curled in on himself as he was, he hardly cut an intimidating figure, even if Frodo had had any lingering fears of his kind. As it was, Frodo had to crouch to look into the man's eyes and place a hand gingerly on his angular shoulder, ignoring the feel of sharp bones with little flesh upon them. He also steadfastly ignored the stench of one who had clearly not bathed in recent memory, but he spoke in low tones that he hoped were of some comfort. Wormtongue's eyes darted wildly, skimming past Frodo's face to those of his companions. He leaned up just slightly, his head turning one way and then another.
Through some measure of intuition, Frodo pointed at the shriveled mass laying in the path just feet away. “Your former master is no more, he cannot harm you any longer.”
Wormtongue sank to the ground again, going as slack as a ragdoll. His eyes screwed shut tightly as he grimaced, tears escaping despite all apparent attempts at stemming their flow, mixing with the blood still seeping from his nose.
Frodo startled as Sam's hand gripped his shoulder sympathetically. “I think you've got your work cut out for you, Mister Frodo, if you're truly determined to help this old villain. Not sure it's such a good idea, though.”
Frodo reached up to squeeze Sam's fingers. “I know things went ill with Gollum, but I had to try then, and I must try again. Sauron may be defeated, Sam, but he is not wholly defeated until the ill he wrought is mended as much as it may be.”

Days blended together in something of a fog as years passed. Grìma grew in stature, but not, perhaps, as much as some of the other boys in Woodhurst of a similar age. They swiftly outstripped him in both height and strength, and were quick to remind him of this fact on many occasions.

“Go back to Dunland, half-breed!”

They shouted this at him as though they themselves were not also of mixed blood. His mother had been born in Dunland, true, and had granted to her son her dark hair and narrow face, but Woodhurst and most of the Stonedeans were well known in the rest of Rohan for being, as they said, half-breeds. In any case, Grìma had never set eyes on nor foot in Dunland and knew of it only a few disjointed stories he'd been told when he was much younger.

And besides, his mother was dead.

It was nearly sunset by the time Frodo managed to convince Wormtongue to budge from his old garden path. The man seemed scarcely aware of what was around him, muttering occasionally but unable, it seemed, to engage in the simplest conversation.
It had taken patient coaxing, but Frodo and Sam finally had him indoors, at least. Bag End was in no fit state yet for anyone to live in, and so Frodo found himself in the Cottons' sitting room with his peculiar new charge. Wormtongue was hunched cross-legged before the Cottons' hearth, staring into the dancing flames as though they held some precious secret.
His hosts were understandably leery of the ghoulish looking man, but Lily and Farmer Cotton had gamely humored Frodo's request to shelter him. Bagshot row, including Bag End, needed to be reconstructed, and while Frodo had hopes it could be done swiftly, it would no doubt take many weeks. Sam was off somewhere further inside the smial, no doubt reacquainting himself with Rosie Cotton, whom he still very clearly favored, and the thought warmed Frodo more than the fire.
Frodo nearly dozed now, slouching in his chair. He was once again in the Shire, surrounded by his own people. If he let his mind wander far enough, he could almost pretend the last year had never happened, although the illusion was ever brief and flimsy. Drifting in and out of sleep, the view of the fireplace and of Wormtongue in front of him interspersed with fleeting dreams both pleasant and unsettling.

Market week always went more or less the same, now that Grìma accompanied his father alone. They'd arrive at the city, greet the guards at the gate and announce themselves, to be pointed toward the square surrounding a large fountain. If they arrived early enough, they could pull the overburdened cart into a prime spot next to the main street. Late arrival would send them to a grassy area at the back where fewer would glance their way.

When his mother was alive, she and her son would remain with Gálmód, smiling at potential buyers as they passed. His mother would make conversation with the women of Edoras, leaving only briefly to shop at the nearby stalls selling cloth, needles and thread, cooking tools, and other necessities, her young son's hand swinging from her own. Her foreign features had garnered looks of suspicion on occasion, and made it difficult for her to gain a fair price from time to time, but mostly people were kind, and would smile at the young mother and her little boy, perhaps give him a bite of something or a cup of water.

Now, a motherless boy of thirteen, he was summarily dragged off the cart and told not to return until sunset. He cast a churlish glance back at his father, muttering oaths under his breath and jamming his hands into his pockets as he stalked off.

He pushed through the market crowd, determined to put as much distance as he could between his father and himself. He hated his father with his fair hair unlike his own, and the angry blue eyes that were rather too familiar. He hated the hard looks his black hair earned him from strangers as he passed through the city. He hated the way the eyes of the city guards followed him, as though they expected him to steal something in broad daylight. So, he tried not to look at any of them at all.

He should have paid more attention, perhaps, as he aimlessly scaled the steps that wound up the hill where Meduseld stood, and walked right into the back of an old man clad in white. He lost his balance and fell backwards, tipping to tumble back down to the square below, when a thin but deceptively strong hand grasped him by the wrist.

“Careful, young man.”

Frodo woke slowly, still propped in the chair he'd apparently spent the night in. A light blanket had been draped over him, most likely by Rosie Cotton or perhaps her mother Lily. A couple of heavier blankets, neither alone quite enough to do the job, had been thrown over Wormtongue, who was no longer sitting but rather curled up in the manner of a dog on the rug before the Cottons' hearth. The fire had gone out some time ago, but it was not particularly cold this time of year.
Voices drifted through the archway leading to the kitchen. “Don't know what Mister Frodo was thinking, bringing that man with him. I'll do as he asks, as the Shire owes him too much to refuse him any request, but I can't say I like it. That Worm may not have been quite so wicked as his master, but he's still a rascal, make no mistake!” That was Farmer Cotton's voice, rough with years of ale and Old Toby. It was followed by a more feminine sounding sigh, and the clink of a teacup against a saucer. “He doesn't look like he has much fight left in him, if you ask me. Half-starved and beaten, like a dog, he is. I do wonder why he stayed with that wizard so long? If I'd been treated half so poorly, I think I'd have run away at the first chance-- Do you think he really.... what that awful wizard said... to poor Lotho?” A long, uncomfortable pause, before Rosie's father responded to her. “If he did eat up old Lotho, it didn't do him much good, did it? Surprised he doesn't rattle when he moves, truth be told.”
Frodo stretched and stood, feeling his joints pop. Sleeping in chairs is never the most comfortable way to spend a night, although it was pure luxury compared to some of the beds he'd been obliged to make for himself in recent months. He watched Wormtongue for several long moments. The man was breathing slowly but evenly, laid on his side facing the fireplace with his arms and legs pulled tightly into his chest and his head tucked nearly into his own knees. The memory of Smeagol superimposed itself over the image in front of him and Frodo pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to push the phantom aside. He added his blanket to the two the man was already wrapped in and went toward the kitchen to join the Cottons at breakfast.

Grìma shifted his weight from one foot to another, trying to stave off cramp. The scrolls in his arms were dusty and it was making his nose itch and his eyes water, but if he tried to rub at either he'd drop the lot, and for some reason, it felt very important not to disappoint this man. Saruman was his name, he'd been told, and he was a wizard. “A keen young lad like you could be of use to me,” he'd said.

Grìma tried to stand still where he'd been instructed to stay, although nobody was particularly paying attention to him at the moment. The wizard was on the other side of a long room full of shelves jammed with paper and scrolls and even proper books, which he'd never seen up close before. He was speaking in low tones to some sort of advisor of the king, Theoden. Grìma was not bold enough to move from his appointed place, but he leaned forward, straining to hear what was being said between the wizard and the scribe.
Grìma knew little of wizards. He'd heard tales, but none of them had ever seemed more than fanciful fairy stories. He'd certainly never expected to meet one in the flesh. His father would likely beat him when he found out what his son had spent the day doing, but something about the strange old wizard had captured the boy's imagination almost instantly, and he found himself desperately wanting to be in this Saruman's presence. He wanted to please him, to impress him, to learn from him. He wanted to know... to know everything ...and this wizard just might be able to tell him of all that was in the wide world that he'd long dreamed of, but had forever been beyond his grasp.

The conversation stopped in its tracks as Frodo shuffled over to an empty chair at the table. The rest of the family were sat before plates with naught left but crumbs, still nursing cups of tea and in no apparent hurry to get on with the day. Lily Cotton smiled and stood, gathering another teacup and saucer from the cupboard. She set the filled cup before him, passing the sugar and milk. “There's buttered toast and a bit of ham or cheese if you like – or both. I'm afraid the apples are spent.”
Lily loaded up a plate without waiting for his answer, placing it before him with the obvious expectation that he would eat up without complaint. He returned her smile earnestly and took a bit of the toast. He appreciated anew the simple but nourishing food, as the Shire favored – not fancy, perhaps, but plenty of it for all.
Well, as had been, perhaps until recently. Sharkey's men had certainly interfered with planting, and had taken for themselves what they would, with no regard for the people they stole from. It hadn't escaped Frodo's notice that many of the hobbits who had joined him in removing Saruman and his lackeys from the Shire had tightened their belts. Frodo glanced back over his shoulder. If Saruman and his wicked Southerners had fattened themselves on the fruits of the Shire, the wizard had not seen fit to share with all of his servants.
Lily Cotton cleared her throat somewhat nervously across the table as she turned her teacup in her hands, staring down into the tea. “I've got a pot of porridge kept warm over the fire for your, ah... friend... should he wake soon. I know you promised to feed him, but you'll need to be careful about him until he's accustomed to food again, I've seen that the stomach sort of shrinks after being deprived for too long...”
Frodo turned back to his hostess. She seemed embarrassed although he was not certain why. “That is very kind of you.”
“What is, Mister Frodo?” Sam yawned in the door from the kitchen that led back into the rest of the smial.
“Good morning, Sam! Our generous hostess has prepared breakfast for us all.”
Sam smiled and thanked Lily Cotton before seating himself beside Rosie, blushing slightly as she rose to fetch him a cup and plate before her mother could.

Grìma sat stiffly at the end of the table, salivating at the scent of the rich food set before him. He'd never seen so much food all together at one time, not even at the solstice. There was a joint of roast chicken in front of him, fresh green peas, soft white bread and thick yellow butter, roasted carrots.... they'd even dropped a mug of ale in front of him, watered down but nonetheless. He stared wide-eyed at the feast before him, transfixed. He was quite removed from the King and his closest advisors, and the wizard seemed to have forgotten about him for the moment.

He was at the far end of the bench, seated beside a young man, the son of some noble, who seemed barely out of boyhood himself. The man had looked him up and down appraisingly earlier, and had been on the cusp of some comment or question when the servants had distracted him with the arrival of food.

Grìma flinched when the young man slapped him on the shoulder after taking a bite. “Well... eat up, boy, you look like you could use it. You came in with Master Saruman, did you not?”

Grìma nodded silently, unable to quite collect himself. He'd ridden into the city the day before and had been sent off by his father that morning, but it felt like he'd accidentally stumbled into someone else's life. He managed to pick up the chicken leg and after another moment's hesitation, tore into it with abandon.

“Did you come with him from Isengard, then? I suppose you grew up in some distant Northern land?”

Grìma chewed perhaps a bit too quickly and had to wash down the overlarge mouthful with the watery ale before he could reply. “Woodhurst.”

His companion paused, his eyes narrowing in suspicion at Grìma. “Ah. I see.”

Grìma finished the rest of his supper without further conversation.

After he'd cleaned his own plate, Frodo took it upon himself to take a bowl of the porridge to Wormtongue himself. The Cottons were kind folk, and generous, but their fear of his strange guest was understandable and he did not want to burden them more than what was necessary for him to keep to his own promises.
Sam lingered in the doorway behind as Frodo seated himself on the floor beside the sleeping man, setting the bowl down at arms length. He took hold of a bony shoulder and gave the man a light shake. “Wormtongue... Come on now, time to wake up.”
Wormtongue flinched but his eyes did not open. Frodo gave him a slightly harder shake. “Wormtongue... oh bother, what was your real name again? I know Merry told me at least once.”
“It's Grìma, I believe, Mister Frodo.”
Frodo glanced at Sam where he leaned against the door. “Thank you, Sam.” He turned back to Grìma, who seemed to be trapped in some sort of dream, if the twitching of the man's fingers and odd little noises indicated anything. “I almost hate to wake him, but he needs food and drink, or else I'd guess he will not last much longer.”
Frodo heard Sam snuffle and sigh at his perch in the doorway. “I hate to say it Mister Frodo, but it just might be more merciful like to just let him go. From what Merry says, he was a pretty miserable wretch even before Saruman started beating him.”
Frodo shook his head, ignoring Sam's proffered opinion. He could understand his friend's position, but even after the disastrous end of Gollum, he did not agree.

“You want the brat? What the hell for?”

Grìma stood silently a few steps behind the wizard, trying to remain beneath notice, lest he break the spell that Saruman seemed to be slowly weaving over on his father.

“I can provide him with an education, with skills he could never gain in your village. In return I ask that he would remain in Isengard. I would allow him to return home for a time, each year, at the solstice.”
His father had never hesitated to express his perennial disappointment and disgust in Grìma, and not just in words. Grìma could not imagine him allowing this , though. As much as Gálmód had found Grìma permanently sub par, he had no other son, indeed no other child of any sort. Gálmód long stared into the eyes of Saruman, his face going, for a moment, slack and blank. After a moment, he blinked several times, shaking his head. He glanced at his son for only a brief moment. “I have no means to pay for an apprenticeship--”

Saruman lifted a hand, silencing Gálmód's protest. “It is not necessary. I will see to it that the boy is provided for while he is under my tutelage. He will serve me at other times, in payment. Is this arrangement agreeable?”

Gálmód nodded slowly, then departed without another word. Grìma watched his back receding down the street, wondering why he should not feel something more than the simple relief flooding through him.

Grìma had not always been a Worm, or even a Wormtongue. This was a simple truth that he himself did not always remember well – especially not now. Everything had gone from bad to worse in recent years. Why had he done it? Why had he betrayed Rohan? He could no longer recall. There was pain, and hunger, and humiliation, and at times they blotted out all else. The present and past melted together into one hot slag that burned him at every turn like the forges beneath Isengard. The stripes his father Gálmód had cut into his back as a boy were frequently returned there by the wizard, or else one of his other servants, and yet he had not been able to leave his hated master.
Sometimes Grìma remembered that Saruman had not always been cruel and ached for a past that had become like a distant, foreign country.
No, he could not go back to where he'd come from. He would never set foot in Rohan again, and Isengard was a benighted ruin. He'd refused a hand outstretched in mercy, many months ago, he remembered that much, though the details were now lost in mist. Why had he done it? Why had he done any of it? At times a fair face rose in his mind's eye, a maiden with hair like gold and an expression that would have cut him in twain if a glance were a sword. Had he ever truly believed that such a woman could have loved him? The wizard had promised him that she would be his, if only he continued to serve him in all ways, and for some foolish reason that now escaped Grìma completely, he'd believed Saruman's lies. Now free of the strange fevered thrall that Saruman had held over him, what little he still grasped of his own life felt a sad jest.
He still heard the wizard's voice, even now, tugging at his mind like stout ropes, and dark shadows pursued him still, if only in dreams.

“There Beren came from mou... mount...”

Grìma squinted at the page, trying to make the letters come together properly. He was getting a headache, but tried to ignore it. Saruman paced slowly behind him, a scroll of some sort in his own hands as he read to himself, while Grìma struggled.

“Mountains, Grima. Keep going.”
“Mountains cold, and lost he wan... wandered under leaves, and where the elven river rolled...”

Frodo stumbled backwards as Grìma woke suddenly. The man rolled to sit awkwardly, struggling to balance. Frodo retrieved the bowl and cup behind him, removing them from danger of being upended and waited for Grìma to become more aware of his surroundings. Grìma sat more upright, glancing about the room for several moments before he seemed to realize he was not alone. He looked at Frodo and Sam in turn, saying nothing.
Frodo took a step forward, holding out the porridge and water. “I told you yesterday you would have food.”
Grìma hesitated, his eyes darting between the two hobbits, but after some sort of calculation, he reached out and took the bowl. He swallowed several spoonfuls without pause, unable to contain himself, then had to stop as his stomach threatened rebellion.
Frodo handed him the cup of water, then. “You haven't eaten in a long time, that much is obvious. You need to take it slowly. There's plenty more, there's no need to rush.”
Grìma took the water and sipped at it. Frodo waited for some sort of response, some sort of acknowledgment, but nothing seemed forthcoming.
“There is much work to be done, but I will return this afternoon. You will be safe here.”

Grìma's lessons began with reading and with writing, which he mastered in mere weeks, and proceeded apace with language, history, and lore.

“I will have another task for you outside of these walls, once you have learned enough. I think you will find it suitable to your particular skills...”

Grìma did not want to leave Isengard, but said nothing, and studied as he was told. There was much in the wide world, and he wanted to know all of it. The libraries in Isengard seemed to have everything in them, although Saruman had told him they did not. The shelves were full of so much, though, that Grìma could not imagine anything was left out.

Master Saruman was scant with praise but it did come, from time to time, and Grìma felt he would do anything for those brief moments – a nod, the bare hint of a softening expression, a light touch at the shoulder.

Otherwise, he spent his time doing what he was told. It was no great burden to him, he was accustomed to being ordered about by his father after all, and the wizard, at least, did not seem inclined to beat him about the head at every mistake. Fetching and carrying things, delivering messages, cleaning up – these things were simple tasks, beneath the great wizard of course, but suitable enough for a low born half-breed.

He would be allowed to go home over midwinter, and Grìma, ever obedient to his tutor, would go, but he would only be counting the days until he could return.

If the Cottons had not been terribly happy about Grìma to begin with, they were even less so when Frodo told them he had errands to run, and that Grìma did not have the strength to go with him, and thus would have to remain behind.
There had been little other choice, really. The ride to Michel Delving was not far, all told, but the errand he, Sam, Merry, and Pippin had gone on could not have waited. The prisoners still languishing in the lockholes needed to be released, and if what they discovered there of the state of Fatty Bolger and Will Whitfoot was any indication, Saruman had not fed his prisoners any better than he'd fed his servant.
Frodo felt pity even for Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who had wept bitterly at the news of her son's death. He had not told her precisely who had been tasked with his murder, but chose to lay the blame at the feet of Saruman, to whom he felt the greater share belonged in any case.
Lobelia would no doubt hear in time just who Frodo had holed up at the Cottons' smial, and he would deal with her wrath when that day came, but there was too much work ahead at the moment to spare the time fearing it.

Saruman took the object from his pupil and held it up to the sunlight. “He gave it to you willingly; you did not steal it?”

“Yes, master, he placed it in my hands, as you instructed me to have him do.”
“And you used only your voice to convince him, no exchange, nor bribe?”
“Yes, master.”

Saruman smiled as he turned the trinket over in his long fingers, thumbing open the locket to reveal the painted portraits of a stranger's parents. His apparent pleasure did not last as he turned his eye back to his pupil. “Why, you seem unsettled... whatever is the matter, child?”

Grìma gripped at his tunic with twitching fingers. “It just... seems wrong.”

Saruman sighed like a long-suffering parent dealing patiently as he may with a dull-minded child. “I will return the pendant to him in the morning, as I promised I would. This was merely an exercise, Grìma, a test to prove if you've learned well enough. No harm shall be done...” Saruman opened a drawer in his desk and allowed the pendant to slide into it, the chain slithering through his fingers before he shut it away.

“I shall return you to your King soon, Grìma. The world is growing perilous in these late days, and sometimes things must be... steered, as it were, toward better ends. I do not have the time to forever be riding back and forth to Edoras and you will advise him in my stead.” Saruman raised one eyebrow at his anxious pupil. “Do you fear this task, child? You have learned much in six years, more than most of your kind might. Do not concern yourself with the mood of the court. You will be there with my authority, after all. Still, my dear one, will have your work cut out for you, so I suggest you keep your mind on your studies.”

Rosie Cotton poured another pot full of boiling water into the tub she'd dragged into a spare bedroom. The family waited until Saturday night to bathe, but she'd had all she could take of the man's reek and was determined that he should scrub up before the day had ended, and if drawing multiple buckets of water from the well and heating it over the stove was the price to pay for being able to breathe through her nose, she'd gladly pay it. Of course it remained to be seen if she could actually coax the man into said bath but she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.
Her father had left a few hours after Mister Frodo and Sam, and her mother was busy taking a few loaves of bread to a neighbor down the lane whose children had had too little to eat of late, and would no doubt spend time gossiping and possibly visit her brothers and their wives and children before she made her way home.
She'd been given strict orders to run next door screaming if their guest tried anything untoward, but thus far the strange man had done little but sit on the floor staring away at nothing. He'd finished the entire pot of congealing porridge over the course of a few hours, as she handed him one bowl after another, and had crept outside only once for a few minutes, presumably to take care of nature's business (something she felt no need to inquire about, but was silently grateful that he had enough awareness to do such on his own – she'd briefly feared he was so dazed that he might soil himself in the middle of their sitting room floor).
“I know it's not quite big enough for you to really stretch out in, but it'll do well enough, Mister Grìma.”

Grìma was, for the second time in his life, standing inside Meduseld, feeling smaller and smaller with every step he took into the grand hall. He was dusty and sweaty and tired from the road, and carrying two bags – one small one with a change of clothes and a few personal items, and another larger one slung across his back and cram full of scrolls and books and which felt like it would break his neck if he could not set it down soon.

Rohirrim were everywhere – strong, tall men with straight noses and blond hair, dressed in browns and greens, deep reds and gold. The servant who had led him inside took him now before the throne, where sat King Theoden, and Grìma briefly feared he might faint.

The King laughed when Grìma stumbled, but not cruelly. Theoden stood from the great carved throne, stepping down to grasp Grìma's shoulders like a kind uncle before stepping back again. “Your master sent word that a lore-master would be provided, but I had no idea he'd be so young! You must be clever indeed for a wizard to have such confidence in setting a beardless youth as advisor before a king.”

Grìma's tongue felt too large and thick in his mouth to speak but he managed to bow, nearly losing his balance again as his overloaded satchel shifted. The King smiled with good humor as he caught Grìma's shoulder again and gestured to a nearby servant.

“Follow Ælfric there, he will show you to your rooms. I imagine you will want to set that bag down before you break your neck. I shall see you at supper tonight, there is something I want to discuss...”

Frodo and Sam returned to the Cottons' smial mid-afternoon, as they had planned. Frodo pushed through the door and stopped short, barely noticing when Sam walked straight into his back. Merry and Pippin protested at the back of the line, but Frodo was transfixed by the sight in front of him and could not yet move.
He'd somehow interrupted Rosie Cotton shoving a rather dazed looking Grìma toward the kitchen. She was barely half his height, and, despite his emaciation, he was still heavier than she was. Hobbit determination was nothing to be sneezed at, but the overall impression was of a fox trying to push over a tree.
Once she noticed their arrival, though, she paused in her manhandling and all but dropped Grìma back onto the rug as though she were letting down a sack of flour. “Oh good, you've returned! I've drawn up a bath for this ungrateful thing but he refuses to budge, maybe you two can do something about it. I've just had it with the smell, it's like living in a pigs' wallow!”

The whispering started almost immediately. He had not even had time to unpack or learn his way around Meduseld before he noticed servants, soldiers and nobles alike staring after him. He'd come upon groups who would suddenly cease their conversation as soon as they saw him, and more than once he'd heard his name spoken before they noticed his arrival.

He tried to ignore it. He'd long been called half-breed and worse, after all, and while he'd grown unaccustomed to it in his years at Isengard, it should have been no surprise that his return to land of his birth would see the return of his countrymen's ill will.

Now, though, added to the comments about his heritage were the comments on his youth and the bloody gall of some stripling of nineteen years having the ear of the king. Had he been a full-blooded man of Rohan, it might have been less of a shock, perhaps.

As time passed, the whispering became less discreet, and the insults were no longer veiled. Much of the court was growing to hate him outright. Guards would not-quite-accidentally cuff him with a shoulder as they walked past; a nobleman might just happen to stretch a leg out as Grìma walked past, particularly if his arms were loaded down with books.

The King, for his part, was kind enough, but waved it all off with a laugh. “ Grìma, my boy, pay no heed to gossip. They mean no real harm, I'm sure.”

Grìma though was not sure at all. He wanted to ask the king, tell them to stop. Make them stop. You are their King, they would have to listen to you. He could not bring himself to make such a forward request, he mustn't be seen to be inadequate, incompetent, thin-skinned... And so Grìma could only plead with his eyes, but the King took no notice.

What do these little creatures want from me? He tries to focus on what they are saying but he can barely see them half the time. Saruman's voice, his presence, the ever-sneering face, overlays the world around him. He cannot see. He cannot hear.
The young one tugs at him, gently at first, but more insistently. She wants him to go somewhere. Did Saruman send her to fetch him? Most of them seem to hate his master almost as much as he himself does, but some of them fear the wizard enough to serve him regardless. He understands that fear and does not blame them but he does not want to return to his master. Disobedience will result in punishment but he cannot bring himself to move even knowing what awaits if he does not.
He cannot now bring himself to push the little creature away, though. They are small, maybe fragile. The other one died so easily, barely a last exhalation as he slept, now never to awaken.
The Worm had not buried him, but neither had he eaten him as his master had accused. “Kill him,” Saruman had ordered, “or I shall kill you.” He'd begged for some morsel of food in return for this task, but Saruman had not shown this mercy. “If you are so hungry, Worm, then complete this task and there is your supper!” The wizard's laughter had shot ice through the Worm's bones.
In the end, the Worm had left the small body under the bent roots of a tree and knew not what its fate had been.

Grima had stumbled twice, now, when she had glanced at him directly, a wry smile, then laughter as he bent to retrieve what he'd dropped. He could feel heat creeping into his face any time she looked his way. He tried to ignore her, to get on with his work.

The king's niece was younger than he was, by perhaps five or six years, but had already grown into a graceful, if fiery young woman and Grìma was finding her very, very hard to ignore.

Everyone knew of Eowyn, of course. Wild, willful Eowyn, who would amuse herself riding breakneck through the city, bareback on unbroken colts, and out through the gates onto the open plains beyond. She would spar with her brother and cousin with a wooden training sword at times, loose hair whipping around her face in the wind.

He started taking a different route through Meduseld as he moved between the library, the war room, the throne room, and various other destinations. He'd taken to skirting through the servants' corridors to avoid her as much as he could, despite the annoyance of the servants themselves. He wasn't stupid – she might find his own utter lack of grace amusing, had even once remarked, laughing, that he was like a new born foal on his wobbling, thin legs, but she would never deign to give her favor to some upstart, half-breed wizard's pupil.

Still, she at least did not call him an upstart, half-breed wizard's pupil. Not to his face, anyway. Her brother and cousin were often less kind.

Frodo blinked and moved through the door, allowing his companions to enter behind him.
Pippin gave an exaggerated sniff. “Well, she's got a point, our Rosie Cotton does. Think we can get him into a tub, Merry?”
“Shouldn't be too difficult, I think. Barely much more than a scarecrow, these days.” Merry cracked his knuckles, eyeing up their subject.
Frodo held up a hand, forestalling their plotting. “Perhaps we should try to do this kindly, before we resort to dragging him about?” It had been scarcely a day since he'd seen Saruman pulling his servant up by the collar and he did not feel the need to emulate such behavior.
“The water will start to go cold if you don't hurry up,” Rosie interjected. “Whatever you do, don't wait too long, as I don't care for having to heat all that water up again, and while I'd like him clean, skinny as he is, I don't think he'd fancy a dunk in cold water.”
“I'll do what I can, Miss Rosie. Why don't you and the boys fix something to eat? I'll see about getting our guest here to his bath.”

His Master had changed, but Grìma was at a loss to quite put his finger on it. Something in his eyes had darkened, Grìma thought, but it wasn't really an explanation. He'd served Saruman for the majority of his life at this point, and despite spending more of his time in Meduseld than Isengard for many years now, he still knew the wizard better, perhaps, than any other mortal. And all of his instincts were telling him to be quiet, to be silent, to not draw undue attention.

Part of him desperately wanted to dash back to his horse and flee, never to return, but he pushed the impulse down as hard as he could. Where would he go to? His position in the court of Theoden existed because of Saruman, and without Saruman, Grìma was nothing and nobody.

Grìma had received written instructions for years, returning to Isengard only twice or thrice a year, but Saruman had taken to summoning him more frequently. His instructions were often unsettling to Grìma as well. More and more often, the wizard had him exerting that particular pressure, through use of his voice, as he'd been taught.

“It is for the best, Grìma. There are things in motion you do not know of, but you must do as you are told.”

There had been a time when Grìma had lived for those subtle approving expressions, the soothing voice that wrapped itself around his mind, that let him know that, yes, his master is pleased, this time.

Why did he suddenly feel as though he were being eyed by something that intended to devour him?

Frodo seated himself beside Grìma after his friends retreated to the larder, trying to gain the man's attention. That blank stare of Grìma's was a mite unsettling, to say the least. Frodo wasn't unsympathetic – he remembered too vividly the Eye which had dominated his mind as he'd crossed Mordor. Whatever hold Saruman had kept over his servant, it clearly had not entirely dissipated with Saruman's death. Frodo absentmindedly rubbed at the old wound in his shoulder where the Nazgul had stabbed him on Weathertop. His friends were not unkind people but there were some things they did not – could not – understand. Things he was indeed glad they would never understand.
“I wish Gandalf were here. He'd know how to help you. Or Lord Elrond, or Strider. I am not truly one of the Wise, I'm afraid.”
Grìma blinked and his hands twitched slightly where they rested on his legs.
Frodo reached out and took one of the man's hands into his own, to see if perhaps it would draw him out of his reverie. It was thin, like the rest of him, but even when Grìma was in full health, Frodo thought they would still be so – long fingers, accustomed to handling quill and ink and parchment, not swords or even a horse's reigns, though undoubtedly the Rohirric man knew how to ride, as they all did. Much like his own, before the quest, ever suited more to study than battle.
“Do you miss Rohan? I'm afraid I saw only a little of it... Merry and Pippin could say more.”
Grìma squeezed at his fingers, briefly, then pulled his hand back. He did not look at Frodo but seemed less absent, so Frodo took it as a hopeful sign. “Come, Rosie has drawn up a nice hot bath for you. A soak will do you good, I think.”
Frodo took Grìma's hand again and pulled him much more gently than Rosie had been doing earlier, and by some small miracle, the man stood and allowed himself to be led. The other hobbits stopped their conversation and watched as Frodo led him through the kitchen and down the hallway beyond.
“Well then,” said Rosie. “I don't know if I should feel slighted or relieved.” Sam scowled at first, but smiled when Rosie began laughing.

Grìma hated. Grìma hated all of them. The king who would do nothing to stop his subjects from tormenting his advisor. His so-called countrymen who sneered at him for his dark features, his mixed blood, who shouted insults at the uppity young half Dunlendish scholar who could not handle a sword worth a damn and was, at best, merely a competent horseman. They were all laughing at him, day after day.

Well, most of them. The king did not laugh, not any longer. Grìma had spent years agonizing over what he was doing, over the orders his master gave him. Theoden was no longer the vital, active king he had been. Make him doubt, Saruman had told him. Make him come to you for every decision.

When his voice proved to be less expedient than Saruman had hoped, he'd been packed off back to Meduseld with a pouch of herbs that smelled foul, although the wizard had assured him it would have neither taste nor scent when mixed in minute amounts into food. “I trust you can find your way to the kitchens.”

Saruman's patience was very thin lately, and he would brook no more questioning. Rarely, he would offer some assurance, but only rarely. There is a goal in this, my pupil, he would say. Indeed there is. You shall share in the rewards. You shall have the respect you desire, when it all comes to fruition. You shall have everything you desire, if only you trust and obey.

And if you do not, I shall no longer have any use for you.

Frodo pulled Grìma into the spare room before releasing his grip on the man's hand. He dragged his fingertips through the water, checking that it had not gone too cold. It was no longer steaming but was still more than warm enough to be comfortable. He glanced back at Grìma who seemed to be busy staring at his own reflection in the water.
His face was thin under normal circumstances, Frodo surmised, but it was positively gaunt at the moment, and still stained with blood and dirt from the previous day. The man's hair was greasy and matted against his skull and the overall impression was ghoulish at best.
It would take more than a bath to undo most of the damage, but it would be a start. And make him easier for others to be around, to say the least.
Frodo stood back to give him room, waiting to see if he would take the initiative, so to speak. Perhaps he was shy of being seen? “I'll go see where Rosie keeps the soap and the towels if you'd like to undress and get in.”
Frodo waited another heartbeat, then backed out of the room, partially closing the door but leaving enough of a gap to hear any sounds of distress. He stood in the hallway for a few moments, holding his breath. To his relief, he heard Grìma shifting on the other side of the door, and the eventual splashing of water.
Rosie and her mother wouldn't be terribly happy if he sloshed half the water onto the floor, but Frodo thought he'd take his victories where he could.

Grìma hated. Grìma hated himself, above all. His life had become a litany of horrors in recent years, and he hated himself, hated how easy it had all been, in the end.

He ordered grain caravans diverted to areas where raiders and orcs would waylay them, he arranged the plundering of Rohan's scarce ore to be diverted to Isengard. He was not privvy to all of Saruman's plans, nor was he allowed to see the source of the smoke rising from beneath the ring surrounding his master's tower, but he knew how to be obedient.

More significantly, for the first time in his life, he wielded real power, and it frightened him how easily he became half-drunk on the sensation. In this, Saruman had not been entirely accurate – he did not have the love and respect of his countrymen. But he had their fear, now, and that tasted almost as sweet.

The King was a bent old man and his court shuffled about Meduseld, speaking only in hushed whispers when Grìma was nearby.

Oh, they still talked about him when they thought he couldn't hear. He knew what they called him now – the Wormtongue – but they did not dare defy him openly. No longer the court's figure of fun, was Grìma, now called the Wormtongue.

The serpent had grown up, and discovered that he had teeth.

“Did you get him in, then?”
Frodo gave Pippin half a smile and nodded. “Yes, I'm just looking for a bit of soap for him now. He'll need it.”
Rosie stood up from her seat at the table, rushing past Frodo to the hallway. “Oh, of course, I knew I forgot something.”
Following her, Frodo stood while she rifled through a linen closet, shoving a washcloth and several towels into his arms. “I still have a bit of a bar of soap left by the washbasin in my room, it's been a little hard to come by with the recent troubles I'm afraid. But I'll gladly sacrifice it if it gets that stink off of our guest.”
Supplies retrieved, he headed back down the hallway. He doubted his taciturn charge would respond, but he rapped on the doorframe anyway, waiting for any potential protest. No response forthcoming, he pushed his way in.
Grìma barely had room to sit in a tub that had been made with hobbits in mind, but he'd managed to fold himself in. His back was to the door, and Frodo could not help but cringe at the sight of it. Frodo could have counted every single bone of the man's spine if he'd cared to number them, and the pale, taut skin was crossed with scars and wounds of varying age.
Wormtongue had been no saint, certainly, and held in some partial measure the blame for the troubles that had beset Rohan before Gandalf's arrival, and mischief that had beset the Shire, but Frodo could not bring himself to judge Grìma worthy of the cruelty that Saruman had wrought upon him.
Shaking his head, Frodo dropped the stack of towels on the spare bed nearby and handed the washcloth and chip of soap to Grìma, then left the man to wash in peace.

Grìma lay on the floor where he'd landed, his jaw working like a beached fish in shock. His cheek stung from the back-handed slap, a livid line seeping drops of blood where Saruman's ring had cut into his flesh.

Never before had his master struck him.

“There is no time for your dithering, Wormtongue. Oh yes, I know what they call you. Now get up!”

Grìma obediently stood, keeping his eyes trained on the dark stone of Isengard's floors.

Saruman paused, sighing. “I should not have struck you, Grìma, but you must understand the urgency of the situation. If you cannot find some means of quelling Theoden's kin, they will have to be removed.”

Grìma shuddered where he stood, the image of the King's niece rising in his mind's eye. “No...”

“No? No?”

Grìma's arms rushed over his face, to fend off a blow he was certain was coming, but which did not arrive. “I mean, yes, Master, of course.”

“You are distracted of late, Grìma. You cannot afford to be. What is wasting your attention, then?”

It was nearly suppertime when Grìma finally re-emerged. Frodo had checked on him from time to time, to make sure he had not drowned himself if nothing else, but had otherwise left him to his own devices. His reappearance had brought before the assembled hobbits another problem to which a solution would need to be found.
“Er, uh... wouldn't you rather get dressed first, Mister Wormtongue?” Merry's bemusement was interrupted by Pippin's sudden bark of laughter, which was soon joined by Rosie's mirth, stifled by a hand over her mouth and a slight blush.
Sam merely looked from face to face about the room, finally meeting Frodo's gaze across the table. Gollum, he mouthed silently. Frodo frowned, unable to find the same humor in the situation that his friends did.
On Grìma's part, the man looked askance at the laughing hobbits and shuffled past with greater speed, returning to sitting room and beyond the sight of his audience.
Frodo rubbed at his tired eyes as Rosie stood up to stir the pot bubbling over the fire that was to be their supper. Her parents would return soon, undoubtedly, and Frodo was unsure how they would react to Grìma's current state of undress. Sam shrugged at him across the table. “I don't think I'd want to put those nasty rags back on after I'd finally gotten washed off either, all told.”
“No, I don't think I would either, Sam. Rosie, I don't suppose there's something...?”
Rosie tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot to knock off any remaining drops of broth and set the spoon on a dish on the counter. “Nothing that would fit one of his sort, no. It is a bit of a problem, I suppose. Dianthus next door is a pretty good seamstress, but spare cloth is hard to get at the moment. I suppose we could repurpose some old linens but you'll have to ask Mama about that.”

Grìma felt like his mind was on fire. He'd often suspected that Saruman could read minds, and now he was sure of it. The wizard's hand grasped him by the back of the neck firmly, nearly lifting him off his feet, his eyes boring into Grìma's own as though he could burn straight through to the other side of his servant's skull.

“A woman, is it? So the Wormtongue is a man after all, I suppose. Still, you disappoint me.” Saruman dropped Grìma and withdrew without ceremony.
“No, Master. It is... nothing, I assure you. Nothing. I will complete the task, just give me more time. I will not allow myself to be diverted again.”

Saruman paced across the floor of his study for a moment, coming to rest near the narrow window that looked out over the ring and into the forest beyond, although the view was becoming ever more obscured with smoke of late.

It began lowly, a rumble more felt than heard, but after a few moments, Saruman's laugh grew in volume until it filled the room. “You ugly thing! Do you even for a moment believe a King's niece could love you?”

Grìma felt his face heating and shook his head vehemently. “No, Master, I would never--”

“You want her, Wormtongue. Shall I give her to you, then? Will that be sufficient motivation to make you carry out your duty with the necessary haste?”

Saruman laughed again and Grìma felt vaguely ill. “Well? What is your answer – do you want Eowyn, then, for a wife? I will see that she is delivered to you, once Rohan is mine, what say you to that?”

Grìma could say nothing, feeling suddenly like a dark child again, surrounded by fair men of high birth – small, and unworthy. Saruman stared again into his soul and Grìma was even less than a child, now a worm under the eye of some massive bird.

“She would not love you. I could make it as though she believed she did. Would you like that, Wormtongue? A pretty thing to amuse you.”
“Please... No, master.”

Saruman was suddenly across the room, standing over Grìma, leering down at him with some mixture of amusement and disgust. “No, Grìma, she could never come to love you in truth – but I will give her to you regardless. I will give her to you and she shall hate you all the days of your life. That shall be your just reward.”

“No!” Grìma cringed and sank back against the wall, sliding downward as if pulled by some invisible hand. He hadn't meant to speak his protest aloud, but it had slipped free.
“So you do not want her, then? Shall I give her to an orc instead? Now there is a thought – a shield-maiden of Rohan, mother of Uruk-Hai. They would be strong indeed.”

Grìma cursed himself as treacherous tears escaped. “Please, Master, I will have her then, if that is the choice. I will have her...”

“Good.” Saruman kicked his servant where he crouched in the corner. “Good. Now get up and get out of my sight – you have your instructions. Do not return until you have completed your task.”

Grìma, once called Wormtongue, or even just Worm, lay on his back in the long grass with his eyes closed. The sound of the wind in the trees lulled him in and out of sleep, and somewhere at a distance, children were shouting and laughing. For the first time since he was a young child himself, the sunlight felt welcome on his face. The warmth of the Shire seeped into his aching bones, and he gladly forgot, for a moment, every name he'd ever been given.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“He's not much of a conversationalist, Mister Frodo, but I'll admit he's coming in useful these days.”Frodo smiled at Sam as he dropped another shovel full of dirt into the wheelbarrow to be hauled away. “True, he's not the tallest I've seen of the big folk, but his reach is higher than a hobbit's is, certainly. If we could just get him to speak more than two words at a time...”“Maybe he can't anymore? Saruman beat him pretty often, I think, might've taken a bad blow to the head.”“It's possible, Sam, but I think he's just... not ready yet, maybe.”Sam shrugged and they both stood for a moment, leaning on their long-handled spades. Sam pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped the sweat out of his eyes. Autumn was wearing on, indeed the first of December was only a week away, but it was still getting warm enough in the afternoons that their efforts to restore Bagshot Row were feeling like real work. They watched Gríma for a moment as the man stood, holding up a portion of a round door frame at the entrance of a smial under restoration as two carpenters (on ladders, naturally), nailed them into place.Gríma was still weak from months of starvation, despite Lily Cotton's admirable efforts at keeping his belly full over the last month, but he was nonetheless putting forth an effort, which gave Frodo some shred of hope as to his future. He still spoke mostly in monosyllables and only when prompted, and seemed half-dazed at times, but recently he'd at least begun taking directions without too many repetitions. Many of the residents of Hobbiton and Bywater still grumbled about his continued presence, but Frodo was determined to keep his promise – that the man should have food and shelter until he was strong enough to find his own path forward. At the time, he hadn't really thought about just how long that might take, but so be it, he thought.Things were moving along, and faster than they'd anticipated. Bag End, like the rest of the row, was being repaired, but the damage had been extensive – it seemed that Saruman had taken things personally. So in all likelihood, Frodo, Sam, and even Gríma, would be spending Yule with the Cottons. Frodo wanted to repay them some way, despite their insistence that they expected nothing in return, that removing Sharkey from the Shire was payment enough for a lifetime, but nonetheless...Sam, at least, seemed to be in quite a good mood lately, and Frodo was more or less just waiting for him to announce that he & Rosie were engaged, if Sam could ever get past his shyness. You walked into Mordor, Sam, just ask her.

“Gríma... are you happy here, in the Shire? Do you have any idea where you'd like to go next?”Gríma shrugged, still staring into the fire. Well, at least he responded somewhat, Frodo thought. Gríma had not yet relinquished his claim to the rug before the hearth in the Cottons' sitting room and Frodo thought it was odd that he insisted on sleeping there. The hobbit beds were too small, but Lily Cotton had offered more than once to set up a pallet of blankets in one of the empty bedrooms. They had plenty of space since the boys had married and left, after all.... but no, he returned to the smial each evening after working wherever he was sent, and stretched out before the fire, and would not be moved unless tempted with supper.Frodo held out hope that Gríma might find some place for himself, eventually. So far, he'd done no further harm to the Shire.

Merry & Pippin had been kept quite busy of late, spending much of their time around the south farthing with their company of stout young hobbits. Most of the troublesome southerners who had come up with Sharkey had fled after the wizard's demise, but there are always a few who are too stubborn to take a hint.At the moment, though, the two sat at the Cottons' kitchen table, their mail-shirts, shields, and swords discarded back in the sitting room, nursing mugs of ale. They were all quite glad to have said ale, after all – they'd thought at first that Sharkey's men had eaten everything, but great stores of food and drink and weed had been found in the tunnels of the quarry in Scary and in a few other boltholes about the Shire, and suddenly the coming Yule season seemed something to look forward to. It had turned cold with the beginning of December and that seemed to dampen the southerners' enthusiasm as well, giving Merry & Pippin an opportunity to unwind a bit.Frodo and Sam were also leaning back in their chairs, enjoying the warmth of the kitchen and a late afternoon snack. Sam stared at the ceiling for a moment, chewing on a bit of crust. “We ought to write to the King, you know? Strider might could spare us a few Rangers, d'you think?”“Maybe,” said Pippin, “but I like to think the Shire can take care of this problem on its own. We weren't here for most of it, but the lads and lasses need this, I think. Need to know they can stand on their own two feet, as it were. We've routed most of them, anyway, and I think the rest will get tired of it and go home soon. Or we'll just have to convince them. With arrows.”Merry nodded in approval beside him. “We don't need the big folk looking after our affairs for us anymore. I know the Rangers were doing a lot we didn't really know of, but Sauron's gone and I think it's high time we protect our own borders. Hobbits aren't going to be bested by a few lousy bandits. I think they could have handled Sharkey if they'd just known it. I suppose we had to remind them, but that's done.”Gríma hunched over where he was seated on the floor (the chairs being too small for one of the Big People, even one still as thin as Gríma). Leaning back to look at him, Frodo sighed. “He wasn't accusing you, Gríma. Although I suppose you needed a reminder too – that you don't have to follow some rotten wizard or anyone else who tells you to do horrible things. You'll remember from now on.”Gríma said nothing.

Frodo could not have guessed what he'd find one afternoon upon returning from Buckland. He heard the commotion long before he saw it – a strident, angry voice interspersed with shouts from various others.There was a circle of hobbits crowded around the goings-on near the partially reconstructed Bagshot Row, some shouting things like “Oh do stop now!” and “Don't you think you should wait until Mister Frodo gets back?” Others were laughing and giving suggestions of how to better proceed, or just a general opinion of “Get 'em, m'am!,” and Frodo hurried his pony on, coming to a rough stop just beside a sizeable crowd. A few of them noticed his approach and scuttled backward sheepishly, a couple of them picking up tools and trying to look busy, and the rest hopping off to find interest in, oh, literally anything else. Is this what we've become, thought Frodo. Clearly not all of Saruman's damage to the Shire was done to trees and hobbit smials. We need to move past this. It may take more than a few weeks for some to let go of their anger, but in the meantime...Sam caught up and dismounted from his pony as well and the both of them pushed their way through the remainder of the crowd. The more intent onlookers to this bit of pantomime had not noticed their arrival. It took a moment for Frodo to react to the absurdity before him.“You villain!” screeched the small, hunched, and aged figure of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, “You serpent!”She had gripped in both gnarled hands an umbrella that had also seen better days, and was currently using it with great gusto to beat Gríma over the back and head with it. Frodo doubted the very elderly hobbit still had the strength to do him real lasting harm, but it was certainly not for lack of effort. Gríma was curled over on himself on the ground like some kind of tortoise hiding in its shell, his arms covering the back of his head and neck, but otherwise offering no resistance to the repeated blows. Lobelia had managed to bloody his knuckles, although he did not seem otherwise greatly harmed. Still... “That's enough, I should think! Let him be, Lobelia.”Lobelia turned, shocked, at his intrusion. She blinked, her mouth still twisted in rage and her eyes full of angry tears, looking Frodo up and down.“Let us go somewhere and discuss this, Lobelia--”Frodo had not expected the blow, and so utterly failed to duck the umbrella's swing before it connected with the side of his head, leaving his ear stinging (and ringing). So great was his surprise at the fervor of the blow that he probably would not have dodged the second, either, had Sam not reached out to grasp Lobelia gently but quite firmly by the arm. Frodo's gardener heaved a great sigh as Lobelia used her left hand to beat weakly at his chest, letting out a string of language Frodo would never have expected from the ever prim-and-proper woman, but she soon tired and sagged, her limited strength spent. Sam lifted an eyebrow in question at Frodo.“Yes, let her go, Sam. I think she's made her point.”Lobelia stood back and straightened her hat and clothing, putting the handle of the now-bent umbrella over her arm, glaring daggers at the both of them. “I would have expected better of you, Frodo Baggins, than to give shelter to a wicked murderer like that... that snake over there! He won't even tell me what he did with my Lotho! Is he deaf now? A mute? I don't believe it! He's just too wicked to even let me bury my son!”By this point, Lobelia was sobbing and shaking and Frodo feared the old woman might faint. He took Lobelia gently by the elbow and she did not resist him as he led her away down the lane.He glanced at Sam on his way past. “Get him back to the Cottons' smial. I'll catch up to you later.”

Lobelia was still quite angry with him by the time he'd gotten her back to one of her Bracegirdle cousins' home, but at the very least he'd managed to placate her with a promise to find out what had been done with her son's body. It remained to be seen whether he'd be able to get that information, however. Gríma was taciturn under the best of circumstances, but after this, Frodo wondered if he'd be able to get the man to speak at all any time soon.It was dark by the time he returned to the Cottons' smial, and he was grateful that Lily had kept a plate warm for him from supper, as he was quite famished. Gríma had taken his place before the fire and managed, somehow, to look even more morose than usual. Frodo decided to sit down and eat his meal and let some of the tension of his long, contentious afternoon arguing with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins dissipate before attempting to deal with him.

Why do I get myself into these messes?, Gríma thought. His back ached and he shifted over, laying on his side stretched out before the fire.He didn't mind the work, as such. He'd grown up in a farming community, after all, and while he had never before tunneled straight into a hillside, shoveling and picking through mud and stone, per se, he'd seen plenty of days of moving dirt around. The work wasn't any great burden. It was a distraction, at least – if his muscles burned and ached at the end of the day, at least he knew he was still alive.Today, the pain was of a slightly different sort. He'd learned that the small folk were not so weak as they might look – they were, on average, perhaps three feet tall, but were no mere rats, whatever the orcs who'd served Saruman had called them. The bent old woman's blows had, quite surprisingly, stung a bit. His knuckles were scabbing over where she'd broken the skin as he'd held them over the back of his head and neck, and he suspected his shoulders were several interesting shades of bruise, but he couldn't muster up the will to care.Why am I still here? He remembered coming with Saruman, and he remembered starving. He remembered Southerners with eyes harder than stone who had pledged themselves to the wizard. He remembered the wizard whose voice still wielded power, even when his staff was broken and he had little else left to him. Gríma had once known how to use his own voice in a similar fashion, although perhaps not to such great effect. It stuck in his throat these days, like a trapped animal. Sometimes when he tried to speak, he felt like something in his throat would burst. Your words are poison, the shieldmaiden had told him. Your words are poison. And now he was choking.He also remembered the feeling of pushing a dagger through the back of that sleeping hobbit, how easy it had been, how the still-hot blood had coated his hands as he carried it away in the dark, the deed done. They all must know what he is, by now. The wizard had told them what he'd done. He made me do it. He made me do it. He made me do every thing I ever did.
Oh, but did he? You could have died instead. You could have let Saruman kill you for disobeying. You could have stayed in Rohan and gone to war and died there instead. You could have run away and died in the wilderness, where you would bring harm to no one. It would have been easier, better, for everyone involved.
Gríma pulled his knees up to his chest, shutting his eyes tightly. Too late for that now, whatever he might have done. These hobbits will tire of him, soon, he was certain of that. The old woman had known what he was, and had acted accordingly. He could not find fault with her. Yes, they would tire of him, and make him leave. Then where would he go?Sometimes he dreamed of gently rolling plains, long grass swaying in wind, and the sound of hooves. He would walk across the endless plains of Rohan until he grew tired. He would lay down in the grass and the earth would lovingly swallow him whole.Where would he go? Nowhere, probably.

After supper, Frodo nodded off. Sam roused him enough to send him to bed, and he'd gone to sleep with the matter of Lotho Sackville-Baggins still unresolved. Dawn, however, could be quite merciless, and arrived long before he was ready.Breakfast came and went and Frodo needed to get on with the day. Lobelia had spent the afternoon before moving between sobbing and raging like a child on a swing. Despite the long history of enmity between her, her husband, and Bilbo (and, by extension, Frodo himself), he did feel pity for her. She was quite old now, but seemed worn even beyond her long years by the deprivations of Saruman's temporary reign over the Shire and the loss of Lotho.Even thinking about Gríma made Frodo's head ache. Why do I get myself into these messes?, he thought. “I will take the ring!” had been foolish enough, if necessary, but apparently he had not quite yet learned his lesson about sticking his neck out, and now the half-feral Rohirric traitor he'd taken off the defeated wizard was his responsibility, whether he liked it or not. Smeagol crouched in the back of his mind, with that half fearful, half hopeful look that had sometimes graced the bent creature's face. Frodo alone had been the one to offer the man shelter. It might well have been a mistake, but it was too late now to take it back, if he wanted to keep any shred of honor. If other hobbits were growing less patient, however, he may soon not have much choice.

“Gríma-”The dark-haired hobbit with nine fingers was staring balefully down at him. Frodo, Gríma thought. That was his name. Sam was the gardener. Merry & Pippin where the tall ones whom Gríma was quite certain did not like him very much, but they were somewhere else at the moment, and the gardener was already outdoors. Gríma had intended to follow him, to find some task to make the day pass as quickly as possible, but Frodo stood between him and the door.Gríma scratched at a spot on his neck where some sort of lingering insect had bitten him the day before, when he'd been unloading another wheelbarrow full of excavated earth into a ditch near the river that ran south of Hobbiton. There had been cold nights, already, but some of the buzzing nuisances had not quite given in to the morning frosts, it seemed. Gríma remembered that the wizard had used his black powder to collapse the hobbits' homes in a fit of spite some months back. Gríma remembered the acrid smell of smoke, which did not much resemble wood or brush fire, but had a sulfurous tang that lingered in the nose long after the bang, like fireworks, only somehow more objectionable.Frodo paced for a moment before him. This is it, Gríma thought, here is where he tells me it is time to leave. Gríma stood, looking past the hobbit to the round door beyond.Frodo didn't move to let him pass, but put a hand out, gripping at Gríma's forearm. “Gríma... I know you'd like to follow Sam up to Bagshot Row, and I am truly pleased at how much you have helped us these last two months, but today we must deal with another task. I know you said that Saruman made you kill Lotho, and he said much else besides.”Gríma tensed, wanting to leave. Just send me away from here. I can do nothing for your little Boss, he is gone, Gríma wanted to say, but could not get the words to leave his throat no matter how much he willed it.“I am not angry, Gríma. But I must know what you did with him... I owe his mother an answer. I do not truly believe you ate him, whatever Saruman said, but whatever you did with the body, I would know of. Lobelia wants something to bury and I agree that she has a right to do so.”Gríma opened his mouth, and managed a sort of creaking noise at the back of his throat, but whatever he might have said died before it reached his lips. His eyes stung and he pulled away from Frodo's grip, stumbling backwards.Frodo did not pursue him but ran a four-fingered hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I knew this would not be easy.” He paced another tight circle, stopping again to look at Gríma. “You won't speak at all now, will you? I wonder if you even can...” The hobbit stood a moment longer, then pulled Gríma toward the door by his hand. “Just show me then, if you cannot say.”

Frodo should have guessed he would not be able to complete this task without being discovered. For weeks now, Gríma had only been seen at the Cottons' smial or outside Bagshot Row hauling about dirt or timber. That he was now being led by the hand like a child by Frodo Baggins was bound to attract attention. Gríma had been leading him back toward Michel Delving without argument... right up until they gained an audience. Now he was sitting against a tree and not budging.“Frodo lad, I know you're a clever chap and you probably have your reasons... but really, is it necessary to keep this... man... here any longer? He's been fed and clothed and is quite clearly able to walk on his own without trouble. Perhaps you ought to send him on his way now?”Dinodas Brandybuck was smoking from a short stemmed pipe, while he and his companions stared down at Gríma with a look of mild disgust. Frodo knew these hobbits – some of them quite well, some only in passing – but while some of them were impatient or a bit thick-headed, he'd never known any of them to be particularly cruel. Dinodas was, in fact, his uncle. He shook his head, wishing the problems of the war could be done away with more swiftly, including this one. Yule was not far away, and winter would set in soon. He could tell Gríma he must leave, and it would make his own life simpler, one less plate to spin among the many he had going at the moment.Frodo shook his head, digging his proverbial heels in. “Not yet, uncle. The year is growing old and winter is coming. We will see where things stand come springtime. Besides, we can use every pair of hands we have right now. He's been helping up at Bagshot Row.”Dinodas drew on his pipe and seemed dissatisfied but did not argue. He took a few steps back, but not all of his companions followed. Halfast Gamgee, one of Sam's cousins, in particular, did not budge. “Frodo, we all know he killed Lotho Sackville-Baggins, and was one of that Sharkey's lackeys, and probably did much evil that is not known. It's not the ways of hobbits to hang criminals, but at the very least, he ought to be shown to the border and invited not to return. How can you keep him around, like some great ruddy pet? He's still dangerous if you ask me - once a villain, always a villain!”Gríma, during all of this, remained where he sat against a small tree. Halfast stepped even closer to him, leaning over him as much as his stature would allow, and grabbed the man's collar in his fist. “If you're too soft-hearted to do it yourself, we could take him out of the Shire for you!”Frodo placed himself between the crowd of hobbits and Halfast where he stood holding onto Gríma, splitting the group. Part of his mind was screaming at him that he was in a prime position to be thoroughly trounced, but another part of him was saying these are your kith and kin, they won't actually harm you, but he wasn't certain of anything anymore. “Let go of him, Halfast. This doesn't concern you. He is my responsibility and mine alone. We have an errand that you are impeding; now let us go on our way.”Halfast stared down at Gríma, then stared back at Frodo, his mouth a tight line and his nostrils flaring like an angry bull's, and Frodo wondered, again, what had become of the Shire.Thankfully, the impasse was broken when Merry and Pippin rode up on their ponies. “What's all this, then, Frodo?” Merry's hand was on the hilt of his sword, his eyes crossing the entire tense crowd. Dinodas and the others moved even further away from Frodo, Halfast, and Gríma, seeking to distance themselves in more ways than one.Halfast's grip on Gríma's collar loosened and he dropped his gaze to the ground. “Nothing, it's... nothing.”Pippin dismounted as well, pulling out his own pipe and lighting it. “What a jolly party, a pity we weren't invited, Merry. I'm sure these good hobbits were only helping Frodo here. Isn't that right, Halfast?”Halfast nodded hesitantly. “I'll just... be on my way, then.” The rest of the gathered group began moving down the road toward Waymeet and Halfast hurried past Merry and Pippin to catch up to them.“I keep telling myself the war's over,” mused Merry, “but sometimes I don't wonder if there's some that's still fighting it.”Frodo sat down beside Gríma, leaning against the tree trunk himself. Merry and Pippin joined them, passing a bag of pipeweed down the line, which Gríma ignored, but Frodo gladly accepted. “I wouldn't be too harsh on them, Merry. We weren't here when Sharkey was doing his worst, and while I've a good idea of the hurts he's inflicted on the Shire, it's not the same as living it. I think the worst of it is those hobbits who served him, though. You can look at the southerners, the wicked men, and think – well it's not their home, they're just bandits who came to steal what wasn't theirs. But the hobbits who ran his errands? Some did so out of fear, certainly, but some of them had clearly enjoyed lording it over fellow hobbits and... well.” Frodo lit his own pipe and drew the fragrant smoke into his lungs, savoring the burn and letting it out through his nostrils like a dragon. “It'll take some time for folks to trust one another again, I'm afraid.”“Time heals all wounds,” Pippin said, “at least that's what I've heard.”Frodo rubbed at his shoulder. “Not all wounds, Pip, but I think it might do the Shire some good. We'll fix the ruined smials, and replant trees. It won't be the same, though, not for a long time. The trees will take fifty years at least, before they even begin to look as they once did...”

The sun was low in the sky and painting long orange streaks and dark shadows across the landscape by the time they rose. It was December and days were short, and they did not have much time to complete this task.Frodo walked a few steps behind Gríma, flanked by Merry and Pippin, and Frodo found himself glad to have their company on this unpleasant errand. They were not waylaid again, as most hobbits were heading back indoors now, looking for their tea. They passed through Michel Delving and into a small wooded area beyond. The largest trees had all been cut down to feed Sharkey's fires, but the smaller ones had miraculously been spared. Gríma came to a halt so suddenly that Frodo nearly ran into his back. The oblique rays of the setting sun cast the trunks of the remaining trees in sharp contrast and Frodo had to squint to see what he was pointing at.A medium sized oak tree still stood, perched on the side of a steep hill, and Gríma pointed at its roots. Frodo glanced back at Merry and Pippin and went to go see what was there.It took a moment for him to find the bones. Grima had not eaten him, as Saruman had cruelly jested, but animals and birds and insects had stripped them bare of flesh quite thoroughly, and the shifting of soil had nearly buried them already. Frodo clasped one hand over his mouth, trying not to think too hard about Lotho Sackville-Baggins. He had not cared for the man, nor his mother. The Sackville-Bagginses had always been greedy and ambitious in Frodo's estimation, had tried to take Bag End (and the silverware) from Bilbo through unscrupulous means, and had considered themselves above others. He couldn't bring himself to feel any satisfaction at this sad fate, though.Merry peered over Frodo's shoulder. “It's getting dark. We can come back tomorrow and gather them up. He's been out here for months, one more night isn't likely to make any difference, Frodo.”“I suppose you're right. I'll let Lobelia know once we've arranged a coffin. She'll have something to bury, at least.”The sun had dipped below the horizon now, and the twilight would fade quickly this time of year. Frodo looked up to find that Gríma had disappeared. “Pip, did you see where he went?”“'Fraid not, Frodo. Must've slipped off between the trees. Well, he'll either find his way back to the Cottons' I imagine, or we'll never see him again. Either way...”“It's already getting cold, now the sun's gone...”Frodo turned back to Pippin and saw the flare of a match re-lighting his pipe. Pippin huffed a half-chuckle, although Frodo wasn't sure what he found humor in. Pippin blew a few smoke rings, which a chill wind tore into streaks almost immediately. “He can take care of himself, I'd imagine. He might've gone a bit funny, but he's no child. Tough as old boots to have lasted this long, I'd guess. He'll turn up, sooner or later – a bad penny, that one.”

Gríma was somewhat beginning to regret this. For one thing, it was cold, and the wind refused to let up. It was a clear night with no moon and few clouds, and the stars stood out vividly in the sky. The lack of clouds also meant that the temperature had dropped precipitously after sunset. He could follow the road back. It was after midnight but it was possible that someone might hear him if he knocked on the door. But he could not go back to them, not after what he'd showed them today.Saruman told me to do it. He made me do it. There is always a choice, though. Even death is a choice. He taught me to read. He taught me to write. He taught me about herbs, about animals, about the world, and some things beyond the world. He taught me the names of the stars. Had it always just been the means to an end? Had Saruman ever cared about him at all? He'd spent his youth sitting before the man's hearth, eating his food, occupying his time. The wizard had never been what anyone would describe as warm, but he'd certainly been kinder than most others had. For a time, anyway. Until everything changed.Gríma dug into the dirt with his hands. They were nearly always dirty now, anyway, and there was no point in worrying about it. His fingernails were worn and chipped, and his cuticles stained not with ink but with earth. He'd found another tree with roots thrusting up like bent knees, like the one he'd laid the hobbit he'd killed underneath. If he dug enough, perhaps he could bury himself, could live there like the rest of the worms. He was getting good at digging holes these days.

“Gríma! Damn it-- Gríma!”Sam nearly tumbled as he pushed through a shrubby area down the side of the hill. There was an unkempt semi-wooded space between cultivated fields just north of the road running from Michel Delving to Waymeet, and Sam had the unenviable task of searching through it for Frodo's lost pet.Sam grumbled to himself, and swore under his breath. “Blast that Wormtongue... why'd he have to go run off? And why can't Mister Frodo just let him go...” He paused to catch his breath and pull burrs from his trousers. It had gotten quite cold the night before, and Sam figured the man had found shelter somewhere, or else froze to death, but either way, he didn't all that much care. He was helping Frodo to search because it mattered to Frodo. Merry and Pippin had gone to retrieve Lotho Sackville-Baggins's bones, having obtained a casket from a woodworker in town. Mister Frodo, bless him, had paid for it out of his own pocket. Sam didn't much like Lobelia, who had given his father some trouble in the past, but to lose her only child in her old age was a hard blow.Frodo seemed to think the blame was Saruman's alone, but it wasn't Saruman who planted the knife in Lotho's back, Sam figured. Maybe old Sharkey was the one what gave the order, but Wormtongue was still the one who did it. He's just an old coward, thought Sam. Not as nasty as his old master, but hardly worth all this trouble. Sam wasn't generally a spiteful sort, but after Gollum's final betrayal, he was fed up of these villains who played at being helpless but were anything but. Why was it Frodo who had to deal with these hopeless cases? Couldn't it be someone else's turn? Sam had caught Frodo rubbing at the old wound in his shoulder, with a pensive look on his face, more than once, and he knew it hadn't healed nearly as well as Frodo claimed. Some hurts don't mend easily, and being touched by such evil certainly left its mark, as all who had crossed paths with the enemy's servants would know. Although, I do wonder what Saruman did to Gríma to make him half mute like that...

Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Sam stood together, somewhat removed from the rest of the gathering. Frodo had felt an obligation to be present (after all, Lotho had been his cousin, however distant, and however unpleasant) and the rest of them had followed. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had been weeping loudly earlier, as the grave was being dug to the left of her late husband Otho's, and the casket holding her only child lowered into the waiting earth below. The gravediggers were now shoveling the dirt back in and Lobelia did not seem to have the will to move. Several of her Bracegirdle relations were standing with her. A young cousin holding onto the bent hobbit-woman's elbow was quite possibly the only thing holding her upright.The day had turned out to be one of the more miserable ones since Frodo had returned to the Shire, and he counted the day they returned to find Sharkey having upended everything in that list. Merry and Pippin were no Rangers but they were keen and observant, and had picked up a trail of disturbed brush and a few stray footprints near where they'd last seen Gríma. Merry had told him as they'd made their way to Lotho's funeral that he'd found another tree at the end of said trail with exposed roots where it appeared something too large to have been a fox or some other common wildlife had dug under and probably spent the night. It couldn't have been too warm, but would at least provided some cover from the wind that had howled all night long. In any case, Gríma had left his makeshift bed before Merry and Pippin had discovered it. They had not been able to pick up his trail again, though.There was nothing to be done for it – Gríma was not a prisoner, whatever his crimes had been, and could leave as he chose. The man was clever, too clever by half, Frodo thought. But he could not help but feel his departure had been all too hasty, and wondered if Gríma would survive on his own.

Gríma could travel quickly when he wanted to, even on foot. Years spent travelling back and forth from Edoras to Isengard, and to towns and villages across Rohan, had taught him how to travel light and travel swiftly. He'd certainly been sent on enough errands in his time, both by the wizard and by the king. He'd been trained and taught by the white wizard, the leader of their order, in all manner of lore, and yet he was forever being used as a mere errand-boy. It had annoyed him at the time.
No one can tell you where to go now, can they?
He definitely preferred travel on horseback, though. Perhaps his father's Rohirric blood was not so thin in him after all. His mind worked better when he was in the saddle, allowing a well-trained animal's own good sense to keep them on the road while his mind wandered elsewhere. Horses weren't as stupid as some people supposed, after all. Nervous and apt to panic at times, perhaps, but not stupid. Of course, his own mind had worked better for all sorts of reasons when he was still the lore-master, the king's advisor, the wizard's pupil... but those days were far behind him. The Shire, too, was now shrinking in the distance, lingering behind him in the direction of the Blessed West. There was no home for him, there. There was no home for him anywhere. He'd simply started walking. There was no one to tell him where to go, and so he did not know where to go. He simply went. What else was there to do?It was January now and it was cold and getting colder. He'd stolen an old blanket from a barn that had probably covered a pony for years, judging by the smell. He still had a waterskin and the dagger he'd kept hidden in his clothes for most of his life, although the blade was not as sharp these days as it once was. It would serve well enough, he supposed. He was unlikely to find much to eat, unless he stole. He probably would steal, sooner or later. The Worm was not above such things after all. The hobbit had tried to give him his name back – Gríma – but it wouldn't stick, not in his own mind. Worm is not really nice.He was following a road east, at the moment. It lead... somewhere. Buckland, that was what one of the hobbits had called it. The one named Merry. He didn't think he'd stop there, though. There was a town further east, a town with men, and maybe even horses.

Frodo was sitting at the Cottons' kitchen table going through the Baggins family ledgers, trying to sort out what to do about the rebuilding of Bagshot Row, which had stalled due to insufficient materials. He could spare a bit, he thought, if it would get the Shire back to something resembling normal sooner. His neighbors had all pitched in to get their own smials repaired, but with so many trees cut down and burnt by Sharkey's men, good timber was not easy to come by at the moment, and bringing it from Bree was turning out to be expensive. Everything in Bree was built of wood, after all, other than a few of the smials built by hobbits outside of the main town up in Combe & Archet, and that town had suffered its own hurts during the war. Oh, the hobbits could cut down the smaller trees remaining in the Shire, but nobody had the heart to do it, frankly. The beams would likely not be thick enough to do the job properly anyway, and the last thing anybody wanted was a cave-in. Bookkeeping wasn't his favorite task, to say the least. It was a distraction from the memories of the day before, though, but now he was getting a headache from staring at Bilbo's cramped writing all morning. Normally Rosie kept the teapot full all day, but she was somewhere with Sam today, so Frodo rose to put the kettle on himself.He'd just been about put the kettle over the fire when someone began banging on the door. Leaving it on the table, he rushed to let whoever it was in, and was only mildly surprised when Merry and Pippin ducked to shove their way in with haste as soon as he opened the door. Merry began delivering his news before Frodo had managed to say “hello.”“He's headed toward Bree, we think. He was seen in Buckland last night, stole a chicken according to my cousin Berilac.”Sam & Rosie arrived, slightly taken aback at the crowd standing just in front of the door. Sam paused and looked around. “What's going on, Mister Frodo?”“They've found where Gríma is headed. Toward Bree, apparently. With one of Merry's cousin's chickens.”Sam turned to Merry. “Well I'm sorry your cousin lost a chicken, but if he's left the Shire, I suppose that's the end of it. Bree has plenty of big folk, maybe he'll find work there, or something.”Frodo shook his head. “No, Sam, I somehow doubt that. He still doesn't seem able to speak and while they may not recognize him there, he's unlikely to find friends, given how odd his behavior still is. The Bree men aren't truly wicked, as a group, but there are some in that town who might do him harm. Or he may harm them, out of fear or hunger. I don't think it's a good idea to simply let this pass. There's nothing for it – I shall have to go after him.”Sam held out a hand, as if to stop Frodo from running off that instant. “No, Mister Frodo, you're still Deputy Mayor and Mayor Whitfoot needs you here. And somebody's got to see over the rebuilding in Bagshot Row, my Gaffer can't stop talking about how nice it will be to move back home. No, you went last time and I went with you. This time I will go, and I will go alone. I can find old Wormtongue just as well as you can. You've done too much this last year, carrying the ring.”“You carried it as well, Sam, and more besides. I haven't forgotten.”“Still, I think you'd best stay here, Mister Frodo, for the sake of the Shire if not for yourself.”Merry nodded, “Good idea, Sam, except the going alone part. We've cleared the last of Sharkey's men, I think. We haven't found any in weeks, and there are enough Bounders now to keep any who might return from getting their wish. Pippin can stay here and see that things run smoothly to that end, and I shall join you, and don't argue because you won't win.”Frodo looked at Sam and Merry and felt outnumbered. “Do you really think the two of you will be enough? He can move fast when he wants to, and knows how to hide.”“He's on foot, and we have the ponies. If he's pinching chickens, he doesn't have food, either, and will have to stop. We can catch up to him in Bree by nightfall, I think.”“I suppose you are right. If he does not want to return to the Shire, I doubt we can convince him, but at the very least, take him some food so he does not steal any more of Berilac's chickens.”

Nobody really paid Gríma much attention when he walked through the west gate of Bree that morning. They'd no doubt seen their fair share of pathetic refugees coming and going in the wake of the war. The gate guard had stopped him briefly, noted that he was alone and carried nothing with him, and had waved him through.A stolen chicken roasted over a campfire with nothing to season it had not been an impressive breakfast, and the smells of the cooking fires inside homes was making his mouth water. He had no coin, though, and was now at a loss of what to do here. A few spared him a glance as he stood in the street, but no one seemed much interested in him. There were a few hobbits about, amongst the men, but they were not like the Shire variety, Gríma thought. They had the same guarded expressions as the men, and went about their business without much chatter.Gríma began walking, following the main street through town. He arrived at what was clearly the inn. A worn sign declared it to be The Prancing Pony and Gríma briefly entertained the idea of going inside, before remembering that he had nothing with which to buy drink or food, much less a bed for the night. He sat down against a gate outside, instead, listening to the horses in the inn's stables behind him, and a hobbit sweeping inside.

It was evening by the time Sam and Merry arrived in Bree. They gave a description to the gate guard of the man they were looking for.“Well, we've had a few come through today, and many with an unsavory look and plenty with dark hair, and many without much to say. He might have passed by, I suppose. I'd have to think about it a bit harder, perhaps, and it might come to me.”Merry rolled his eyes and rode through with Sam coming behind him, not bothering to play the guard's game. “Very helpful, that gate guard. I think he very much has seen Gríma, but he wants coin for the information. Hmph. He can just keep wanting.”“Well,” said Sam, “I can see Bree has not grown friendlier during the war. Gríma might fit in quite nicely now, if he's stayed.”

The town gave way to fields past the south gate, and a few farms that dotted the landscape. He'd only meant to find a spot in the barn to hide, and spend the night. He hadn't stolen another chicken, although he'd helped himself to a few of their eggs, and some milk from the cow. He didn't actually enjoy stealing, really. He'd once been a lore-master. He was a man of letters and learning. He wasn't some common brigand. He kept telling himself these things, trying not to notice the dirt under his fingernails, or the scruff covering his jaw or the smell of stale sweat despite the chill of the weather.
Worm is not really nice.
The noise suddenly coming from the paddock wasn't very nice, either, though. Gríma recognized the sounds of a distressed horse, and despite all his instincts telling him to remain hidden and unseen, he rose to his feet and rushed out toward the sound of the screaming beast.The farmer, apparently, had no clue how to train a horse. He had the animal's bridle tied to a fence post and was lashing it with a thick tree branch, shouting curses. There was a saddle laying in the dust that Gríma surmised the man had been unsuccessful in getting onto the horse's back, and the dust down the man's back told the rest of the story.Gríma's throat burned when he spoke, but he forced words out.“Stop that, you fool!”The farmer turned around, his rage written plainly in his face. “Who the hell are you? Get off of my farm!”“I shall when you stop abusing that horse.”The farmer barked a laugh. “It's my damned horse to do as I please with, I traded good grain for it just yesterday, and if you don't want a taste of the same, then leave with all haste.”Gríma looked around the paddock, his first instinct to run. The horse, he could now see was a young mare, stamped and blew and pulled at the rope tethering it, her eyes rolling in fear. It wanted to run. Gríma also wanted to run.“Only a fool beats a horse he wishes to ride, it will always hate you in its heart.”The farmer didn't bother to respond but rushed at him with the stick he'd been hitting the horse with. Gríma was smaller, but certainly faster. He ducked to the side, and grabbed the branch, twisting it out of the farmer's hands and turning back to face him.The farmer hesitated, but only for a moment. “You really think you can best me, you little worm?”Gríma hissed, planting his feet more firmly. The farmer rushed at him again, and Gríma's swing hit true. The man slumped over with a gash in his forehead. Gríma had not meant to hit him quite so hard, but he'd grown angry and now the job was done. He leaned over the farmer and found him still breathing. I don't care about this man, he thought, as he ripped the farmer's own tunic and tied it tightly around his head. The bleeding would probably stop and eventually he might even awaken. But I don't care if he does.The horse now stood eyeing him warily, shifting on its feet. Gríma spoke in low tones, elven words that he'd learned many years ago, working his way through his voice into the animal's mind, soothing its pain and panic. He was, after some long minutes, able to untie the rope and lift the bridle from its head, intending to open the paddock and leave the animal to its own choices.Gríma turned to leave the paddock, and the horse followed him, nosing at his back. He stopped and turned, and ran a hand over its long head and thick neck. The air from its nostrils was warm and familiar.

Not all Breelanders were as tight-fisted as the gate guard, it seemed. Barliman Butterbur had remembered them and was quite happy to hand them mugs of ale and something to eat and chat a bit.“A thin dark-haired man? Plenty of those around in these parts, sirs. If you can give more of a description than that... well you might try asking Bob or Nob. I've been indoors all day myself, but they might have seen your fellow come by.”Merry wanted to have another mug of ale, but Sam dragged him away from the bar, bidding Barliman farewell. “We'll find him, I'm sure. The ponies need a rest, but we will ask around outside.”

It was getting late when they'd finally passed through the south gate. The ponies had rested and been fed and watered at the Prancing Pony, and they'd probably be returning there for the night if they did not have any greater success before too late. At least the guard at this gate had been more forthcoming. “I did see a man of that sort pass through earlier, he was heading along the southern road. Looked a bit troubled, but didn't speak, so I didn't ask.”“He can't have gone too far, Sam. I suspect we're catching up now.”Sam pulled his pony to a halt. “There's a farm just over there. Maybe there's somebody who's seen him. Or maybe missing a chicken or two...”

The farmer wasn't much happier to see the two hobbits than he'd been to see that nasty man who had taken his horse and ransacked his pantry. He was sitting at his kitchen table with a black eye and a cloth tied around his head and knot the size of a goose egg apparent underneath it.“Oh your villain's been by here alright. Took my bloody horse, although I've no idea how, the animal was half wild and wouldn't take a saddle for nothing, no matter how much I...” The man coughed, not finishing the sentence. “But horse and saddle both are gone. Hell, he can have the worthless beast, and good riddance to both of them. If you catch him, I suggest you kill him before he can kill you. Evil look, that one had.”Sam glanced at Merry, who met his gaze in an unspoken exchange, and then back at the farmer. “Thank you for your time, mister. I'm sure we'll find him sooner or later.”Sam stood and Merry followed him. They were at the door when the farmer spoke again. “What do you want with him, anyway? Did he steal something from you too?”Merry shrugged. “Something like that. Good evening, and I hope your head feels better soon.”

It was dusk when they left the farm, but the fading sunlight was just enough to follow the hoof prints back to the southern road. Sam wondered where Gríma intended to go. He'd looked at Bilbo's maps often enough, after all, and had some general idea of where the road led, but he couldn't see why Gríma should want to go to Dunland. The only other destination he could think of in that direction was Isengard, and he really couldn't imagine Gríma wanting to return to such a miserable, dark place, and he couldn't return to Rohan even if he'd wanted it.“He's got a horse now, that'll make things trickier. A horse will be faster than our ponies, for sure. That farmer said it was wild but I have a feeling the horse might've thought the same of him, if you catch my meaning. Gríma didn't seem to have trouble taming it and now he'll move all the more swiftly for it.”“You're right there, Sam. Not saying that it excuses what Gríma did, but he might've had cause to take the horse off him. The farmer said he couldn't get a saddle on it no matter how much he... well, beat it, I would imagine he was about to say before he thought better of it. But Gríma apparently had no trouble with it. Well, he is from Rohan. I don't know why it should strike me as so odd that he knows horses like that. He can't have always been Saruman's servant.”

The mare was no horse of Rohan, to be certain. She was one of the shorter, stockier animals common to the north. Many of his former countrymen considered them to be of inferior blood, and perhaps they were. They could not match a horse of Rohan for speed, and they were too small to be ridden into battle, but Gríma knew well that they were hardy beasts that could carry a grown man despite being only marginally taller than a large pony. They could also cover long distances on substandard feed, and were clever animals, and Gríma was pleased indeed to have the mare.Gríma might have held some brief regret for the manner in which he'd obtained her, but the farmer would only have kept the mare poorly and would have beaten her until she had no spirit left. I know too well what it is like to be driven under whip. Not even a beast deserves such.She was a fairly young animal and had been trained, but not trained well. Thus far she'd been well mannered, if undisciplined. He could mostly guide her with only a slight movement of the reigns, although she was still too easily distracted and a bit willful at times.He did not want to pause yet, though. Something drove him on, though he knew not where. He went south because the south is where he came from. They would never again allow him passage into Rohan and he did not know what he would do should he come to the borders of his home.Neither could he imagine going into Dunland, not so soon. His mother must have had kin there, though, at some time, although Gríma knew nothing about them. Those folk were hard pressed after the war, also, having been on the losing side of things. They were no closer to regaining any of their ancestral lands in Rohan, which he was certain was what Sauron's agents had promised them, as nothing less could have convinced such a staunchly independent people to throw in their lot with some other power.So, he would ride south, and would go where he went. For the moment, Gríma had no master, and a horse beneath him, and that would have to be enough.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Gríma slept poorly (and in a ditch) later that night. Despite his fatigue, he moved swiftly the next day, making good time on the southern road. His luck, of course, could not last, because it never did, not for Gríma the Wormtongue. The near-freezing January rain stung where it hit his face, and the oilcloth cloak he'd taken from the horse-beating farmer only did so much to keep him dry against the wind.The mare was a stout animal, and in her shaggy winter coat, but even she was struggling in this weather. The wind shifted until it was hitting them head-on and the mare decided she'd had enough. She came to a stop and refused to go any further, despite Gríma's encouragement.“Oh, I suppose you have a point, my lady.” Gríma swore softly to himself as he dismounted and the mud splashed over his old boots, which were beginning to let in water, adding to his misery. He took the horse's reins in hand and looked about to see if anything might offer some sort of shelter. There was nothing obvious, but there was a wooded area off to the east of the road, so he headed that direction, whispering encouragement to his mare.  Bill Ferny threw a chicken bone into the campfire. “Damned hobbits!”“If those four hadn't shown back up, we'd still be--”“Oh shut up, Tom. They showed up and Sharkey's dead and the Shire is back in the hands of those nasty little rats. Although if I ever see any of them again,” said Bill, “Well, I'll show them alright.”  Gríma huddled under his stolen cloak between a large tree and a low outcropping of stone. It didn't provide much shelter, but at least it got him out of the wind. The clouds weren't quite as dark as they'd been an hour ago, at least, and he hoped the rain would stop before mid-day. Lady, as he'd started calling the mare, stood morosely less than a foot a way, her flanks twitching from time to time, but otherwise she might have been a statue.Gríma thought about that inn back in Bree and half-wished he'd taken some of that idiot farmer's coin as well.  “Rain's stopped for a while now, Bill. Could go down the Greenway and see what's what. They've been sending woodcutters out lately.”“Woodcutters ain't hardly got anything worth taking, Tom.”Tom huffed and kicked the ashes of the campfire, which had gone out. “They've got coin purses, haven't they? Tools we could sell? I'm sick of eatin' birds and runty li'l fish. We've run out of nearly everything.”“The real caravans will start up again come spring, have some patience, idiot.”“Spring is months away. If you won't go, I'll go alone.”Bill stood, shoving Tom on the way out of the cave. “Fine, we can go shake out the pockets of a few peasants then, if you think it's worth our time. Would do better going into Bree after nightfall, but if you're that bored...”Tom followed at Bill Ferny's heels. “What, and get thrown in the stocks again?”Bill picked up a rusty short sword that was leaning against the stone near the entrance. “We wouldn't have the first time if you'd not been so stupid. Come on, let's go before the rain starts again.”  “Some half-drowned fool on a nag coming down the way, Bill. Could be an easy mark, 'e don't look that big.”Bill stood and peered at the crest of the hill and to his surprise, Tom wasn't completely off the mark. “Huh. Yeah, we can give 'im a go.” Bill squinted, shielding his eyes from the glare of the recently revealed sun reflecting off the wet grass. “You know, something's familiar about him...”  Lady had thrown him and bolted as soon as the men had leapt out screaming, which was probably their aim to begin with. She hadn't gone far and was rearing and screaming a few feet away. The racket wasn't helping Gríma while he struggled against one of the last people he'd expected to see again.Gríma had clipped Bill Ferny's companion, whose name he had long forgotten, across the face with his dagger. He'd been aiming for the bastard's throat, but Bill had grabbed him by the hair, yanking him backwards before putting him in a headlock. The other thug was swearing and wiping blood from his torn cheek, taking only a moment to regain his foot.Gríma bit hard on Bill's thumb but only got a punch to the gut from the other for his trouble, followed by another straight to the face. It was the second time in months that his nose had been broken and all Gríma could think, as the world turned black, was that he had no soft-voiced hobbit to set it for him this time, and it would be as crooked as the rest of him.“So much for Sharkey's old lapdog, eh Bill?”  “Oh you have got to be kidding me!”Merry pushed his pony to a gallop, for what good it would do. They finally caught up to Gríma, just in time to see him getting his lights knocked out by a pair of highwaymen. He heard Sam rush to follow him and pulled his blade from its sheath, glad now that he'd brought it and worn his mailshirt, despite the weight of them.“Oy, you lot, clear off!” The larger of the two brigands dropped an unmoving Gríma to the ground. Merry wondered if the man was only unconscious or dead, but did not have time to worry about it.Sam drew up beside him, pulling Sting from his belt. “Bill Ferny! I should have known it would be you, you villain! Beating up lone travellers two on one now, are you? Such a big man!”Bill Ferny did not respond to Sam's goading, but rushed at him, raising his own sword. Sam dodged to one side to avoid the blow, only to lose his footing as the one with the bleeding face took the opportunity to swing at him as well. Merry brought his sword down on the man's arm, cutting the hand clean off at the wrist, which tumbled to the ground still holding a dagger. The man howled, sinking to his knees and grasping his severed wrist in the opposite hand, trying to stem the bleeding as he stumbled back to his feet and ran toward the trees.Sam, meanwhile had dodged two more blows from Bill Ferny and had managed only a superficial wound to Ferny's ribs. Sam had fought goblins and orcs, but he had never seen such seething rage on a face before, save perhaps on Gollum at that last leap for the Ring in Mount Doom. Sam weaved under Ferny's arm, ready to put Sting to use, when the man kicked out, catching Sam in the ribs, unbalancing him. Ferny snarled, bringing his sword down while Sam tried to regain his footing. Bill Ferny froze suddenly, as if bewitched, then listed to one side, his eyes going wide with shock. Ferny went slack as the life drained from him and hit the ground face-forward as Sam sat up to see a dagger neatly planted in the brigand's back.Gríma was on his knees in the wet grass, swaying slightly, blood pouring from his nose yet again.  It had taken Merry a few minutes to get hold of the skittish mare's reins, following it from the back of his own pony, but he'd managed to bring the horse back toward the road. Sam had Gríma's nose pinched in his handkerchief.“Did you get the bleeding stopped, Sam?”“Hm? Yes, I think so, Merry. He's a bit punch-drunk, though. I think he'll be fine, given time... What d'you think we should do with Bill Ferny? I can't imagine he'll be greatly missed in these parts, but we can't leave him in the middle of the road to frighten folks.”Merry slipped out of his pony's saddle, not letting go of the horse's reins. He was relieved that the mare followed him back to Sam and Gríma's side without protest. “Neither of us have got shovels, so burying him is out of the question at the moment... We can drag him into the trees, I suppose. I know you brought a bit of rope this time, could just tie one end to his ankles and the other to your saddle. His companion ran off that way and might still live, although I doubt he'll come back for Ferny. Honor among thieves may be, but cutthroats like that are worse than thieves. Someone back in town might could come for him later. Speaking of thieves...”Merry stopped beside Gríma and held the mare's reins out. Sam let go of Gríma's nose as the man took hold of them, and thankfully the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Merry stepped back to look around, scanning the horizon in a circle, and turned back after confirming to himself that there was no more trouble coming. “I know you took this horse off that farmer, Gríma.”“He–“ Gríma coughed harshly, bringing up some of the blood that had gone from his nose down his throat. “He refused to stop beating it.”“Oho! He has a voice after all! Well, the farmer stopped short of saying, but I'd guessed as much from what he'd left out. I won't make you take it back, but the thieving needs to stop unless you want to end up like Ferny and his mate there. You're lucky the farmer wasn't much good in a fight; the next one might have more skill.”Gríma attempted to stand, but had to sit back down when a wave of vertigo hit. “I did not go to the farm to take the horse, I was only looking to sleep in the barn for a night.”Merry laughed, causing Gríma to look at him in confusion. “You find it amusing to think of me sleeping with cattle, do you? I've slept worse places by far, if that satisfies you.”“Not particularly. Although my cousin might disagree about you not visiting farms to steal animals. He wasn't happy about the chicken.”Gríma ran a hand over his aching eyes, and felt gingerly along the bridge of his nose. Sam had surprisingly done a fair job of straightening it, but the pain was still quite keen. “He had plenty. In any case, I had nothing to pay him with, and I've had all I can take of starvation.”Sam stood and looked down at Gríma darkly. “Then maybe you shouldn't have hared off like that! There's food aplenty at the Cottons' and no reason you couldn't have stayed longer – Mister Frodo told you that you'd have food and shelter as long as you needed it, and he does not break his word.”Gríma shook his head and regretted the gesture immediately, screwing his eyes shut at a further wave of dizziness. “The Cottons have been indulgent of your Mister Frodo's kindness, but the rest of your countrymen were clearly growing tired of my presence. They know better, perhaps, what I am. You and your companions arrived only lately. 'No, Worm is not really nice' indeed.”Something about the man was forever wrong-footing Sam and he grit his teeth for a moment. Part of him agreed with the man's self-appraisal (and it was absolutely true that many hobbits in the Shire had not cared for him one whit) and yet it also made him inexplicably annoyed. “I don't rightly care what others think, and I most certainly don't care what Saruman thought, about you or about anything else. Frodo's been half-sick worrying after your ungrateful hide. I don't know why this is so important to him, I was the first to suggest just letting you go your way, but he wanted to come after you himself. You've no clue what we've been through – what he's been through.”Gríma curled over on himself, fighting back nausea. He took several deep breaths until it passed. “He bore the ring into Mordor, I know that much. You were his companion on that journey. It is true – I cannot imagine what that blighted land is like, nor do I wish to – Isengard was terrible enough – but I know that you both must have suffered much. All the more reason he should not have a cur such as myself ever under foot.”Sam hummed to himself, unsure of a response. Again, It was not as though he disagreed with Gríma, it was more that he felt he should disagree. He knew Frodo certainly would. It was too difficult to put into words, and he did not really wish to sit in the middle of the old Greenway arguing with a man who clearly knew just how low he'd sunk and could not be told otherwise. Sam left to fetch the rope from his pony's saddlebags as Merry had suggested earlier. Clean one mess at a time, Sam. Merry reached into his waistcoat to pull out his pipe and filled it after watching Sam leave to his work. “Frodo wants to help you, and if you had a lick of sense, you'd let him do it. Hobbits might complain and grumble, but Frodo Baggins is a name that carries weight these days and he has more friends than enemies. In any case, there's not many as gets offered a second chance in this world. A small word of advice, if you're willing to take it - don't waste it, whatever you choose to do.”Gríma sat breathing deeply and slowly for several long minutes more, willing his rebellious stomach to settle, then made another attempt to stand. He managed to pull himself up gripping Lady's neck, and leaning heavily against the horse's shoulder. To her credit, the mare allowed it, and Gríma rubbed at her nose affectionately.“I have no place in the Shire, whatever Frodo's generosity and reputation may be. It is too... too good, for one like me. I foul the place simply by being there.”Merry rolled his eyes at the man's continued melodramatics. “Tch. The Shire is not so fragile as all that. But if I can't convince you to return, then where exactly do you mean to go? Dunland?”Gríma looked south along the Greenway, which wound over a few hills before disappearing at the far horizon. “Perhaps. I don't know.”“You don't know? You're just running away, aren't you? No clue where to, running away just to be running away.”Gríma turned from Merry, having no honest rebuttal to his accusation. He had lost his appetite for lies, it seemed, so damning silence would have to suffice.Sam completed the task Merry had given him, pulling faces as he removed Bill Ferny's corpse from the road, dragging it into the brush beyond the line of trees and out of view of the road before returning. Merry nodded at him. “Well, that's taken care of. I think we really ought to head back toward Bree now. We could make it back to the Prancing Pony in a few hours if we don't stop too often, and I'd rather sleep in a bed than out on this road, myself. Ferny might be done for, but that don't mean there aren't others like him out here.”Merry mounted his pony again and looked back at Gríma, who was hesitating. “Can you get back on your horse by yourself, or are you still too woozy?”“I'll manage.”“Hmm. If you say so.”Merry half expected Gríma to turn back to the south and leave on his own, but the man followed obediently behind.  They gave the farm a wide berth on the way back. Merry was half tempted to tell Gríma to return the cloak, but it would only have led to more trouble, and Merry was quite frankly rather tired, after chasing Gríma all the way from the Shire. And maybe the farmer would think twice before beating his animals again. “At least we'll have time for supper,” he thought. Merry waved at the south gate guard as they ambled past and was glad when the man simply nodded at them and gave no notice to the addition they were bringing with them. “I hope old Barliman's offer still stands. As I recall, the pie was decent.”  Gríma sat at the table beside Sam, with Merry across from the two of them. Merry was telling Sam a rather animated story about helping one of his neighbors retrieve a rather determined escaped pig a few days ago, but Gríma was hearing little of it. Why am I here? Why am I allowing this? The ale that Merry had plonked down in front of him earlier was weak but, as Merry had said earlier, the apple pie wasn't bad. Not as good as what the kitchens in Edoras had, not even close, but not bad. Don't think about Edoras. Don't think about Rohan.“You need anything else while I'm up? Er... Gríma? Did you hear me?”He blinked, turning to look to his right. Sam was looking at him. Apparently he'd spoken. Gríma looked into his empty mug, but decided against more. Ale won't fix this.“Decided not to talk again, is that it?”The hobbit sounded annoyed and Gríma rubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling terribly exhausted all of a sudden. “I'm fine, Master Gamgee.”Sam shook his head, walking off with his own mug back toward Barliman across the room. Merry reached over and grabbed a couple chips off Sam's plate while his back was turned. “Don't mind Sam. He's just wound up because he's worried about Frodo.”Gríma huffed. “I didn't ask either of you to come after me, you could have stayed in your Shire with Frodo and the rest.”“If we hadn't come, you'd probably be dead now, and Bill Ferny would still be terrorizing the Greenway. You could try be a little grateful you know.”“I am grateful. But gratitude is not the issue. Do you know why your Frodo is so intent up on keeping me in the Shire? Because truthfully, it makes no sense to me. I am clearly not a hobbit and have done harm to your Shire. That old woman saw clearly enough.”Merry downed another mouthful of his ale and a few more of Sam's leftover chips, glancing over his shoulder briefly to where Sam was still chatting with Barliman Butterbur. “Sam would probably know more about it than I would. I wasn't there when they went to Mordor. Pippin and I had intended to be with them, but, well... fate had other ideas. But they were guided by that Gollum creature for miles and miles, and Frodo had managed to befriend it, after a fashion. It wasn't until near the end that it turned on them. It was too corrupted by the Ring, I think, to change very much. Frodo seems to think Gollum wanted to, but simply couldn't. Maybe he thinks you can manage better, I don't know.”Gríma cringed at being compared to Gollum, of whom he'd heard something of in recent months. He'd never laid hands on a ring of power, and certainly not the One Ring. No, his own corruption was mostly of his own doing, he had no such handy excuses. But it now struck him as odd that Saruman had never mentioned Gollum, and wondered if the wizard had known of him.The conversation was cut short by Sam's return. He plunked down with another half pint of ale and shoved a plate of fresh chips in front of Gríma without looking at him. “Eat that.”Gríma raised an eyebrow at the odd command.Merry laughed. “He thinks you're still too skinny. He's right, of course. You'd be less a Worm if you ate more, although perhaps not my cousin's chickens.”Gríma sighed. 'You're never going to stop reminding me of that damned chicken, are you?”Merry grabbed one of Gríma's chips this time, making no attempts at subterfuge. “Probably not. You have to admit, it is sort of funny. I do hope you didn't eat it raw, at least?”Gríma chewed at one of the chips. “No, although it could have used a bit of seasoning.”At that, both hobbits laughed. Gríma shifted where he sat, a small knot of panic settling in his chest for no reason he could identify. Ignoring it, he made his way through the chips. He'd already eaten his supper and a slice of pie. These hobbits are turning me into an absolute glutton, he thought, as he shoved a few more chips in his mouth. “I will go with you in the morning, it if it will please your friend for whatever unfathomable reason, but it is a simple truth that I cannot stay in the Shire forever.”Merry peered at him for a long moment. “No, you can't. But there are better ways of going about it than running off into the sunset with no thought of the days ahead. We have friends beyond the Shire's borders, we'll write a few letters, see what might be done about the matter. Then you can choose for yourself once you know what's on offer, and Frodo can feel like he's truly succeeded at something for once. Everybody wins, hmm?”Gríma shook his head, pushing the remaining chips around on the plate. “I have some idea of who your friends are, and I doubt they will be as forgiving. Particularly if your friend happens to be the new King of Rohan. Theoden once offered clemency, but his nephew is another matter entirely. Oh, I recognized the insignia of your shield, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and the style of that dagger you carry as a sword. It is quite clear where your loyalties were pledged, but I suspect his interest in me is unlikely to extend past my head, preferably served unattached. Perhaps gift-wrapped, as pretty present for his sister...”“He knows his uncle offered you clemency, he may be convinced to allow you to return to Rohan.”Gríma could only stare in disbelief. Sam glanced at him, his brows drawing together in annoyance. “Well, we could write to the king in Gondor, then, or Pippin could – he pledged himself to the Steward during the war, and then to the King. King Elessar was part of the Fellowship, although he was a Ranger still and we called him Strider at the time. But he has no personal quarrel with you, I'm sure? We'll just tell him you've changed and--”Gríma barked a laugh. “You could certainly try! I might find the reply amusing, if nothing else.”Sam was truly annoyed. “You're just a defeatist, you know that, Wormtongue? You give up before you've even tried! Well, if trying to go back to Rohan isn't worth anything to you, and you do not wish to try for Gondor, then where else? You've already said you weren't really intending to go to Dunland. You could try Dale, I suppose, that's another city of Men.”Gríma shrugged. “I've never seen Dale and I know nothing of the people there save what I have read.”Sam sighed and Gríma returned to his chips, which were now growing cold and unpalatable. He shoved the remainder of the plate across the table at Merry, who seemed unconcerned with their temperature and finished them off swiftly.  They stopped in Buckland on the return ride, and unlike the farmer south of Bree, Merry insisted he apologize to Berilac for taking the chicken. To Gríma's own surprise, he managed to do so quite sincerely, after seeing Berilac's wife and his eight children, three of whom appeared to be under five years old. To his credit, Berilac simply touched his cap and declared him forgiven, so long as no more poultry went missing. “Next time you're hungry, Mister Gríma, try knocking on the door, hm? My wife's an excellent cook.” Gríma left feeling genuinely ashamed.  “That horse isn't nearly as wild as that farmer said,” Sam remarked as they ambled past Stock later that afternoon.“Of course she isn't. She's not well trained, which is not the same as being feral. The fault was with the farmer, not with the mare.” Gríma leaned forward to pat the horse's mane and speak quiet, soothing words to her.“You're surprisingly good with animals.”“I've been surrounded by horses since I was in the cradle, it is no real mystery if you are observant. They may not have speech after the manner of men and elves, or hobbits, but they have their own language. Some, like that farmer, are simply too stupid or too impatient to know or care. They'd rather just hit a beast to make it move in fear than to understand. Such a manner of 'training' is also a good way to earn a well-deserved kick.”“You could say the same for people, you know. Animals aren't much different. Nobody likes being hit all the time.”“No indeed, Master Gamgee.”  It was near sunset when they returned to the Cottons' smial. Gríma left Lady in the shed with the hobbit ponies and plenty of hay and a pile of straw to sleep on. The mare seemed content, which pleased him. As much as he hated to admit to such weakness for comfort, the return to the dry warmth of the hobbit smial also pleased him. He pulled off the stolen cloak and went to hang it on a peg beside the door before realizing it would trail over the floor anyway, and instead just took it with him, tossing it aside as he sat in his customary place before the fire. Merry had followed Farmer Cotton toward the kitchen and their voices trailed behind them.“You really don't mind me spending the night, Mister Cotton?”“Of course not, Merry. We've room to spare, and it's getting cold. You can return to Buckland in the morning. You've seen your cousins so they shan't worry.”Sam was already sitting at a corner of the table with Rosie, chatting quietly. It was obvious their hands were clasped under the table, but everyone gamely pretended they didn't notice.Frodo sat in the armchair in the living room, looking at Gríma, who was once again staring absently into the fire. “Merry tells me you can speak, now.”Gríma nodded, then shrugged. It didn't make much difference to him either way.“Still nothing to say, after all this time of saying nothing?”Gríma shrugged again, but relented. “Some might argue I've said far too much over the years.”Frodo watched Gríma for a moment, but no elaboration was forthcoming. “I'm sure you'll be more careful with your words from now on.”Lily Cotton shouted through the smial that supper was on the table, and Frodo left to join them. Gríma hesitated a few moments, then gave in to the smell of food and went as well.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The rest of winter passed with its short days apt to gray weather and chill winds. The Shire's repairs proceeded apace despite the weather, with hobbits trailing yellow, green, and brown scarves up and down the Shire's roads. By the beginning of February, Bagshot Row was repaired and expanded to include new holes, giving homes to several hobbit families that had been displaced by Sharkey's destruction. Bag End was refurnished enough to be lived in (the rest still in Buckland, having been sent for and soon anticipated). Frodo returned finally to his home, vacating the Cottons' and taking his strange lodger with him, much to the unspoken relief of the family. Sam returned to his Gaffer's home and to his gardening, and, according to Merry and Pippin who had been with him at the time, made use of Galadriel's gift by planting the seed at the site of the old Party Tree and scattering the dust it had been packed in across the Shire. His chief concern seemed to lay with the lost trees and Sam was often away in other farthings seeing to the planting of new saplings, leaving Frodo on his own sometimes for days at a time.In the middle of February, there was something of a celebration surrounding the dismantling of the mill that Saruman's lackeys had built near Bag End at the disgraced wizard's direction. Frodo had watched as many hands went to work on the contraption, pulling out nails and carting off wood and brick that could be used to better ends elsewhere. Gríma, to Frodo's surprise, had rushed to the fore once the call was made to begin, his eyes growing half-wild as he attacked the mill like it was Saruman himself.On the whole, Gríma's taciturnity had improved little despite his apparent loosened tongue, and most days the man seemed lost in his own thoughts and provided Frodo with mostly silent company. That day, however, Frodo had seen a spark of something in him that even Saruman had not been able to put out, and he dared hope a little for the strange man's future - a future that had yet to be resolved. Despite Gríma's protest, Merry and Pippin had both written to their respective kings nonetheless. It took time for messages to cross such distances, though, and no answer had yet returned from Meduseld or Minas Tirith. Gríma might refuse any offer that came regardless, but that remained to be seen.If neither of the kingdoms of Men were willing to take him in, or he refused to go, Frodo was unsure of what would happen to Gríma in the end. There was talk of closing the Shire's borders to the Big Folk entirely, which was gaining support in particular from the families of victims of Sharkey's men, and King Elessar would be unlikely to refuse the request if sent formally. Gríma would have no choice but to leave. Bree was the closest settlement that could take him in, but a town of mostly illiterate merchants and farmers had no use for a lore-master that Frodo could think of, and he'd already found trouble there once. Gríma, for his part, aided the repair-work without complaint, and was clearly capable of physical labor despite his unimpressive appearance. And yet, such squander seemed to Frodo nearly as much of waste of his education and talents as Saruman's ill ends in Rohan had been, if less destructive. For the moment, repair work and gardening gave the man something useful to do and quelled some of the protest at his continued presence. Otherwise, Gríma spent much of his time ruminating within himself, his mood perpetually pensive and dark. Frodo could hazard a guess where his thoughts strayed - the shadows of the past, the strangeness of the present, and the uncertainty of the future. After all, he'd had many of the same thoughts himself.March brought with it a change in weather as the season began to shift from winter to spring. Storms boiled up from the ocean to the west and the warmer lands to the south, bringing rain, and, on occasion, more snowfall. The roads were churned up by passing carts, hooves, and hobbit-feet into a sticky mud that seemed to end up everywhere despite all efforts to keep it outdoors.Galadriel's gift, as distributed by Sam, was doing its work, as well, as the snows melted away and generous rains fueled the most verdant spring in living memory, and, to the astonishment of all, a real Mallorn sapling sprang forth where the Party Tree once stood.  “What is that halfling thinking? He's been in his cups too long if he thinks I'll allow that serpent in Rohan again, whatever he's been doing for the Shire.”Out of respect for Meriadoc Brandybuck himself, if not so much for his absurd request, Eomer (now King of Rohan) restrained himself from throwing the letter directly into the fire. If Wormtongue wanted to carry out some sort of penance by laboring in the Shire, that was the halflings' affair and he would not judge them for their leniency. From what Merry had written in his letter, Saruman and his lackeys, the fork-tongued lore-master no doubt included, had caused plenty of mischief there as well. His description of Saruman's death at the point of several hobbit-arrows seemed a fitting end to the corrupted wizard's long sorry tale.“They probably just want to be rid of him, Sire, and could think of nowhere else to send him.”Eomer sighed and took another quaff of ale as Elfmar (one of his oldest shield-brothers, alongside whom Eomer had fought for many years) refilled his mug from a pitcher of ale in the middle of the table. “Then they can show him to their borders and give him a shove, that's what I would do in their place. If he is foolish enough to return here, I may do much else besides. If Wormtongue thinks I have forgotten all he did to my uncle... never mind how his eyes once followed after my sister!” Ale splashed onto the long table as his mug thumped down onto the wood, as though to illustrate precisely what Eomer would do to Gríma should he return. Eomer shook his head and leaned onto his elbows, just as his mother had always told him not to do at the dinner table. Being a king had its privileges, though, and not being told off for putting one's elbows on the dinner table was one of them.“Elfmar, inform the head of the border guard that Wormtongue is still unwelcome in Rohan and is to be turned away if he appears, and to make sure his men know this and how to recognize him. If he will not turn aside willingly, then they may shoot him for all I care. My uncle offered him clemency once, if he were willing to fight for Rohan, and the coward chose exile with his master instead. Saruman may be dead now, but despite Merry's apparent pity for the creature, I see no reason to reverse my uncle's judgment.”Eomer folded the letter haphazardly and jammed it into a pocket. He'd reply, because Merry Brandybuck was a friend of his sister's in particular, and deserved an answer, but that answer would be plain indeed.  One morning mid-March, Gríma left Bag End before dawn, slipping out before Frodo woke, having slept poorly and given up the effort before the sun appeared. He spent the day in Bywater pulling weeds from the farmers' fields. It was simple work of the sort he'd done often as a child. He'd spent many of his childhood days helping in the fields of neighbors for a pittance of coin which was handed over to his father immediately upon returning home, lest he get the strap for holding out. The work was familiar and routine, almost comforting in a way.He'd ridden his mare, Lady, through Hobbiton and along the empty lane in the dim mist of pre-dawn, then left the horse in a dew-covered meadow beyond the fence surrounding the pipeweed field he was tending. Lady was beginning to shed her winter coat as the days grew longer. Fodder had been lean through the end of the winter, but the grass was growing with a sort of fevered madness now that he'd never seen even on the plains of Rohan, and the skinny mare was fattening up swiftly. He worried somewhat, as overly-rich spring grass could lead to a kind of lameness in some horses unaccustomed to it, but thus far she remained fit and sound. Everything in this land of the halflings seemed to burst forth with life all of a sudden. He knew little of this Shire beyond the destruction wrought by his former master, but the locals remarked upon the greenness as well, so he could surmise that it was an unusual fertility.By mid-day, the sun was growing hot. He'd eaten no breakfast, and had not taken any of the food brought out for the working hobbits' perpetual snacking during the morning as he'd worked. He was still thin, but no longer starving, and a kind of guilt crept into the back of his mind any time he imposed on the hospitality of the Shire. After a while, even the wife of the farmer who owned this field gave up trying to make him eat something, and her disappointment also burdened him, but marginally less so. Nonetheless, he did require some sustenance, and retrieved his mare to head back to Bag End for lunch.  There was no greeting for him upon entering Bag End, which wasn't terribly unusual. Frodo Baggins, since being named Mayor, often went on errands during the day, and would take his lunch with friends or acquaintances elsewhere. Gríma shut the round door behind him and sat awkwardly on the hobbit-sized stool beside it to remove his muddy boots. He stopped for a moment, listening hard as he thought he heard something, but hearing nothing further, shook his head and finished pulling his boots off, setting them on an old scrap of cloth underneath the row of coat pegs beside the door that had been put there by Frodo for this purpose. Bag End had windows all along the side facing out from the hill, and sometimes sounds from outdoors echoed oddly, occasionally even making conversations out in the street sound as though they were happening inside. After all these months, Gríma sometimes still startled from it, but he'd grown better over time at not overreacting to it.Gríma went into the kitchen, which was neat and tidy, and washed the dust from his hands and face in the washbasin. Looking about, there was no evidence of Frodo's breakfast, which was odd, nor was anything left out for Gríma's lunch, as Frodo typically would do if leaving for the day, which was also odd. Perhaps the hobbit had been called away on a sudden, unexpected errand? It was no matter - the larder was stocked well enough. The supplies found just before Yule had not been entirely exhausted, and while the season was still too young for fresh fruit and vegetables, pickles of various kinds lined the shelves in their jars, along with roasted nuts, hard cheeses, and salted meats. It did not take long for Gríma to cobble together a passable meal.It was when Gríma had finished eating and rose to wash his plate in the basin that he heard it again, just at the edge of his hearing. He paused and held his breath for several seconds, wondering if, again, it was something out in the lane echoing through the hallways of Bag End oddly, but no – he heard it again, and it was definitely something indoors.A hiss of shifting cloth, and whine or groan had come from down the hallway. Gríma gingerly set the plate down and crouched, moving in utter silence down the hall. It was a skill he'd perfected many years ago, while working for Saruman – it had made listening to whispers in Meduseld much easier, after all, if the whisperers did not know they were being listened to. He'd made it halfway down the hall when he heard it again, this time louder, and now he recognized precisely what, or rather who, was making the sound.Giving up his game of stealth, Gríma stood and rushed to Frodo's bedroom to find the hobbit tangled in blankets and covered in a sheen of sweat. Frodo gripped a pendant on the end of a chain he habitually wore concealed beneath his clothing (which Gríma had noticed long ago but doubted many others had). Gríma stood, shifting from one foot to another in indecision for a moment as Frodo shifted again on his bed, seemingly in pain. He is trapped in some sort of nightmare, thought Gríma, as he reached out to shake the hobbit by a shoulder. Going stiff for a moment, Frodo's eyes snapped open, staring emptily at the ceiling, and murmuring to himself. Gríma leaned closer, trying to hear what he was saying. Little was understandable, but in the end he heard Frodo say one thing very clearly.“It is gone forever, and now all is dark and empty.”Unable to rouse him further, Gríma gave up and left the room, rushing back to the door to retrieve his boots and seek help elsewhere.  Frodo sat at his table with a cup of hot tea and a plate of dried fruit that Farmer Cotton had fetched him from Frodo's own kitchen. His clothes clung to him with stale sweat and he felt weak and shaky as a mixture of images from both vivid memory and distorted nightmare still swirled hazily in the back of his mind. It was just past mid-day and by all rights he should be just finishing up his lunch, not rising from bed for the first time. Once Frodo had returned to his senses, Gríma had retreated to the guest room where he slept, leaving him with Farmer Cotton.“Mister Gríma said he could not wake you for anything, Mister Frodo. Came banging on the door in a right state, he did. Some sort of nightmare, was it?”Frodo nodded his head, content to let his neighbor believe it was some simple fever-nightmare borne of common flu.“Well, send him over again if you need anything else. I'd best be getting back to my Lily. She'll want to know you're on the mend.”Frodo gave his neighbor a weak smile and bid him goodbye, feeling exhaustion settling onto his shoulders like a heavy snow.  “It will help you sleep without- well, should you need it tonight... You can steep it like tea, although double the time is necessary for full effect.”Frodo peered down into the pouch of herbs that Gríma had placed on the table before him before wandering off to the sitting room. A voice in his head that sounded rather like Sam (who was busy down in the Southfarthing with his tree-planting) was warning him that this was set before him by a man who had once slowly poisoned his king at the direction of his master. The smell was familiar, though, and he recognized a couple of the herbs in the mixture, which included dried athelas and chamomile flower. He also recognized the smell because, now that he thought about it, it was something which Gríma himself had made fairly often for his own consumption. It's probably fine, he thought.Once awake, Frodo had spent the remainder of afternoon indoors, doing very little on the whole, and felt a twinge of guilt over idleness, even if he truly did not have the energy to get anything done. The Shire had come to rely on him, for reasons he still did not quite understand. They thought he was some sort of hero. He felt like nothing of the sort, today especially, but he did not want to disappoint them, either.Gríma had emerged from the guest room shortly after Farmer Cotton had left, and had paused in the kitchen to look him over him for a long uncomfortable moment with those piercing blue eyes, some indecipherable emotion passing behind them before he departed. I've had this man living with me for months now, and I know scarcely anything about him, thought Frodo. He'd been Saruman's servant, and had done much ill in that capacity, that much Frodo knew. Did he have living parents? Siblings or cousins? Friends back in Rohan who might miss him? Frodo reached out and pulled the pouch of herbs toward himself, gripping it lightly for a moment before leaning back in his chair to peer out at the waning sunlight in the window. A tea to quell nightmares. He has some passing idea of what came over me, at least, if not in precise detail. Frodo thought back over the recent months, of how many times the scent of this tea had filled his kitchen in the evening since returning to Bag End. Isengard had filled to the brim with orcs, uruk-hai, and billowing smoke during the war, as Saruman sank further into his corruption, until the Ents put an end to it all. What does Gríma the Wormtongue dream of?  Faramir sat before an expansive desk in the study of the Steward of Gondor. Technically, it was his own now, although the harsh personality of Denethor II was still imprinted over the space. Faramir had changed but little in this room since assuming the stewardship after the war. Since the crowning of King Elessar, it was a lesser occupation, after all, although the King was glad for aid in some of the more mundane matters of the kingdom. Minas Tirith was still under repair even a year onward, as was Gondor as a whole. His work may be fairly unglamorous, but still, it was nice to feel useful and wanted (for once).Eowyn (who also seemed to want him around, at least, although whether she found him useful was something he'd not thought to ask) was seated upon a couch behind him, stretched out with her bare feet propped up on a cushion as she helped him sort through correspondence, of which there was plenty. Requests from various corners of the city for more resources, more labor, more everything. There were piles to the left and to the right of her, as she separated them into those missives which were more pressing and those which could wait a time for answer.He was accustomed to the business of the Rangers in Ithilien, but the day-to-day business of a kingdom, one still reeling from a devastating war no less, was a different animal. He was a patient man by nature, but even he was starting to feel stretched thin lately.His work was interrupted with a sharp hiss from his wife behind him. Turning to see what had alarmed her, he found her swiftly reading through what appeared to be a multi-page letter. Upon reaching the end, she stood and came to his side, dropping it to the desk in front of him.“Well, see for yourself I suppose. The bloody cheek of that hobbit!” With that pronouncement, she headed for the door. “If you need me, I'll be in the courtyard. I could use some fresh air.”Faramir picked up the letter and watched Eowyn depart. Better to see what the matter is before saying anything, he thought.The missive was actually addressed to the king, but had instructions on the outside to give it to Faramir, should Aragorn be unavailable, and thus it had been delivered this morning to his study. The handwriting was messy, and flipping to the last page, to no surprise, he found Peregrin Took's signature and smiled to himself at the memory of the halfling who had found himself in service to Denethor, much to his dismay at the time.Pippin was, in Faramir's heart and mind at least, still a Guard of the Citadel. The halfling had proven himself during the war and had saved Faramir from death in flame. He owed Pippin his life. That did not mean, however, that Pippin's long-winded and circuitous letter writing was any easier to decipher. Flipping between pages, and the various digressions and tangents, he managed to piece together that he had returned to the Shire last autumn and found it not as he'd left it. He and the other halflings had managed to rout Saruman and his supporters, at least, and it seemed from his descriptions that Shire was on the mend as well now.The source of his wife's dismay became apparent as well. Faramir did not recall ever meeting the servant of Saruman named Gríma and called The Wormtongue. Eowyn rarely discussed the years just before the war, which were a source of pain to her, and had not mentioned him, although Eomer had at least once or twice, and made his opinion known. Eomer had once said that Wormtongue's eyes followed his sister too closely when staying in Meduseld, and that he believed the while the man had never laid hands on her, Gríma nonetheless had had designs on her. And that, perhaps, Saruman may have even promised his sister as some sort of prize to the wicked lore master in return for his loyalty. If this were true, Eowyn's turn of mood was unsurprising.Pippin's entreaty painted a rather different picture, of a broken man attempting, perhaps, to make some sort of amends, although a more cynical corner of his mind thought it was entirely possible that Gríma's current benevolence was merely a bid at surviving in a world that his master had departed. Matters in the Shire were in something of a flux – the people there, small though they were, had discovered they had the ability to protect themselves and their lands after all, having removed the wizard's brigands, and ended the wizard himself. Their patience with the “Big Folk” was nearly spent, and there was talk of closing their borders. What, then, shall we do with Gríma, asks Pippin. What, indeed?  Several days passed before the matter came up again. Faramir did not wish to press the issue, rather preferring to allow Eowyn to deal with it on her own terms and, preferably, broach the subject herself. They were walking together in the gardens after their dinner, watching the stars appear in the sky, as was their habit. They stopped at a bench to rest for a moment, and Eowyn rested her head on Faramir's shoulder. “Have you sent Pippin his reply?”Faramir shook his head. “I wanted to wait until you made your wishes known on the matter. I am undecided, in truth. It is a sad tale that the hobbit weaves, but I have no personal history with this man as you do.”“Saruman nearly ruined my family, and Rohan herself. Wormtongue may profess whatever regrets he wishes to, but he was chief among the instruments with which Saruman assailed us, and I cannot easily forget this.”“If that is how you feel, then I shall give the letter to Aragorn upon his return, and let him know that I recommend to answer that Gríma need seek a home elsewhere.”Eowyn stared out at the rising moon on the eastern horizon, still leaning against her husband. “I do wonder, though, what that snake will do now that Saruman is no longer holding his leash. I can scarcely remember a time when he wasn't serving as the wizard's puppet in Meduseld. I was perhaps fourteen when he first arrived, and he could not have been older than perhaps nineteen or twenty. His face still had spots.”“What was he doing there, at such a young age? I cannot imagine him holding the respect of the king or his court.”Eowyn laughed bitterly. “Oh, he very much lacked both, I should say. I remember the day he arrived well. I was, as I said, maybe fourteen at the time. A clumsy boy with the looks of a Dunlending and a sack of books and scrolls on his back nearly as big as he was, tripping his way through Meduseld like an overburdened mule. He nearly fell on his face before he reached the end to present himself. He looked so stupid then - harmless even - but I remember my uncle praising the apparent breadth of his knowledge not too long after. It's funny, you know, he wasn't so terrible in those early years. It might have been a year after he arrived that he spared the Eastemnet from a famine with a recipe for some foul-smelling concoction to spray on the wheat fields to kill a plague of insects that had infested the crop. It worked miraculously... I do wonder where it all went wrong, sometimes. Saruman's corruption is one thing – he was not of Rohan and his ends were his own, but Wormtongue? He betrayed his own people, and somehow that seems even worse. I still cannot understand it. Saruman might have threatened to kill him, but in his place I would have died first.”“You say he looked like a Dunlending, perhaps that is where he was truly from? It would explain his lack of kinship with the men of Rohan, at least.”Eowyn shook her head. “No, some of the riders in Edoras knew him from boyhood. One of them mentioned that he was born in the village of Woodhurst, up in the Stonedeans. His father was a carter or something similar. Woodhurst is quite near to the border of Dunland, though, and many of the people there are of mixed blood, some moreso than others. Nonetheless, they are still considered subjects of the king of Rohan. No, Wormtongue was not terribly well liked in Meduseld from the beginning, even before he started making trouble. There were some who resented someone so clearly of Dunlendish blood having such a high position, especially at such a young age. Appearance aside, there was always something about his manner that invited scorn on its own; he skulked about Meduseld, watching people from corners and speaking little, other than his constant whispering in my uncle's ear. Folk mostly ignored him other than a bit of teasing and the occasional prank or jest, but Wormtongue hardly went out of his way to make friends.”Faramir leaned forward for a moment, watching the lanterns being lit about the city below them. “It sounds to me as though no one went out of his way to make friends with this Wormtongue, either. He must have spent years away in Isengard as well, to learn what he apparently knew. I doubt he could have known many in the court that well.”“I suppose he did, I do not really know. I never inquired after his education. I suppose the chief blame for our troubles still lies with Saruman, but I cannot help but blame Wormtongue at least in part, for such faithful service to the wizard. My uncle would have given him shelter if he'd asked for it, if he'd feared returning to his master, I'm sure of it. At least, he would have before Wormtongue's leechcraft sapped him of his strength and will.” Eowyn fidgeted beside her husband. “I remember him hiding in shadows at times, you know, and he watched many, and at times he watched me as well, with the most peculiar look on his face, which I did not care for at all, although he would turn aside as soon as he was noticed. My brother caught him at it as well once or twice, and I had to restrain him from attacking the vile man. Perhaps I should have let Eomer beat some sense into him, then, I don't know. I was only afraid of causing more trouble for my brother and uncle.”Eowyn sighed, taking Faramir's hand into her own. “I am tired of it, though, of hating that man. My uncle lies with his forebears in Edoras. And Saruman... I do not care what was done with Saruman. Who is Wormtongue, anyway? A weak servant with no master left to tell him to go here or to go there. If he comes to Gondor, I care not, so long as he does not trouble me. Whatever he seeks, I doubt he shall find it, here or elsewhere.”Faramir squeezed his wife's hand. “I'll pass the letter to the King, then, with no recommendation one way or another, to choose as he will according to his own wisdom.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Gríma hunched over the table in Bag End as Frodo read through the letter Pippin Took had arrived with. Spring had passed into summer and the afternoons were growing hotter. The solstice was only a week away and the fields of the Shire were growing high with wheat, barley, oats, and a variety of vegetables. The remaining orchard trees were quickly setting fruit that would ripen in a few months. The hunger and deprivations of the war were well and truly over. Frodo's gardener had married Rosie Cotton a fortnight previous to great festivity, and the general mood was light and optimistic. Gríma still received suspicious looks wherever he went, but they'd become more habit than anything with true malice behind it from most.Still, there was grumbling from some corners. There was always grumbling from some corners. And Frodo Baggins was now threatening to resign his post as mayor, and pass the job to Wil Whitfoot or whomever else wanted it. Samwise Gamgee was, as most newlyweds, rather distracted, but even he had remarked on his master's health recently, and Gríma himself could see plainly that the hobbit had not recovered from his journey and likely never would. The blend of herbs he made from common garden plants eased things somewhat for the both of them, but it was, in the end, a palliative.Finally, Frodo passed the letter to Gríma himself, breaking him out of his contemplations. The wax seal of the envelope was in the shape of the White Tree of Gondor, with a crown above it, marking it as coming from the desk of the King himself, addressed to Peregrine Took. “I must admit, I did not believe Meriadoc when he said the two of you would write to your kings.”Pippin shrugged, drawing on his pipe and blowing smoke rings. “We both did, although Merry's reply was, uh, rather short. An entire sheet of parchment with the word 'No' written in the center of it, I believe.”Gríma shrugged in return, as he swiftly read through the reply from Gondor's king. It addressed several issues, many unrelated to himself, but the final paragraph did extend an offer of refuge in exchange for, it was suggested, his labor as a scribe for the city's archives, or some similar pursuit as suited one of his education and abilities. Gríma folded the letter back up. “I would expect nothing else of King Eomer. Although that does rather make this offer moot, as it were, as one cannot safely pass from the Shire to Gondor in these days without passing through Rohan, if your descriptions of Moria's current state are still accurate. I cannot pass east, nor south, it seems. I suppose it may be just feasible to go through the Misty Mountains and pass south from Mirkwood, although it would take much longer and I would not care to risk that journey either.”“Talk of closing the Shire's borders has grown, I'm afraid,” Frodo remarked, “and you will soon need to find another home. I have argued in favor of making an exception for you, but...”Gríma waved off Frodo, and handed the letter back to Pippin. “I will go elsewhere where the time comes. It is not worth causing trouble for you and would be poor repayment for your hospitality. I have overstayed my welcome several times over at this point.”Pippin tucked the letter into his waistcoat. “Where would 'elsewhere' be, then? Bree? Dunland?”Gríma shrugged. “I don't know what I would do in Bree, and I can barely speak my mother's cradle-tongue outside of a few words.”Pippin rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “There's nothing for it, I suppose. I shall have to take this letter, and perhaps Merry, and we'll all go to the border of Rohan and negotiate for passage through. Eomer may not be willing to let you stay, but he is, ultimately, subject to King Elessar. If we threaten to lodge a complaint, he may at least allow us to go from one border to the other unmolested.”Gríma shuddered slightly, feeling a twinge between his shoulder blades as he imagined the sort of welcome he'd likely get from the border patrol in Rohan. He wasn't certain he had any desire to go to Minas Tirith anyhow, but at the moment his options were limited. Getting past Rohan would, at least, open up more geography. He knew little of Dale or the lands beyond it other than what he'd read or seen on maps, but maybe he could explore other avenues later. There was also the small detail of Eowyn now living in Minas Tirith with her husband, the steward of Gondor. It was a big city, though, how hard could it be to avoid her?“I suppose I have no better choice. I cannot stay here to the end of my days unless they come to a close very soon indeed.”  Gríma's knees ached on the flagstones where he knelt with his head bowed nearly to the floor. Peat smoke filled the long hall, despite the July heat lingering well after sunset. He could feel the scorn behind the gaze boring into his head, although he did not dare look upward.Gríma had never expected to set foot in Meduseld again, and had not, indeed, harbored any great desire to, as suffused with unpleasant memory as it was. The journey to the border of Rohan had been uneventful, the roads finally having been largely cleared of brigands over the previous year. Merry had taken the lead, leaving Gríma and Pippin camped just beyond the kingdom's marked boundary as he pushed ahead to find one of the king's guard to speak to about their errand. He'd returned two days later with an entire fully armed and mounted company.That Eomer felt it necessary to send such a prodigious number as an escort did not bode well, in Gríma's mind. He was but one man who carried nothing but a single dagger and was mounted on a small mare whom he'd grown very fond of, but was clearly unable to outrun the taller steeds of Rohan. What threat, truly, was he to anyone, now? He could almost laugh at the absurdity of the notion, but had wisely remained silent then, and also now.Merry and Pippin flanked him on either side. Both had bowed respectfully, fulfilling the niceties that ceremony dictated, but neither had felt the need to prostrate himself thus. Gríma, however, knew damn good and well that he was currently at the mercy of a man who would not only not mourn his death, but celebrate it.“I don't think I would have recognized you, frankly, if you hadn't come bearing a letter from King Elessar that included your name. You've clearly enjoyed the hospitality of the Shire quite well. Not so pale, now, are you? Nor as thin as I'd last seen you. Still as unsightly and unwelcome as ever, though.”Pippin shifted beside him, air blowing from his nostrils. “Was that really necessary?,” Pippin muttered under his breath. Gríma heard a quick “Shush, Pip!” in return from Merry on his other side.Gríma swallowed heavily, not knowing how he was expected to answer, and thus defaulted to the same simple submission that had spared his neck with his previous master. “Yes, your majesty.”Gríma nearly forgot himself and fought to keep his head down when a bark of laughter burst from the throne, but he managed to remain still. He heard footsteps as the king rose from his throne, and braced himself for whatever blow would come. It would be fitting, he supposed, if he died now, his blood spilt before the throne of Rohan by Eomer himself. There was no point in attempting to flee or defend himself, utterly exposed and outnumbered as he was.Boots of finest leather stopped just within his field of vision. “Get up, Wormtongue.”Gríma rose, joints popping as he went. He nearly fell as one knee threatened to go out on him, but Merry and Pippin managed to catch him and provide enough support for him to regain his feet. He kept his eyes averted, letting them land somewhere in the vicinity of the much taller king's well-burnished breastplate. The king's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, lifting his right hand upward. He expected to be dragged somewhere, but Eomer simply stood, staring oddly at the appendage in his grasp. Eomer forced Gríma's fingers to uncurl with his other hand, running the pad of a thumb over Gríma's palm and fingers.Gríma froze, barely daring to breathe. The whole thing was frankly bizarre and more than a bit disturbing. Eomer did not let go of his wrist, but shifted his other hand to Gríma's jaw, forcing his head upward to look him in the eyes. Gríma forced himself not to move, expecting a blade or a fist to land at any moment.Finally, Eomer released him, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, I didn't quite believe Meriadoc's letter when he said you'd been laboring away in the Shire. Your lips may always lie, but the calloused state of your hands tell their own truth. You will never again be welcome in Rohan, but for your service to the halfings during these recent months, I will grant you passage to the eastern border. Come morning, you will leave immediately. And I will send escort with you to ensure you do not attempt to stray.”Gríma blinked owlishly, not quite processing what had happened, but eventually managed to reply. “Yes, your majesty.”Eomer uncrossed his arms, shrugging slightly as he turned away from Gríma and gestured to a servant nearby. “It's suppertime at any rate, and I for one, am ravenous. Come along, all three of you. Let it not be said by anyone that the hospitality of Meduseld is lacking, even for the undeserving.”  Meriadoc Brandybuck sat beside the King. Gríma expected to be banished to the far end of the table, as he had been the first time he'd eaten in Meduseld, so many years ago, suffering the suspicion of another young man long before he'd ever had the opportunity to do anything to deserve it. He had, in fact, been placed in between Merry and Pippin, “So they can keep an eye on you,” the king had said.The entire evening had taken on a kind of dream-like unreality. The king clearly hated him, still, and Gríma could not blame him for his animosity, but nonetheless seemed to be in a jovial mood. His wife, a woman of Gondor from the city of Dol Amroth, sat to his other side, and he spent much of the meal doting on her. They seemed to hold genuine affection for one another, Gríma noted; rather a rarity among political marriages.The main meal had been cleared away by the servants, and platters of fruit were brought out along with a selection of liquor that Gríma ignored. He felt far too exposed to drink on this night, even if the King had mostly ignored his presence. After a few drinks, however, the eyes of Eomer, now somewhat inebriated, fell on him once again.“There is something I have wondered, Worm. Tell me – did the wizard truly offer my sister to you? Is that why betrayed us so easily?”Gríma froze, feeling his heart lodge itself somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. He was obliged to answer, a guest as he was in the hall of the King, even if he was an exile and no longer one of the man's subjects. “He... I...”Eomer's fist landed on the table. “Cat got your tongue, now? You never had any trouble speaking up before, Wormtongue, did you? Out with it, now!”Gríma felt true panic rising in his breast now, and he fought back the almost overwhelming impulse to flee. “I never told him anything of her, I swear it! He was angry that I was not doing as he wanted swiftly enough, and he... he.. he peered into my mind, and I could not stop him, though I tried, I.. I...”Gríma's breath came in swift panting as a sharp pain hit him in the vicinity of his racing heart and the room swam around and tilted to the side.“You still haven't answered the question, worm!”Merry's voice reached him as though from the end of a long tunnel. “My lord, please, is this really necessary? Saruman is truly very dead now, and Gríma will be gone in the morning, you'll never see him again, I can promise-”“All the more reason I would hear now the answer I seek, Meriadoc. I have long contemplated what happened to my uncle and cousin, and I would have answers.”Gríma screwed his eyes shut against the tilting of the world. “Yes! Fine, yes - Saruman did promise - although I told him I did not want her! Then he said he would give her to an orc instead if I did not take her, and what was I to do but agree? What could I have done? He said I would have her and that she would hate me forever, and he laughed!” Gríma fought to breathe as the world contracted around him, and dimly felt himself sliding from the bench onto the floor beneath the table as darkness overtook him.  The light of dawn woke Gríma. He was in a bed in what he recognized as one of the guest quarters of Meduseld. His boots had been removed, but he was otherwise still dressed as he'd arrived. His head ached fiercely, although he did not remember drinking much the evening before. Groaning, he pressed a forearm against his eyes, trying to collect himself. Too much had happened too quickly.“Well that was quite a show you put on last night, Wormtongue.”Gríma shot upward, his eyes frantically crossing the room, until they landed on King Eomer himself, sitting in a chair nearby. Gríma froze again, like a rabbit under the gaze of a fox.“Oh do stop panicking every time I look at you, you old coward. It's tiresome. I would have killed you already if I had intended to, after all.” Eomer leaned back in the chair, stretching out his legs and crossing his arms behind his head casually. “You know, I remember when you first showed up, tripping over your own feet under that sack of scrolls. You looked like weasel trying to carry a boulder. I have had over a year now to contemplate all that has happened, and I still cannot understand why my uncle ever trusted you - you had an unsavory look from the beginning.”“I look like a 'half-breed,' you mean,” replied Gríma, shocking even himself in the boldness of the retort. He averted his gaze to the small window on the opposite wall, trying not to let anxiety overtake him yet again as memories of every insult, every leg thrust out to trip him over, every stolen or destroyed quill or roll of parchment, crowded into his mind. His head still ached terribly and he wanted nothing more than to pull the thin blanket back over his head and go back to sleep, possibly forever.A long moment passed before the king replied. “Yes. Just so.”Gríma glanced at the king from the corner of his eye, not yet willing to look at him directly. Even if Eomer's cousin had lived and taken the throne in his stead, they would not be equals, and Gríma knew it all too well – indeed, had been reminded of that fact regularly since he was an adolescent and had first set foot in this grand hall. Gríma was reckoned beneath even the common folk of Rohan, forever marked by the darkness of his hair and by his features. Ironically, the only man in Meduseld who had ever treated him even somewhat kindly had been King Theoden himself, although the former king had never seemed to take much notice of how his household had treated his young advisor.“Would you tell me, your majesty, now that you are King - what you intend for Woodhurst? For the Stonedeans? There are many there who look thusly. Are your subjects there all of so little worth to Rohan?” Gríma risked another glance at the king, who now scowled at him. Gríma shuddered, knowing he'd greatly overstepped his place, but he could not take the words back now that they had been spoken.Eomer rose, crossing his arms and staring down at his clearly unwanted house guest. “That is no concern of yours, Wormtongue. Whatever kin you may have remaining there, you will never again see, unless they take it upon themselves to leave Rohan to seek you out. You had better get up soon, as you will be departing in an hour. I have humored your presence here, for the sake of Meriadoc Brandybuck, who served my uncle and my sister, and for his sake alone.”Eomer turned toward the door, then paused for a long moment. He glanced over his shoulder at Gríma, peering at him silently until Gríma began to sweat under his gaze. “The people of the Stonedeans and Woodhurst are subjects of Rohan, same as any others, Wormtongue. They did not betray us to the wizard, as you did, but served to defend their home. Those who remained loyal will be rewarded in kind, no different than their countrymen elsewhere who did the same.”If Gríma thought he saw a flash of something like doubt or remorse in the king's expression before he departed, it was surely just his imagination.  Merry had been about to knock on the door of the room Gríma had been placed in the night before after fainting when the door opened and the king himself emerged, shutting it behind him and walking several paces past Merry before even noticing the hobbit standing in his corridor.Merry grinned broadly and bowed, but Eomer did not respond in kind. “Are you troubled, my king?”Eomer sighed, favoring Merry with a somewhat crooked smile. “A little, perhaps. I have been thinking on the past rather too much lately, and your 'friend' in there has only made matters worse, I'm afraid.”Merry turned to follow the king as he continued down the corridor. “I'm willing to listen, if you're in the mood to share.”Eomer paused again, waiting for a servant to stop and bow as she passed, before hurrying away on some errand or another. “Ever since I received your letter, I have not been able to get Saruman and Wormtongue off my mind. I have hated them both for so many years...”“Well, I can promise you that Saruman is very much dead, your majesty. Pin-cushioned, as it were, and he just sort of shriveled up on the spot. Can't say anyone misses him.”“Except some of his former servants, I suppose.”Merry followed Eomer's gaze to the door down the hall. “No, I would have to say Gríma misses him least of all, especially after Saruman spent months starving and beating him. He was nearly dead as well when Frodo took him in.”“It might have been better if Frodo hadn't.”Merry's face scrunched up slightly as he regarded the young king. “Well, there's plenty who would have agreed with you in the Shire, especially at first, but I've learned to trust Frodo's judgment. He's wiser than most, I'd say. Gríma's no charmer, that's for sure, but he's worked hard over these months to mend things.”Eomer peered down at the hobbit in silence for several long moments. “Not everything can be mended... And you know, it's strange - my uncle once offered him clemency, and he refused it. I do now wonder why he accepted that same offer from your Frodo Baggins and not from his own king.”Merry scratched at his scalp, contemplating the puzzle set before him. “Maybe he just changed his mind. Or maybe it's easier to accept that sort of thing in a foreign land than from your own kinfolk.” Merry shrugged. “Who knows, maybe he'll be happier in Gondor, or at least fit in better.”Eomer chewed at his bottom lip pensively. He suddenly wished his sister were there – he'd often sought her out when he was uncertain in the past. “Why should he fit in any better in Gondor than in the land of his own birth?”“Well, dark hair is common there, he won't stick out so much, will he? And there is a big archive - a library, with books and scrolls, that sort of thing. Ought to be happy as a pig in mud if you ask me. I don't think he'll cause any more trouble, at least.”“He didn't have to cause all the trouble he did in the first place. If he'd asked my uncle to protect him from the wizard...” Eomer sighed and thought, again, about Gríma as he had first noticed him, as that skinny dark-haired weasel struggling under an overstuffed pack down the main hall of Meduseld so many years ago, and about the man in the room down the hall who had asked him about the fate their king intended for the people of his natal land.Did Gríma truly assume him to be as petty as his former master, that he would take out his anger toward one man on an entire province of his own kingdom? Eomer had been king for months now, and had not yet made it out to some of the furthest provinces of his territory, having given little thought to the “minor” and strategically unimportant regions on the outskirts of Rohan. Maybe he ought to do something about that soon.  Gríma waited outside of the stables as he'd been instructed, for his horse and the hobbits' ponies to be brought out. Lady tossed her head and stamped as the stablehand tried to guide her out, settling down only when she saw Gríma standing outside. The stablehand thrust the reigns into Gríma's hands with a look of deep frustration on his face before retreating back inside.“It is not a short journey to Minas Tirith.”Gríma's attention had been on his horse and he was visibly startled at the voice of the king behind him. He turned without letting go of Lady's reigns, bowing deeply but uncertain how to respond. The conversation that morning still rattled inside of his head, leaving him feeling deeply unsettled. Part of him was simply astonished that the king hadn't killed him outright for his cheek.Eomer crossed his arms, glancing around diffidently. “Now that the war is over, I could spare a horse, if you want a better quality mount. Or one that is at least trained.”Gríma paused, momentarily confused at the offer. Eomer had just that morning made his opinion of Gríma very clear, and now he was offering a valuable mount out of his own stables? Gríma turned back to Lady, running his hand over the stout horse's nose as she sniffed at him, making soft noises. She had a rounded profile, unlike the straight noses of the Rohirric horses, a rounded everything really, compared to the taller, more angular animals he'd grown up with. “A generous offer, your majesty, but I am content with the mount I have. She is cooperative enough with me, at least, and sturdy enough for the journey.”The king turned toward him, looking at him directly now for a moment before nodding once, sharply, and turning away. Merry and Pippin arrived moments later, their packs now stuffed with ample provisions from Meduseld's larders, and reclaimed their ponies.  “Well, that was awkward.” Pippin reached into a saddlebag to pull out a bag of Old Toby and his pipe.“Can't say I disagree, Pip, but I figured it would be. But, more importantly, we're on our way now and all in one piece, so I'd count it as a success.”Gríma urged Lady forward, not wanting to let the hobbits get too far ahead of him. In the end, King Eomer had sent only two young men as escorts (teenagers, really - Gríma was certain neither could be any older than sixteen or seventeen at most). One was riding some distance behind the three travellers, and another a few yards ahead of them, neither of them paying all that much mind to their charges.The following days passed uneventfully. Merry and Pippin chatted between themselves and occasionally with the two boys, while Gríma once again withdrew into himself as the reality of his situation sank in. He'd never see Rohan again. The country he'd been born in, that he had been raised in, would soon be only a collection of memories. Many of those memories were painful or unpleasant, but part of him still loved the vast rolling plains, the seas of grass, the sound of horses passing in the distance, and the mountains on the northern and western horizons. The land had once been inhabited by his mother's people in the distant past, even if few spoke of it, and his father's people in the most recent.He was tied to this land in more ways than he generally cared to contemplate, but he would soon leave it behind for good. They crossed the beacon hills in the space of a day and a half, coming upon the eastern border of Rohan just past noon on a hot August day. Gríma forced himself to not look back; there was nothing left for him behind, there was now only whatever lay ahead.Their escorts halted their mounts and bid them farewell, leaving Gríma and the hobbits standing in Gondor.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Gríma pulled Lady to a halt, craning his neck almost to the point of pain, staring up at the white prow thrust outward from the side of the mountain. It had been imposing from a distance, but he had misjudged the actual scale of the thing as they had crossed the Pelennor.“Impressive, isn't it?” Pippin trotted up on his pony, stopping beside him, followed by Merry. “I'm still technically a guard of the citadel, you know? A close, personal friend of the Steward, Faramir, and the King himself!”Merry scoffed. “Oh stop boasting, Pip. It's getting close to sunset and I'd like some supper, and ale, and a warm bed, if it's all the same to you. Sleeping in ditches has lost its appeal. We should just about make it up to the top before it's pitch black out.”Pip turned and winked at Gríma. “Jealous, our Merry is, positively green with envy! I'm very well respected in these parts, after all. But, food and drink do sound like a good idea right now. There's taverns everywhere in this city, but I think we'd best head straight for the tower and let them know we've arrived. There's no direct path up, I'm afraid, it's back and forth until you're dizzy by the time you get up there, so we'd best just head off.”Gríma let the hobbits go ahead of him, dismounting to take his horse by the bridle to lead it through the crowded lanes of Minas Tirith.  Gríma, once again, found himself prostrated before a king. He had seen King Elessar before, then still a ranger of the north called Aragorn, in Meduseld and then at a distance as he'd been up in his former master's tower after raging ents had thrown down and drowned all of the orc-craft surrounding Isengard. That day he'd thrown Saruman's seeing-stone, the palantir, from the balcony, in something like a fit of madness at the time. He hadn't even known why he'd done it then, and certainly did not now. His master had been infuriated with him, and had beaten him sorely for it.This king was not Eomer, however, nor even Theoden. He'd been assured by his companions that this man was fair and just, but Gríma had little reason to trust in such concepts, having had scant experience with fairness, and the only justice he knew had come in the form of pain and exile.Several minutes passed as he awaited the judgment of the king. Pippin stood off to one side, rocking on his heels and humming to himself and supremely unbothered. Merry and Pippin had bowed to the king once they'd been led before him by a guard in a winged helmet, but then immediately dropped all pretense of ceremony, rushing up to an old friend to embrace him and be embraced by him like an equal.Gríma, naturally, had no such privileges. He startled, flinching badly at a hand suddenly grasping his shoulder, the shudder running through him down to the base of his spine as some part of him immediately expected it to be followed with a blow to the head or elsewhere.“Stand, Gríma, son of Gálmód. You may remain in the city, so long as you do no harm to it, nor to its inhabitants.”Gríma stood at the king's order, feeling off balance for more reasons than one. The king's judgment had been issued in a soft tone, not at all like the harsh pronouncement reaffirming his permanent exile from Rohan that he'd received as a greeting from King Eomer. Ironic, Gríma thought, given that this king wielded considerably more power over much greater territory and wealth than Eomer ever would. “Real authority need not prove itself to an audience,” Saruman had once told him, on one of those early days before his former master had become entirely cruel and dismissive of his servant. “It simply commands, and you obey.”King Elessar looked over him once more, searching for what within him, Gríma knew naught. Another hard shudder passed through Gríma as he was unable to suppress it, and the king stepped back. Gríma managed to breathe again once given a bit of space.“Come along, the evening meal will be served shortly. Afterward, I will have one of my servants provide you all with lodging for the night.”“Oh good, I'm famished!” Pippin rushed past to follow the King, with Merry close behind.  Supper, this time, passed much less tensely than the last time he had sat at a king's table. It was more formal, in the high, open, stone-walled hall. The Tower of Ecthelion was not the wooden, smoke-filled hall that had always managed to feel cramped despite its expansiveness that Meduseld was. It was rather more like Isengard, actually, down to the styled wing-motif carved into the pillars holding up the ceiling and the ornamentation around the massive windows.Which, of course, made sense, given that both were built by the same culture, the Dúnedain, during the second age. He'd read the history of both in his youth, from scrolls and books once kept in Isengard, pouring over them under candlelight past the hour of the late watch. The surviving books and scrolls of Orthanc had apparently been taken from that ruined tower and moved here as well. He tried to recall the finer details of what he'd once read, but fatigue made full recollection difficult at the moment.Merry and Pippin sat to one side of him, and the king and his elven queen were to the other side of the hobbits. He caught the king occasionally watching him as Elessar conversed with the hobbits about the goings-on in the Shire after the end of the war and over the last year, but Gríma was otherwise left to eat in peace. The hall was lit with massive braziers and with torches in sconces along the walls and around the pillars, as well as with candles along the table, but the space was really too large to light efficiently after the sun had set. Dark shadows danced along the floors and walls in a slight draft that swept through. He watched their movement, losing interest in the remainder of his dinner. He had little appetite and had nearly lulled into something like a trance when a jostling from Merry beside him startled him into nearly falling from his seat.The king rose and the rest followed him. After a moment, Gríma remembered himself and stood as well, trying not to redden at the ceremonial faux pas. One does not sit when the king stands, after all, unless one has the excuse of possessing no usable legs. He knew this, having served in a king's court for years.Falling into old habit, he hunched in on himself, attempting to appear even smaller than he was. More than one old gaffer or gammer in the Shire had, at one point or another over the past months, tutted at his “terrible posture” and told him to stand up straight, which had always bemused him. What could they care about the state of his back? More often than not, they had been the same hobbits that grumbled at Frodo about him even being there at all, although none of them had refused his labor when it was to their benefit either. The voice of Samwise Gamgee's father barking at him to stand up straight echoed in his memory, and his shoulders shifted back again almost of their own accord, although nobody seemed to be paying much attention to him.Gríma absently noted now that the queen was, in fact, taller than her king, as he watched her bid her husband farewell and depart. The king then gestured to a servant who came over to lead the hobbits to their lodgings for the night, and after the rest departed, he was finally alone in the massive hall with only King Elessar himself.“Come, Gríma.” The man turned and led him through a door off to the side and down a narrow corridor, finally arriving at what Gríma surmised was the king's personal study. The large room was lined with shelves and tables, and was dominated by an absolutely massive desk hewn from dark wood and carved ornately. It must have been centuries old, judging by the weathered surface. It was covered with disordered stacks of letters and notes on loose parchment, scrolls, books, a couple of inkwells, and a collection of quills. Even Saruman's own desk had not been quite so impressive, although it had been much more orderly. The king picked up an ornately carved matching chair from a corner and brought it across the room, dropping it near his own desk chair before sitting. He nodded at it.Gríma hesitated again, transfixed under the man's gaze like a fly trying to escape the notice of a massive bullfrog.“Sit, Gríma.”Forcing himself to move, he sat down across from the king, uncomfortably close enough that their knees nearly touched. His palms began sweating but he resisted the urge to wipe them on the road-worn linen trousers that had been sewn for him by Rosie Cotton months ago.  Aragorn leaned back in his chair, trying to make some sense of the peculiar man in front of him. He'd spoken to Eowyn at length already, but her observations did not actually tell him all that much about this Gríma himself, although it revealed a great deal he'd suspected about how Saruman had achieved as much as he did in a relatively short amount of time. She'd told him that he'd arrived at her uncle's court when she was fourteen and when he had not been all that much older, perhaps nineteen or twenty, and had proceeded to act as an extension of Saruman's malevolent will within a scant few years as the wizard fell ever deeper into his own corruption.Given Eowyn's current age, that would make this man about thirty-six or thirty-seven. He somehow managed to look both much older and much younger than his actual age. A few gray strands were already mixed with the black behind his ears and peppered throughout the short-cropped beard he must've grown while in the Shire (where beards and thus razors were not a common phenomenon). Months working primarily outdoors in the Shire had also darkened his complexion somewhat from the “ghastly” fish-belly white that Eowyn had described and which Aragorn recalled from his previous encounters with him.He'd been a looming nightmare hiding in the shadows of Edoras to Eowyn in recent years, whispering in her uncle's ear and manipulating the men under the king to enact Saruman's instructions. He'd been disliked from the beginning, with many there finding him too young and too visibly of foreign, Dunlendish ancestry to be respected or trusted, even if he'd actually proven helpful at first. Eowyn had also described a kind of animal-like furtiveness in him that grew as Saruman's intentions darkened, a potent mixture of fear and hatred of both his master and his countrymen that seemed to drive him onward in the destruction he caused at his master's behest. Aragorn had some idea of the kind of craft that this man must have been taught at his master's knee, but it took something more than an average mind to actually pull it off, even under a wizard's direct tutelage. In short – he might be a coward and a fool, but he couldn't possibly be stupid.There were two questions set before Aragorn now. Firstly, could this man be trusted enough to be allowed to wander the city on his own? And secondly, could this man and his prodigious intellect be put to some constructive use? The hobbits had vouched for him in their letter, describing a man who seemed damaged, but largely unaggressive and willing to take instruction and to undertake simple, physical labor, at least, without complaint. Aragorn could send him out to one of the farms to plow the fields, of course, but that seemed somewhat wasteful.Well, the first question would only be answered with the passage of time, but Aragorn had already decided, before responding to Pippin, that he could afford to give the man a chance, with some caveats. Frodo had become invested in his fate, for reasons Aragorn could guess were probably similar to his prior dealings with Gollum, and he was reticent to act against the ring-bearer's wishes in what was, ultimately, a relatively minor matter. If at some point Gríma attempted mischief, Aragorn had confidence in his own ability to recognize it and halt it. He wouldn't put Gríma on too short a leash, but he had already given his guards and a few others likely to come in close contact with him orders to keep an eye on him.He'd already made some plans toward this man's future, but had a few details to settle first. “How old were you when you began your tutelage under Saruman?”Gríma practically squirmed where he sat, but eventually answered, keeping his gaze averted. Aragorn had become somewhat accustomed to people avoiding eye contact with him, out of deference to his position. Denethor had been known for his strict adherence to ceremony and protocol (and had been rather unyielding in most matters, including with his sons). With Gríma, he felt there was something more to it, of the manner of a beaten dog, but it was something to ponder later.“I was thirteen.”“And how came you to be his servant?”“I was in Edoras with my father during the market to sell the grain of Woodhurst, and... encountered the wizard on the steps leading up to Meduseld. He approached my father that evening to ask him for me.”Aragorn lifted an eyebrow. “Truly, there was nothing more than that? He chose you entirely at random?”Gríma looked up, his mouth slack, meeting Aragorn's gaze for only the briefest moment, before he jerked his head away again. “I... I ran into him, quite literally. My father had sent me away as he did not want my appearance to discourage customers, and I had not been paying attention to where I was going. The wizard prevented me from falling and, in return I suppose, had me accompany him to carry his possessions and serve upon him for the remainder of the day. I do not know whatever else he may have thought at the time.”“Your family did not protest you being taken away for such lengths of time?”Gríma shifted where he sat, and Aragorn noted that he was now sweating slightly. It was still warm in early September, so far south, but he doubted it had anything to do with the temperature. “My mother had been dead for several years and I had no other close relations than my father, and he... Saruman... convinced him, without great effort.”Between Eowyn's testimony and the answers he was now getting, a picture was coalescing. A commoner boy of mixed heritage and little in the way of family would have been easy enough to remove from Rohan without any notice from his community. “Did he instruct you from the beginning, or were you meant only to be a menial servant?”“He did instruct me from the time we returned to Orthanc. I had been as entirely illiterate as the rest of my peers, so for the first month, he taught me to read and write. Then languages, history, geography, herb lore... a few other skills.”A single month to master reading and writing, at the age of thirteen, and then a barrage of subjects that took an average scholar decades to fully master, all crammed into a span of about six years before he was sent back to his king as a lore-master. Well, Aragorn could see why the wizard had found him useful; this man was unimpressive in many respects, but he was no intellectual dullard. “Other skills? The voice, you mean.”Aragorn watched Gríma's throat bob up and down as he swallowed heavily. “...Yes. That.”“Did he tell you how he intended to use your new skills from the beginning?”Gríma slouched even further in his chair and Aragorn briefly feared he'd end up on the floor, but he did not. “Not precisely. He said that times were growing troublesome and needed to be steered to 'better' ends, but he did not share his full plans with me, and by then he no longer tolerated questioning of any kind.”“If you had misgivings about what he was doing, why did you not leave? Return to your home, or tell your king?”Gríma ducked his head and shrugged, withdrawing into himself again.“Were you afraid of Saruman, or of your king?”Gríma tilted his head slightly, his hooded blue eyes looking only askance at Aragorn, who waited patiently. “Both, and others. I was never... well-liked, in Edoras. King Theoden may have possessed the capacity for kindness, but even before Saruman pressed me into subduing him, he paid little attention to what went on in his own household.”Aragorn narrowed his eyes at his guest. “What was going on in his household?”Gríma hesitated, dropping his gaze back to the floor. “They would have torn me to pieces from the beginning, I think, at any small excuse; anything to remove a black mark from their midst. Only when they began to fear me did they cease to...”Aragorn turned away from his guest as his unfinished statement trailed off, shaking his head as he rifled through the parchment on his desk, looking for one particular sheet he'd used some days ago to take down notes on in preparation for this man's arrival. Gríma was a coward, certainly, and there was no denying he had betrayed his king and betrayed all of Rohan, and had been the main instrument through which Saruman caused all kinds of harm, but there was an almost infuriating sort of spiteful passivity in him. Aragorn was beginning to understand Eowyn and Eomer's scorn for him, as well as Frodo's pity. Had this man ever decided anything for himself, or had he always just glided along whichever wind blew the strongest, even when he did not like where it was going?Locating the parchment he'd been seeking, he handed it to Gríma. “For now, at least, there is work to be done in restoring this kingdom's archives. You have more than adequate training for the task and the pay is adequate to provide a comfortable living in this city. You may take a few days to find lodging and to adjust to things, but you ought to seek out the archivist Maenir swiftly. He can generally be found in the houses of lore during the day, and he has been told to expect you soon. Much was brought out of your former master's abode, and from other corners following the end of the war, and it needs to be sorted through – categorized according to subject, as well as assessed for condition. Any which are badly damaged or excessively fragile will need to be copied as accurately as possible.”Gríma stared down at the parchment in his hands, which had Maenir's name, as well as a list of places around the city that might have a vacant room available. Aragorn did not know whether Gríma had any currency on him, but doubted it. He'd also included a message on the other side of the parchment with his personal seal, instructing any potential landlord to grant Gríma credit for a few weeks, to be paid back in full once the man had received the standard wages given to the city's archivists and lore-masters for a time.Aragorn rose and summoned a servant. “You will be taken to a guest room tonight. Merry and Pippin will be leaving in a few days to return to the Shire, so I suggest you say your good-byes before they depart. It may be a long time indeed before you see either again. Do you have any questions?”“No, your majesty.” Gríma bowed deeply and turned to follow the servant, with apparently nothing left to say. Aragorn spoke again before the man could slip out through the door.“Oh, Gríma – one more thing. I am aware of your... history... with the wife of my steward. Eowyn has been told of your arrival. I do not believe she is at all interested in becoming reacquainted.”“Yes, your majesty, I understand.” Gríma paused only momentarily, but whatever he felt about the matter, he kept to himself. He bowed again, then slipped through the door and was gone.A door at the other end of Aragorn's study opened immediately afterward, and Eowyn entered, with her husband Faramir behind her. Aragorn scratched at his chin. “Well, what do you think? Is this arrangement tolerable?”Eowyn paused to consider the matter. “If he keeps himself to his work and does not seek out trouble, I will have no quarrel with him.”Aragorn glanced over Eowyn's shoulder at Faramir, locking eyes with him for a moment. Eowyn stepped past Aragorn, opening the door a crack before sticking her head out, peering down the hallway, then returned immediately. “Well, he can move fast enough when he wants to, that much hasn't changed.”Aragorn stood and rearranged some of the mess on his desk. “You wished to speak to him after all, then?”Eowyn crossed her arms. “No, I don't. I suppose I was just curious if he had, indeed, changed as much as Merry and Pippin described. It seems impossible to me that such a man could ever improve in any respect. He was always so...”“Cowardly?,” Aragorn offered.Eowyn snorted. “Devious. I do wonder now if this is all some sort of act, although I cannot imagine what he should hope to accomplish here, with his master dead and Sauron vanquished.”“If the hobbits' testimony is to be believed, it seems he is just looking for somewhere to live out the rest of his life quietly. I don't know whether he has changed, or if it is simply his circumstances that have changed. But in either case, I don't think he will be willing to risk much for quite some time.” Aragorn paused, and smirked. “I can say he looks rather less ghoulish after a few seasons in the Shire. I do wonder which old hobbit-mother sewed those clothes for him, he looks rather... rustic, at the moment.”Eowyn's eyes narrowed. “Perhaps he's less treacherous without the wizard pulling his strings, but I, for one, will be keeping an eye on him.”Aragorn looked at Eowyn for a moment, weighing his response. “I would rather you did not seek him out, to watch him or for any other reason. I have already spoken with the city guard and with a few others who may regularly have dealings with him. He will not be left unattended, I can assure you of that. I do realize you have plenty of cause to detest him, but I can see no benefit to provoking a confrontation. If he approaches you or otherwise behaves inappropriately, tell Faramir or tell me, and he will be dealt with immediately.”Eowyn grit her teeth, looking at Aragorn, then back at her husband, clearly on the cusp of saying something, before shaking her head. “As you say, my king. It is late, so I will retire for the night.”Eowyn departed through the door her husband held open for her, clearly unsatisfied. Aragorn motioned to his steward to remain behind. Faramir ducked into the hallway to let his wife know he would follow later, then returned, seating himself in the same chair Gríma had vacated.“I know she gave leave for him to come, but she isn't at all happy about this Gríma arriving in Minas Tirith. I think she feels she'd already left behind the more unpleasant parts of her past, and now a piece of it has risen up from the grave to haunt her. I can't say she's wrong to feel such, either. This Wormtongue spent years sapping her uncle of his strength and manipulating him for Saruman's convenience, as well as watching her from the shadows. Her brother believed the man desired her for a wife, and that Saruman may have even promised her to him as some sort of prize if Rohan fell.”“I don't mean to seem heartless, Faramir, and I know and have already considered all of these things, as well as what Pippin's letter included, and Frodo Baggins' wishes in the matter. The Shire's borders are to be closed, soon. No one who is not a hobbit will be permitted to set foot in their lands again once the edict makes it official, not even I as king will have leave to trespass there. Gríma could be sent off in any direction to eke out whatever living he might manage on his own in the wilds, but one must consider that he has already been exiled once for his crimes – it is not as though he has gone wholly unpunished.”“He may seem for the moment adequately chastened, my king, but I am not convinced he won't eventually revert, as it were.”“All the more reason to put him where he may be watched. Eowyn's desire to keep an eye on him is not unwise, although I would rather she not be the one tasked with doing it. I don't think there is any great danger of Gríma causing more harm in the short term at least, but if he were left to wander and become desperate, he has enough knowledge and skill to do plenty mischief on his own, no wizard needed. In the end this situation is as much for the benefit of others as it is for him.”Faramir stared at the floor between his feet for a long moment before looking up again. “I understand, and will try to keep Eowyn's mind on other matters. If he spends his days in the houses of lore as you intend, they are unlikely to cross paths frequently, if at all. Eowyn is more apt to spend her free time in the sparring yard or out riding than in study, after all. Perhaps it will be less of an issue than she fears.”Aragorn nodded, dismissing his steward for the night. He leaned back in his chair and pulled a pipe out of a pocket, filling it with weed from the Shire's fields that Pippin had slipped into his hand under the table earlier. Arwen did not like it when he smoked, and he refrained from doing so in her presence, but he hadn't quite managed to kick the habit entirely yet.  A week passed. Gríma found a small, narrow room in a boarding house on the same level as the houses of lore, which was a stroke of luck of the sort he'd not had in recent memory. The landlord was a peevish old woman who had snatched the king's letter from his hand and squinted at it for a long time before finally grunting at him and reluctantly agreeing to rent him a room on credit. She made it clear, though, that she expected to be paid by the end of the month and then in advance for the second month, meaning he'd have to come up with two months' rent at once. Gríma had no clue whether he'd be able to produce the sum in time, but if it came down to it, he'd vacate the premises and find another he could afford, or just hole himself up in a corner somewhere until he did. He'd lodged in worse conditions before, after all.The room came with a bed, but the straw-stuffed mattress had looked to be a relic of the second age, and even in the dim light of the small, high window, he could've sworn he'd seen something crawl out of it. He'd immediately dragged it out and thrown it in an alley, only to be barked at by a guard for his cheek. After retrieving Lady from the main stables at the lowest ring of the city and leading her up, he'd thrown the thing over his horse's back and hauled it outside of the gates and up a path until he found a ditch full of all manner of refuse, including what looked like the bones of dead orcs and various twisted bits of metal clearly left from the war. He shoved the flea-infested mattress in with the rest of it. He wouldn't be able to afford a replacement for some time, but he could always sleep on a folded blanket on the floor, as he had done for years as a child.I had a feather-bed in Edoras, he thought briefly, and a thick cloak with a fur lining. His lodgings in Orthanc weren't quite so lush as what had been set aside for the king's personal lore-master and advisor, but there had at least been a fireplace and ample wood to burn in it. In the Shire, before Saruman's death, he'd often slept in a shed that he was sure had once housed a goat, judging by the smell. The rug before the Cottons' hearth had not been so bad, after that, even if his memories of those earliest weeks were vague and disjointed at best.Merry and Pippin had packed up and left for the journey home two days previous after promising to write to him later and to give his regards to Frodo and Sam, and Gríma was, for the first time in many months, left to his own devices with no hobbit around to tell him where to go. No wizard either, and the king did not seem overly concerned with his daily comings and goings. He had noted that the eyes of guards seem to follow him more closely than they did other passers-by, though, and Gríma had his suspicions about what their orders might be. No matter, really. Attempted fly-tipping aside, he had given them no excuse for reporting back anything whatever about him to the king.He'd been told to go to the houses of lore to inquire about employment, had even been given a name to seek out. Work to be done, the king had said. A man must work if he wants to eat, his father had told him repeatedly as a child, usually before cuffing him over the head for perceived laziness. His father, of course, would never have considered shuffling parchment around to be honest work.Gríma suddenly realized he had not thought about Gálmód in many years. For the first four years after beginning his service with the wizard, Saruman had sent him home over the winter solstice each year. Gálmód would grunt at his son coming in through the door, then proceed to ignore him as much as possible until he left again. By the fourth year, he came home to discover his father had married again the previous spring, to a much younger blonde-haired woman who's previous husband had died. She'd brought with her two young children, a son and a daughter, both fair-haired. She had also been pregnant at the time, expecting to be delivered in a couple of months. Gríma had slept on the floor that solstice, wrapped in his travelling cloak, and left several days before he'd been expected to, once he'd no longer had any lingering doubt about just how superfluous his presence was.Gríma had not returned to his father's home after that. There was little point; his father had clearly moved on from the death of his first wife, and Gríma's fate was no longer his concern. Assuming the baby, undoubtedly as Rohirric and blonde in appearance as its other half-siblings, had been born alive and survived its infancy, it might still be in Woodhurst, or somewhere nearby. His father may or may not still live, although if he'd not died in Woodhurst, he might've died during the evacuation to Helm's Deep, or during the battle there where even old men had been expected to take up arms. Gríma could not quite manage to care either way.Gríma patted at Lady's flanks, inspecting her hide for anything that might have crawled out of that straw heap, as she stopped to graze on the grass near the path. She'd been housed in one of the city's cramped stables and given ample hay, but Gríma wondered if she missed the rolling fields of the Shire. He fingered the buckle of the horse's bridle, contemplating what he ought to do.“I suppose I should rightly let you go, now. This city is a rotten place for a horse. You need sod and turf under your feet, not stone.”Gríma picked up each of Lady's feet in turn, inspecting the shoes and the state of her hooves. Like many northern horses, she'd been unshod when he took her, and many horses in that region were never shod at all unless expected to bear unusually heavy loads, as they generally had hard-wearing hooves. He'd stopped at a farrier in Bree and had her tended to before setting out for Gondor, knowing she'd be carrying him over rough terrain for miles and miles. She was really overdue for a new set of shoes. He made a mental note to find a decent farrier in the city once he was paid.Or, he could have the shoes taken off entirely, and just let her go. Gríma looked out over the Pelennor, still scarred by warfare, although grass had regrown over much it after a couple of summers. A few patches had been tilled again, and farmhouses rebuilt. It was not like the Shire, though, where sheep, pigs, and goats were turned out on commons to graze, nor like Rohan, where horses and cattle both roamed in semi-feral herds until they were needed. Would some farmer harm her if she entered one of their fields and trampled his wheat? Were there still wolves and wargs about, sleeping until nightfall?Gríma sat down beside the road, and watched as his horse ambled about and grazed for several hours, letting the sun rise to its zenith before getting up again. He took hold of her bridle and returned to the stables, leading her back to a stall in between two much taller mounts. The horses of Gondor were clearly of mostly Rohirric breeding, trade between the two nations having included horseflesh for centuries. A few had odd markings or features, indicating admixture with something else, probably the hotblooded animals from the south renowned as much for their temperamental nature as for their swiftness, but Lady was by far the odd one out in this city, much like Gríma himself. Gríma fetched fresh water and hay, then retrieved a brush and let his mind wander as he tended to Lady's coat.Gríma was nearly finished grooming Lady when he felt eyes on him. He paused for a moment, listening, but heard only the noises of the other horses and the sound of a stablehand pushing a broom on the far side. The skin on the back of his neck prickled slightly. Part of his mind told him that the war was over, Saruman was dead, and danger in this city mostly consisted of youthful pickpockets and hurried pedestrians not watching where they were going, but he nonetheless stood stock-still, barely breathing, and waiting for an attack to begin.“My brother's letter said he offered you a better mount before you were shown to the border. This is the animal you kept in its stead?”Gríma bit the inside of his lip as Eowyn scoffed at his horse, but did not turn around. The king had told him, in so many words, to stay away from Eowyn. In truth, he would not have willingly sought her out even if Elessar had said nothing on the matter. She'd married another and there was nothing left between them but bad blood and sour memory.“You spent years whispering in my uncle's ear, and now you cannot even manage to greet one of your betters?”Gríma took a deep breath, letting it escape slowly, before turning around and bowing deeply. Upon rising, he was pinned by a hard glare. Eowyn's eyes flashed like fire. He'd heard the tales over the common dinner table in the boarding house, of this woman's confrontation with the chief of the Nazgul. Merry had also told the story once or twice, over ale and pipeweed in Bag End. He hadn't quite believed it; it had seemed too fanciful to be true, but now he believed. His heart flailed in his chest like a wounded bird under a cat's paw.Gríma stepped back, stumbling against Lady, who whickered softly and tossed her head, but stood firm behind him. He reached back, bracing himself against her rounded flank as vertigo overtook him and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe.Well, I've already done this before her brother, he thought, as the world faded around him, might as well complete the pair...  Every memory Eowyn had of recent years crowded into her head upon entering the stables to retrieve her horse for an afternoon ride, and finding Wormtongue himself standing there brushing the hide of a mare as small and unattractive as its master. Her temper had cooled somewhat since the end of the war, generally speaking. She'd buried her poor uncle, seen her brother crowned in Meduseld, and had returned to a new city with a new marriage, making a clean break with her old life.Or so she'd thought.“My brother's letter said he offered you a better mount before you were shown to the border. This is the animal you kept in its stead?”The sense of injustice and unfairness that had fueled her anger and her determination to fight on the Pelennor once again flooded over her, nearly bowling her over in its unexpected fervor. She may have traded the armor and the sword for a (practical and unfussy) dress, in deference to her rank and position in Gondor as the steward's wife, but at her core, she was still a shield maiden and would always be.The worm paused in his grooming but did not acknowledge her and she wished she still had a sword at her belt, so she could strike him over the head with the flat of it like the floor-pissing cur he was, at the very least.“You spent years whispering in my uncle's ear, and now you cannot even manage to greet one of your betters?”Finally, Wormtongue turned and bowed. He was, as Aragorn had indicated, somewhat changed in appearance by his time with the halflings - tanned just enough to look nearly healthy, rather than the sour-milk white she remembered, and the rich robes and fur-lined cloak he'd worn in her uncle's court replaced with the commonplace and homespun. At some point even his eyebrows had grown back, once relieved of whatever task Saruman had put him to that had regularly divested him of them. He'd even grown a short beard to cover that weak jawline, but he was still peculiar and ugly.What good the Shire sun had done his complexion, however, blanched quickly at the sight of her, as he stumbled back against the nag he was tending, and slid to the floor in a heap.“Tch. Pathetic.”Eowyn stepped forward to nudge him with the toe of her boot, only to be met with the little mare baring her teeth and pinning her ears back, shifting to stand over her unconscious master. The tide of rage receded as Eowyn stepped back out of reach of the animal's teeth and hooves. Aragorn and Faramir alike had told her it would be better if she did not seek him out, and perhaps they’d had a point. Not that she'd come here looking for him. What was the use of this, though? Her brother's letter had mentioned this fool fainting dead away under the dinner table once questioned, and she'd had a good laugh at his expense over it already.The mare continued to snort, eyeing her every movement.“Well, worm, I suppose you've found one friend in this world.” Eowyn crossed the room to retrieve a bucket and fill it with water from the common trough, coming back over to Wormtongue to toss the contents of it over him. The horse neighed and tossed her head at the water splashing under her feet, and Wormtongue's eyes snapped open as he sputtered and jerked. It was a miracle the horse didn't step on him as the both of them flailed about, but somehow he managed to roll out from under her and lever himself onto his hands and knees unharmed.He coughed and spat, pushing wet hair out of his face. “Was-was that really necessary, madam?”“You'd rather have laid there in dirty straw for the rest of the afternoon?”Wormtongue finally pulled himself upright, managing to keep his feet underneath him. “You have a point.” The man looked askance at her, before turning back to his horse, patting her nose and neck until she stopped her agitated fidgeting. Eventually, even the horse's pinned-back ears finally relaxed. “I really shouldn't be speaking to you; I was more or less instructed not to by the king himself, after all.”Eowyn snorted, crossing her arms. “And I was told not to speak to you, but unlike some, I have never been known for blind, unthinking obedience at any cost. At any rate I did not seek you out, I came here to retrieve my horse.” She nodded toward the animal in the stall to the right, a tall, well-built gelding with a glossy bay coat.Wormtongue glanced over at the horse she'd indicated. “Far be it from a lowly servant, then, to delay a fair noblewoman.”Eowyn rolled her eyes at his obvious sarcasm. “You're as foul as ever, you know. My brother must have sent his letter the same day you left Meduseld, as it arrived yesterday. It was... interesting, although I am not sure I agree with him that you 'have been rendered largely toothless' by your master's death. You had better behave yourself here, worm, the king in these parts does not trust you as my uncle unwittingly did.”Wormtongue shrugged. “It is wise for a leader of men not to trust anyone too readily, I would expect nothing less of King Elessar.”Eowyn pursed her lips, somewhat wrong-footed by the frank reply. She thought back to every interaction she'd had with this ridiculous creature and realized she'd actually spent very little time in conversation with him. They'd spoken occasionally in those earliest months, when she'd still been a child and he'd still been a spotty, gawkish young man barely out of adolescence, but loaded with lore well beyond what his years deserved. There had been a very brief period of time when she'd been somewhat fascinated by him. Repulsed from the beginning by his odd manners and unattractive features, but fascinated nonetheless by his knowledge of the world.It hadn't lasted long, though. Her brother and his comrades had detested him from the moment he set foot in their midst, and Eomer had teased her frequently for deigning to speak to him at all, so she'd stopped voluntarily conversing with him by the end of the first year. Several years had passed during which neither of them had taken much notice of the other, but somewhere around her nineteenth or twentieth year, he'd begun to notice her once again. Her brother had certainly noticed him noticing her, as it were, and that was where the real animosity between the two men had started.There had been something else in Eomer's letter, though, that she had initially laughed at, but when she'd woken in the middle of the night, it had settled somewhere in the pit of her stomach, and continued to trouble her.“Did Saruman really threaten to throw me into the arms of an orc if you did not agree to take me as a wife after he'd taken Rohan for himself?”She watched Wormtongue hunch in on himself, braced against the horse, and briefly wondered if he'd pass out again. She still had the bucket in one hand, but would need to fetch water again. The worm managed to stay on his feet after a moment of visible discomfort.“He... He said as much, but I do not know if he intended to carry out the threat, or if it were merely one of his dark jests. He possessed a... peculiar sense of humor, and took amusement in pushing his way into the minds of his servants to discover whatever he could mock them with most effectively.” Wormtongue threaded his horse's mane through his fingers, keeping his eyes fixated on the animal and refusing to look at her again. “Had his plans come to fruition, I do not know what he would have done. I would deem it most likely that he'd simply have disposed of me once I had outlived my usefulness.”Eowyn stared at the man before her, mildly shocked at a chronic liar's sudden candor. She was not sure whether to pity or scorn him, and settled on a mixture of both. “You believed that he intended to kill you for your trouble, yet served him anyhow? Can anyone be so foolish?”Wormtongue tilted his head, his thin lips pulled back as though he were in pain, revealing his crooked teeth, which had acquired a couple of gaps since she'd last seen him. “Death today or death tomorrow, those were my choices. I would beg your pardon for not wishing to rush into the grave swiftly, if I did not already know you would never grant it.”Eowyn set the bucket down with a clatter, the entire exchange having become nearly intolerable. She would have to concede to her husband that he'd probably been right about it being best if she avoided this man, which was always just a bit mortifying. Her head felt too crowded now, and she desperately wanted to be outside of the city's walls and away from this specter of the past.She tried to gather her thoughts into some semblance of order, but could think of only one final thing to say. “It is possible to hold one's own life too dear, and that more than anything, is your greatest failure.”She turned toward the stall with her own horse, then paused, glancing back where Gríma the Wormtongue had picked up a brush once again to lovingly tend to a low-bred but visibly well cared-for horse. She knew he'd heard her comment, but he made no indication of it. She couldn't bring herself to forgive him entirely for what he had done, and did not even particularly want to, but any act of vengeance she might enact upon him would only complicate matters further. Her uncle and her cousin were dead, and so was Saruman, and this fool had already clearly suffered for his foolishness, if the missing teeth and visible scars over his face and neck were a testament to anything.Eowyn entered her horse's stall, putting saddle and bridle in place without any further conversation with her neighbor, then led her mount out into the broad daylight of the afternoon without any further farewells.Gríma the Wormtongue had been given clemency by King Elessar, and it was King Elessar's lot to deal with whatever became of him. She had no responsibility toward the man, and was well pleased with that simple fact. Mounting her horse just outside the city's broken gates, she spurred him into a gallop, letting the wind in her hair carry away the past.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Maenir sat down to review the most recent of the newest lore-master's work. It had been a few months since Gríma had arrived and Maenir still didn't quite know what to make of him. His work was careful, methodical, and fastidious. He both spoke and read a multitude of languages, both living and ancient, of Men and the Eldar, and even a smattering of dwarvish, which almost no-one who was not a dwarf had any knowledge of. The man also knew the black speech of Mordor, which was both impressive and somewhat unsettling, especially when the junior scribes had demanded a recitation for their amusement. Still, it had come in useful for translating some of the scrolls removed by Lord Faramir (recently declared Prince of Ithilien by King Elessar) from Minas Morgul prior to its being demolished.Gríma's handwriting was tidy and regular, easy to read and pleasing to look at. Maenir had started with the King's recommendation that the new man be put to the task of sorting through the recent acquisitions in addition to transcription, but Maenir had soon passed that trivial task back to some of the apprentices, and singled out Gríma for difficult translation work.Maenir had swiftly become accustomed to walking in each morning to find the man already bent over a work table, his quill scratching away, but otherwise silent. The man's long black hair was always tied back to keep it from trailing through still-wet ink, the sleeves of his robe similarly tied at his elbows. He's been exceptionally well-trained, Maenir thought idly, wherever he came from. Maenir was forever barking at apprentices and even seasoned scribes over such basic things, but with Gríma, at least, he rarely ever had anything to comment on.No, Maenir could not complain of the man's work. His personality, however... Well, what could Maenir even say of that? He did not linger and chat with the other scribes and lore-masters, nor get into debates, not when they broke for the noon meal, nor over tea, nor did he join any of the groups who collectively decamped to nearby taverns in the evening. He would speak when asked a question, although even then his answers were short, factual, and to the point. Taciturn would be a diplomatic description. Creepy was the word some of the more ungenerous of his scribes used.King Elessar had called Maenir up prior to the man's arrival, and the conversation then probably should have been his first clue that he had, to put it delicately, a past.  “A man named Gríma will be arriving in the city soon. He is a trained lore-master and I would like to place him with you in the houses of lore to be put to work. I think you will find his skills useful.”“Yes, sire. I am always appreciative of any help I may get; we ever have more work than hands, as you know.” Maenir bowed deeply, believing the conversation to be over, but the king had held a hand up, stalling him.
The king had paused, shifting in his seat and clearly mulling over something for a long moment before continuing. “He is no ordinary scribe, Maenir, and I want you to keep a close eye upon him. If you discovering him behaving oddly in any way, or find anything missing from the archives, particularly anything that might be used toward ill ends, I must know immediately.”

Maenir had been somewhat taken aback, not quite understanding. “Of course, sire. I wouldn't allow any of my scribes to get up to mischief, of course.”
“I am not speaking of a junior scribe trying to make and sell dubious remedies found in some old tome to earn a bit of extra coin, Maenir. Gríma's past is not something I care to go into depth over, but he has a troubled history. I do not believe he is any great threat in the present, and I do not particularly expect him to cause harm, but there is a possibility of it. I would also ask that you not treat him with obvious suspicion or prejudice without cause, though, which he will see immediately and likely take insult, but simply to be aware.”  Maenir had left the meeting more confused than anything else. Weeks in Gríma's presence had not been at all illuminating either. He either didn't answer questions about himself or his past at all, or responded with exaggerated, obvious fabrications which occasionally provoked laughter. For the most part the man arrived in silence, worked in silence, and departed in silence. A few of his people had taken to jokingly referring to him as “the ghost.”Gríma bore numerous scars on his face, neck and hands (and probably more that could not be seen beneath his clothing), and was missing at least two teeth, all of which could easily be chalked up to injuries obtained during the war, if Gríma had ever spoken of battle, which he had not. Maenir would have been content to let him keep his secrets, but rumors and gossip were a perennial hobby in a city as large and densely-populated as Minas Tirith. The man had served the wizard Saruman, if such chatter was to be believed, and had done much evil in Rohan during the war, and had been exiled by both the previous and current king of that realm. It would explain his foreign accent, as well as his sudden appearance in Gondor, if he'd been shown to the border of Rohan. As best as Maenir could ascertain, these rumors originated with the wife of Lord Faramir, who, being a woman of Rohan and of their royal house, did lend them some credence.It was approaching mid morning, and the man in question should have arrived hours ago. Maenir looked about the room, across the long tables that they worked at, and there were more than few gaps. Some sort of fever had begun spreading through the city as the weather turned cold, and several of his people had recently been absent. The houses of healing had been running at capacity, apparently, and even the king himself, known for his skill as a healer, had been spending hours at a time there, tending to the ill and dying.Maenir flipped through the most recent translations Gríma had produced before setting them back in order. He took up the stack of the original scrolls, all unpleasant-looking things pulled from Minas Morgul and written in black speech.He counted them and re-counted them, as well as the translations. Gríma had been given five scrolls, the originals of which were all present. The translations, however, numbered four. Had he not completed them the evening before? He'd told Maenir as much, and had left them laid out on the table for the ink to finish drying before leaving the previous evening.This morning they were rolled up, and one was missing. Had Gríma returned in the night and taken one? “If you find anything missing from the archives,” Maenir had been told, “particularly anything that might be used toward ill ends, I must know immediately.”Not knowing a single word of black speech himself, Maenir could not be certain what was in the missing translation, but rarely was it that anything written in the language of Mordor was completely benign. Things had been going so well, too...  Aragorn dismissed his chief lore-master and pressed at his brow, trying to stave off a headache. He'd been kept extremely busy lately with several pressing issues about the kingdom and sometimes wondered if it would not have been better if he'd remained a ranger in the wilds of the north.He'd granted the title of Prince of Ithilien to Faramir, who subsequently decamped with his wife and a company of rangers to their new home in Emyn Arnen in south Ithilien, working to restore those lands and make them once again fit for general habitation. Over six weeks later, he'd yet to select another administrator to deal with some of the more day-to-day matters in Minas Tirith and beyond, and that fact combined with the outbreak of some sort of influenza spreading quickly through the crowded population of the city left him with little time to rest.Herbalists who had been sent up into the mountains to gather athelas were expected to return soon, at least. The healers had run short of it, along with much else. His plan for the day had been to meet with them upon their arrival and use their gatherings to ease those suffering the most in the houses of healing. Faramir would be returning for a short visit and to report in soon, perhaps he could have some of the man's rangers gather healing herbs from further reaches.Aragorn had nearly forgotten about the matter of Gríma entirely, in fact. He'd kept close tabs on the man for the first month, but as things had been going well, he'd largely stopped paying much attention to it. Other subjects had taken over the forefront of his mind. He'd received a letter from the Shire just days ago informing him that all those who had borne rings of power had departed from the shores of Middle-Earth at Grey Havens. Arwen had told him weeks ago that the appointed time was coming on swiftly, but he'd had little time to contemplate any of it. She'd already made her own farewells with her grandmother and father. Gandalf, too, had gone, and taken Bilbo and Frodo Baggins with him. The whole thing made him melancholy, if he thought too deeply on it, but he rarely had time these days to think too deeply on anything other than attempting to keep his vast kingdom running somewhat smoothly. Arwen had been nudging him gently over the past couple of years to delegate more of his responsibilities to those who were trustworthy, but that was something else which required careful consideration and time he did not seem to have.Gríma had been working quietly and diligently according to Maenir, the last time he'd sent an inquiry, and his landlord once questioned had attested to him coming and going at predictable times, paying his rent without delay, and not making any disturbances for his neighbors. Even the stable master had attested to the small horse Gríma kept being properly cared for. The guards had informed him that Gríma occasionally ate at one of the taverns near the boarding house, habitually ordering an ale and food and taking both to a secluded corner somewhere and passively watching the other patrons come and go without speaking to anyone. By all accounts he was quiet and reserved, but causing no trouble. In a distant sort of way, Aragorn had hoped the man might forge at least a few connections with the people around him, well aware of how deeply alienated Gríma had been in Rohan for essentially all of his life, even before he'd begun to commit any misdeeds, but if a grown man chose to remain solitary, that was hardly anyone else's business.The missing translation of a scroll from Minas Morgul, however, absolutely was his concern.  The guards who stood outside the houses of lore at night had nothing to say. Gríma had not been seen after leaving at the usual hour. It's possible the man had found a clandestine way in or out, as the building was not exactly a treasure vault, but there was no evidence of a forced entry anywhere. Aragorn had questioned some of the other scribes as well, all of whom stated they knew nothing about it. Gríma tended to arrive early, but had not arrived that morning, a repetition of what Maenir had already told him.The boarding house where Gríma lodged was the next stop. He stepped inside, finding the widow who owned it sitting over a pot of tea near a window. She startled badly at his appearance, rushing to stand and bow, and nearly falling. Aragorn caught her by an elbow, holding her upright.“My king! I apologize, sire, for I had never expected... I did not know...”Aragorn pressed her into sitting again, afraid she might collapse otherwise. “Peace, woman. I have come searching for one of your tenants, who works in the houses of lore and has not been seen since last night. Did you see the man called Gríma return, and if so, when did he depart again?”The old woman blinked owlishly, then lifted an eyebrow. “He came in last night at his usual hour. I did not see him depart this morning, but I had gone out to buy bread. Has this man caused some sort of trouble? He is certainly very odd, I can't say I quite trust him, although as I told your servant some weeks ago, he has paid his rent and does not make noise or leave mess.”Aragorn scratched at his chin for a moment, considering his next step. “I would like to see his room, if you have a key.”The old woman rose and pulled an iron ring with at least a dozen keys jangling on it from her belt. “Of course, sire, I can enter any room in the house. I will take you immediately.”He followed her as she shuffled up a narrow flight of stairs and down to the end of an equally narrow hall, cursing softly under her breath as she tried two or three keys before finding one that finally turned the lock. “Thank you, madam. You may return to your tea.”He stepped back, and made room for the woman to pass. She attempted to bow again, and nearly fell again, and once he'd set her upright, she finally shuffled back off and down the stairs. Opening the door, Aragorn found what was inside, and sighed heavily. “No rest for the weary, it seems.”Gríma was laid on a pallet on the floor wrapped in the same cloak he'd arrived from the Shire with, the bed frame nearby apparently having no mattress. A sheen of sweat over his brow glistened in what thin afternoon sunshine managed to come through the narrow window behind him. Bending down, Aragorn pushed the man onto his back to inspect him more closely. He did not wake, but his breathing grew more labored, whistling and wheezing from somewhere deep in his throat.This fever had mostly been a nuisance for the youthful and otherwise hale, but the youngest children and most aged had been badly affected, and it was they who largely filled the houses of healing at the moment. Gríma was not an infant nor was he aged, but for whatever reason, it had clearly knocked him for a loop. Aragorn pushed a sweat-soaked lock of hair off the man's face, feeling the heat of the fever rolling off of him.Standing, he looked about the room for the missing parchment, and saw nothing out in the open. It was possible Gríma had secreted it away under a loose floorboard or elsewhere, but the matter could wait. He went back outside to find a couple of his guards to help carry the ill man down another level to add to the rest down in the houses of healing.  Aragorn followed the guards. They'd fashioned a makeshift stretcher from a bedsheet borrowed from the widow, as nothing had managed to rouse Gríma to full awareness, and he'd proven too weak to stand unaided, much less walk. The illness had, as it did in some cases, gone to Gríma's lungs. He wasn't the worst case Aragorn had seen, but there was a more than middling chance he could die if he were left unaided.Stepping into the houses of healing, Aragorn braced himself for the predictable assault on his senses – the sounds, the smells, the generally tense and dark mood that suffused the large stone hall despite the high windows letting in ample daylight. Healers and nurses rushed to and fro and were distracted enough to not notice him until he stepped forward and grabbed a young apprentice by the sleeve. “Is there an empty bed to be found?”She startled, then pointed down the hallway. “That way m'lord, at the very end, I think there is a bed that has been changed out already, after... Well, we lost a couple of elderly patients in the night I am sorry to say.” She had not, apparently, recognized him as her king, but he hardly cared at the moment and dismissed her, letting her rush off to return to her work. He directed the guards to take Gríma to the cot the apprentice had indicated, and went to find the head healer to inform her that she had acquired yet another patient.  That afternoon, the herbalists had finally returned with large baskets full of medicinal herbs gathered from the nearby mountains. Aragorn crushed a leaf between his fingers, assessing the odor that emanated from the freshly gathered athelas. It was late in the season and not at its peak in quality. It was best harvested in summer and early autumn when the aromatic oils were at their greatest concentration within the leaves, but it would have to do.“Take a quarter of it to the houses of healing immediately, and lay the rest out to dry. It will have to last us through the winter.” The gardens in the city had been planted with a great deal of athelas over the last two years, but their reserves had dwindled over the last couple of weeks. The plant dropped its seeds in late August and early September, and more would grow come spring, but this was possibly all they would get until then.  The following morning, Aragorn returned to the boarding house, and went through Gríma's room meticulously himself, shifting furniture, testing floor boards, and even the narrow window (which had, in fact, been sealed firmly shut under successive coats of paint). The only paper he found was a torn scrap of parchment upon which Gríma had scratched a few numbers down with piece of charcoal from the small wood stove in the room, in what looked like an attempt at working out a budget from his wages. If the man were trying to save for a mattress and get himself off of the floor, Aragorn could hardly fault him.He returned to the houses of lore, tracking down Maenir and finding him in a back room sorting through loose parchment. He cleared his throat noisily after a few minutes, finally gaining the distracted man's attention.“Sire! Pardon me, I did not hear you come in. Were you able to find Gríma? He never appeared yesterday, nor did he come today.”“Yes, I found him in his room, taken ill with that damnable fever. I cannot tell you when he will be fit to return. Soon, hopefully. I did not, however, find the translation you say has gone missing. Are you absolutely certain he completed the fifth scroll?”Maenir scratched at his neck. “He said as much. He'd laid out all of it for the ink to dry that evening before leaving. I remember seeing the five fresh scrolls on the table. Come morning, they'd been rolled up and stacked, but there were only four. He might have come in before falling too ill, in the middle of the night. Otherwise, I haven't a clue where the fifth scroll went.”“None of the other scribes or lore-masters might have taken it, mistakenly or otherwise?”“I did ask, but none seemed to know anything about it.”“Do you know what the subject of the scroll was?”Maenir stood and went over to a shelf on the other side of the room, and pulled four scrolls down, bringing them to Aragorn. “These are the other four. They all seem to be concerned with some sort of sorcery which was carried out in the depths of Minas Morgul, the summoning of vile spirits, some called 'caerog,' and others called 'rogmul.' I don't know much about it, to be truthful, and I am not certain I wish to learn.”Aragorn unrolled one, skimming over the translation before rolling it back up and handing all four back to Maenir. “Put them somewhere out of sight, for the time being. It's unlikely anyone could make use of them, but I would rather they not be left laying about.”Indeed, Aragorn was hard-pressed to think of anyone in Minas Tirith who might have the skills and knowledge to pull off such sorcery, other than Gríma himself, who was currently in no condition to do anything and, so far as he had been able to ascertain, not in possession of the scroll. The more Aragorn thought about it, the more everything about this made very little sense. “Why would Gríma take the translation, when he can read the original? Or not simply copy the translation onto another scroll, so the first would not be missed?”“I don't know, sire. I cannot even say for certain Gríma is the one who has the scroll, as I did not see him take it; only you told me to keep an eye on him particularly if something of that nature went missing. I informed a few of my senior scribes as well to tell me if something went missing, although none of them had noticed it before I did.”“Did you mention Gríma in particular?”Maenir ducked his head. “Well yes, but only to two others.”“Which two?”“Gúldil, who is the most senior of the lore-masters after myself, although he spends more of his time in the old archives than here. Also Idrenil, who is, as you know, warden of the houses of lore, and tasked with keeping track of who comes and goes and anything which is taken from the building. Occasionally scholars do keep hold of something for a short time, but are expected to fill out the log, and return them in a timely manner. I did ask her if anyone had taken the scroll and checked the log book before I approached you; naturally it was the first place I looked.”Aragorn rubbed at his beard, trying hard to make the pieces fit. It might just be possible that the man's cunning had waned since Saruman's death and he'd allowed himself to become careless enough not to cover his tracks, but why should Gríma wish to summon one of the nameless? It would accomplish nothing but uncontrollable chaos as Gríma, for all his cunning and knowledge, lacked the power to actually command even a lesser spirit, and he had to know this.“I will leave you to your work, then. I have other matters to attend to, but I want you to keep your eyes open, Maenir, as I am not convinced everything is as it appears to be.”  Gríma was no better than the day before. Indeed, his condition seemed to have worsened. Aragorn had arrived to find the man nearly burning alive with fever. A healer was mopping his face and neck with cool water infused with athelas, but it did not seem to be having much of an effect. The woman stepped back as Aragorn approached the bed, allowing him to assess the patient himself. Gríma's eyes opened only slightly as Aragorn placed a hand over his forehead. Gríma muttered something in the language of the Rohirrim that Aragorn was unable to make out before closing his eyes again.The healer wrung the cloth she'd been using between her hands, distressed by the state of her patient. “He's been delirious for hours, sire. I don't know what else to do at this point, we've tried athelas and willow bark, and it seems to help for a short time, but he always grows hot again soon after.”Aragorn sighed, having seen far too many in this state recently. He had no great affection for Gríma, but it was not a death he wished on anyone. Moreover, after the effort the hobbits, particularly Frodo himself, had put into restoring this man to health over the past year... No, he would not let him die like this. Aragorn turned back to the healer. “He's too hot by far. If we can't bring the fever down in some way, he will likely have convulsions soon, or worse. Go fetch one of the tin baths and fill it with cold water from the spring out back. He won't care for it, but it's the last option we have.”The healer nodded and rushed off, grabbing a novice and a couple of the nurses as she went. Aragorn rolled up his sleeves and set to work stripping off the sweat-soaked blankets and clothing covering Gríma until he lay on the cot wearing nothing at all. He thrashed weakly in his fevered state, crying out in protest, but there was nothing to be done for it. Aragorn shushed at him as one might a panicking horse, trying to calm him before he made his condition worse, finally resorting to an incantation he'd learned from Lord Elrond himself in his youth in Rivendell. Gríma's eyes continually darted back and forth beneath their nearly-closed lids but eventually the thrashing ceased.Aware he'd gained an audience, Aragorn glanced back over his shoulder briefly, noting that Faramir had, apparently, returned from Ithilien, along with his wife, and now both of them stood off to the side, staring in silence at what was before them. Someone must have informed Faramir where his king was to be found, but failed to mention what he was doing. Soon the healer and her aides arrived with the tin bath between them, icy-cold spring water sloshing slightly onto the flagstones as they hurried.The healer paused once they'd set it down next to Gríma's bed. “Are you certain, sire, that this is wise?”Aragorn had dealt with such fevers before, and done this successfully in the past, but he didn't have time to discuss the finer points of its merits at the moment. “Yes. Now help me lift him.”Aragorn moved around to the head of the cot and grasped Gríma by his shoulders. To his surprise, Faramir came forth to help him, and with the rest, they managed to lift him and move him. To no one's great surprised, Gríma managed to find some hidden reserve of strength to shriek and flail again once he made contact with the freezing water.Aragorn had to raise his voice to be heard over the man's cries. “Hold him down, but keep his head above the water. We can't pull him out too soon, or it will do him no good.”  Gríma was asleep again, finally, and looked far more peaceful than he had since Aragorn had first removed him from his lodgings the day before. He was still warm to the touch, but not burning like a furnace as before. Aragorn had spent several minutes once they'd pulled him out of the water listening to his heart and to his lungs. The former sounded strong, but the latter could have been better.“If he can clear the fluid from his lungs, he should begin to mend.” Aragorn had taken a mortar and pestle and selected from the recently gathered herbs those that might loosen phlegm, handing the mixture to the healer. “Mix this into a bit of water when he wakes and make sure he drinks it. It's terribly bitter, but it will help.”Finally turning to Faramir and Eowyn, he motioned for them to follow him, returning to his study in the Tower of Ecthelion. The two followed him in silence.  “Ithilien goes well, sire. We've come upon a few isolated packs of orcs here and there, but they invariably flee as soon as they are discovered. The occasional warg has been found scavenging from the local hunting cats' and wolf packs' dinners, but we've managed to chase down and slay all of them thus far. What little is left of Sauron's forces in the region are disorganized, scattered, and seem to have little or no fight left in them.”Aragorn nodded. “Without a strong leader, they rarely accomplish much. I expected the surviving orcs to flee back to their former strongholds immediately, and most have, but I suppose it should not be surprising if a few managed to get separated from the main host and become utterly lost in the confusion following the war.”Faramir leaned back into a corner of the room, crossing his arms and glancing where his wife sat in the other chair, looking pensive. “This fever certainly seems to be creating a lot of trouble, I've never seen the houses of healing quite so full.”Aragorn nodded. “Indeed. It seems to attack young children and the aged moreso than those in the middle, but there have been severe cases across every age. Since you've brought it up, I meant to recruit your rangers in this matter – we are still running short of several medicinal herbs. I sent the herbalists into the mountains to gather what they may there, and they brought back what they found, but Ithilien has some which grow nowhere else. I will give you a list before you leave. In the morning, meet me in the houses of lore, there is a book there with accurate illustrations. It is imperative to know what you are gathering, as some bear resemblance to common weeds which are quite poisonous.”“Yes, sire, we will gather them as quickly as we may and return. I had hoped to spend more time in the city, but we can depart on the morrow.”Aragorn turned toward Eowyn, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since she had arrived. “And you, my lady, do you have any concerns?”Eowyn's head bobbed up, as though she'd been lost in deep thought. “No, sire. Although, if the stables could spare a few horses, we could use more of them.”Of course, thought Aragorn, although he doubted horses were what she'd been contemplating. “What is it that troubles you? And don't tell me it is a deficit of horses.”Eowyn pulled at a lock of her hair. “Nothing terribly important. I suppose the last thing I expected to see today was Wormtongue flailing about in naught but his ugly hide.”“If you're worried he'll say something about it to you later, I assure you he will not remember anything of this day. I hope only that his mind isn't permanently dulled by the fever; I have seen many come out of such fevers irreparably diminished.”Eowyn bit at her lower lip. “On the bright side, if he comes out of this dim-witted, it would certainly put a limit on any schemes he might come up with in the future.”That statement is beneath your dignity, Aragorn thought to himself but did not speak aloud. It wasn't his place to chastise Eowyn about her ire toward a man who had earned it, but something of his expression must have spoken for him as she huffed and rolled her eyes.“Fine, no, I don't truly wish anyone such an injury, but you can't expect me to shed tears over his fate either way. But good lord, the state of him! Saruman must have beat him a hundred times to leave such marks, and yet he still did not leave him? My uncle gave him an opportunity to escape that wizard before the evacuation to Helm's Deep, and he did not take it - he's already hopelessly dim-witted if you ask me!”Aragorn couldn't exactly contradict her – he'd thought Gríma foolish in many of his choices as well. And now, having seen the full extent of the results of the man's suffering under Saruman's temper, that summation was even more accurate, but it was also a past that could not be changed. Aragorn was more apt to a certain measure of pity, though, having witnessed numerous sad cases over the long years of his life of people remaining in such situations. In every case, there had been some sort of fear at the root of it - fear of change, fear of being alone, fear of going from the proverbial frying pan into the fire itself. The last of them was clearly what drove Gríma to remain with Saruman as long as he had, until Frodo Baggins himself had extended a hand of mercy to him. Gríma's relationship with the wizard had been, in a way, like a bad marriage. From the outside it's always easy to judge, easy to say, “just leave,” he thought.Aragorn looked up at Eowyn, catching her eye for several long moments and wondering if it was worth trying to impress any of this upon her. Were the issue about anyone else but Gríma, called Wormtongue, who had himself been the conduit of much of her own suffering, he might have tried it, but as it was Gríma, he simply shook his head and put the matter aside.Aragorn turned back to Faramir. “I don't think he'll be permanently damaged, although it may be some time before he can return to his work. Oddly enough, there's been... an incident recently, with one of the scrolls you brought out of Minas Morgul. The head lore-master had set Gríma to the task of translating them from the speech of Mordor into Westron, and he had completed five of the scrolls. Almost immediately afterward, one of them went missing. I have been unable to discover who took it.”Faramir stood up straight, coming to stand beside Aragorn's chair. “Was it something dangerous?”“In the wrong hands, potentially. The text concerns the summoning of spirits, the nameless ones, and while there are very few left in this world who have the skill to successfully complete such sorcery, I am not at all pleased with this situation.”Eowyn leaned forward in her seat. “Well there's the obvious solution - Gríma himself took it, naturally. He was forever stealing things in Edoras – my uncle's sword, and many other items besides. You wouldn't believe what all we found stashed away in his room after he was cast out...”Aragorn shook his head. “I suspected him as well, and his room was the first place I looked. There was nothing there. But in truth, I do not now believe it was him. He could easily have made a second copy of his translation, or simply taken the original scroll, which he can read while few others still live who can. He may have been dishonest while in the wizard's service, my lady, but can you tell me truthfully that he was ever so careless?”Eowyn paused, seeming to consider her answer seriously. “No, I will grant the villain that much credit – he may have been wicked and foolish, but he was never sloppy. Do you think someone is trying to set him up? I could not fault one of his peers for wishing him away.”Now that was something Aragorn had not considered. “You know, you may be on to something.”The question of course, was who? Gríma, by all accounts, had kept to himself since arriving in Minas Tirith, had not been witnessed arguing with anyone, or, indeed having even much conversed with anyone. Who could possibly have quarrel with him?Aragorn would have his work cut out for him on this mystery, it seemed.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Gríma was exhausted and his body hurt him from head to toe. The violent, wet cough had scarcely let up in the days since he'd woken in the houses of healing, and the healers refused to give him anything to suppress it. They would only bend him over a bowl of steaming water infused with mint, athelas, and a few other herbs he'd yet to identify from the scent alone every few hours, and dose him with something extremely bitter that only ever seemed to make him cough even more. “The king said you need to clear your lungs, sir, we can't give you anything else,” had been the repeated reply to his begging. He was fairly certain his ribs were bruised at this point, if not fractured, they ached so badly.So, he wheezed and coughed, and frequently collapsed into a miserable heap onto the cot he'd inhabited, apparently, for over a week at this point, although he still had no memory of how he'd arrived to it. He'd been furnished a chamber pot a few days ago at least, and was mostly able to use it, although he'd woken to embarrassment a couple of times earlier in the week. The nurses and maids hadn't acted affronted by it, at this point apparently quite accustomed to the unpleasant task of gathering up wet laundry, but he was still utterly mortified every time he had to look at any of those who had tended to him. He wasn't the only one suffering thus – a whole chorus of hacking surrounded him, echoing off the high stone walls and vaulted ceiling, and the entire building smelled strongly of the distilled vinegar used to clean it daily.Gríma rolled onto his side, curling into a ball and more or less wishing himself dead. What irony that he should have survived Saruman, war, and exile, only to be brought down by a common fever. He'd seen the other patients around him – most were either little children barely weaned, or the very aged. Have I truly grown so weak, he thought. He'd rarely been ill as a child, and could not even recall the last time he'd felt so poorly. It was before he'd ever met Saruman, that was for certain. Screwing his eyes shut, Gríma breathed as shallowly as he could manage, trying to avoid triggering another bout of coughing.After a few minutes, he felt a hand on his shoulder, but could not bring himself to stir. One of the healers, no doubt, doing their rounds. He felt the healer lean over him, breath brushing against his ear and neck as whomever it was leaned in, no doubt to listen to the state of his own breathing. The healer withdrew, but the hand kept its grip on Gríma's shoulder, and shook him slightly.“Sit up for a moment, Gríma, if you please.”King Elessar himself, apparently, had arrived. It had been several days since the man had dropped in to check on the progress of things, having earlier in the week left detailed instructions with his healers and departing to tend to other matters of state. The hand shook him again, and Gríma stirred briefly, then flopped back down, limply.He was just so damned tired. Death didn't actually sound too bad at the moment, all told – peaceful, quiet, restful. Gríma sighed at the thought, which was a mistake. He coughed again, violently, unable to stop until the king hauled him upright, propping Gríma up against his own chest as Gríma's head bonelessly lolled against his shoulder as the hacking finally subsided.“Have you been giving him the herbs on every sixth hour, as I instructed?”“Yes, sire, in the exact proportions you indicated. The steam as well. He is better today than yesterday, at least.”The shoes belonging to the healer exited Gríma's field of vision where he was staring at nothing in particular on the floor. The king must have dismissed him with a nod, then. It was odd to Gríma how informal King Elessar had proven to be with his own people; he'd expected differently.“I'm going to try something to help dislodge what's clogging your lungs, Gríma. You won't like it but you'll better off for it.”Gríma didn't care for the sound of that. He dimly remembered being thrown into cold water earlier in the week, and desperately hoped it wasn't to be that again. Gríma felt rather than saw the king gesturing to someone passing by.“You - come here for a moment.” The king pushed Gríma until he was sitting hunched over with his legs over the side of the cot. “Hold him up by the shoulders and don't drop him.”Gríma wasn't expecting the sharp blow that landed between his shoulder blades, and squeaked in an undignified manner in response. He managed to refrain from doing so again as several more landed, although he soon had no opportunity as he began coughing again. Several minutes into the uncontrollable fit, he brought up a rather nasty-tasting glob of something, and managed to turn his head just enough to spit the mass off to the side rather than on the apprentice's shoes.Eventually, the hail of blows ceased, although Gríma's cough continued. He soon brought up several more unpleasant bits of who-knew-what. He'd been known for a multitude of bad habits in Rohan, occasional spitting being one of the more detestable of them. Whatever it was coming up from the depths of his chest, it was foul, and he wanted rid of it, and didn't care what anyone – king, healer, prince, or pauper – thought of it at the moment. Gríma's back and ribs had been sore before, and now he was in a considerably greater amount of pain, but at least his breathing was beginning to ease somewhat.“Good. Keep that up and maybe you'll be out of here in another day or two.”Gríma's hacking finally ceased and he laid back down on his side, wincing at the pressure on his sore ribs, but knowing his back would be in even worse shape now. He'd suffered worse at the hands of Saruman, naturally, having been beaten so severely on several occasions that he'd been unable to move at all for days at a stretch afterward. The worst had been after the palantir “incident” and Gríma shut his eyes at the sudden intrusion of the memory. Fingers pushed hair away from his face, tucking the unpleasantly greasy lock behind his ear (the cold water dunking he'd suffered a week ago having been the only bathing he'd had since falling ill, and oh how he now missed the hot water of the bathhouse he normally frequented several times a week). Gríma flinched but otherwise ignored the gesture, wanting the healer or whomever it was to simply leave him in peace. His wants, of course, rarely came to him.“Gríma, can you open your eyes a moment?”King Elessar, again. He hadn't left yet?“I need to show you something.”Can't you just leave me in peace? Please? Gríma forced himself to open one eye, then the other, but when he attempted to speak, he could manage only a kind of croaking noise, his sore throat unwilling, it seemed, to produce anything coherent. He shifted to sit upright, and managed only with the king's aid.  Aragorn looked down at the thoroughly miserable man. He should probably wait, but the matter of the missing scroll was still weighing heavily on him. He waited until Gríma was upright, then pulled the four translations out of a bag he'd earlier set on the floor nearby, and crouched to hold them under Gríma's sharply pointed nose. “Do you recognize these?Gríma croaked something that might have been a “yes,” then resorted to nodding instead. Aragorn grabbed the sleeve of a passing nurse. “Bring a cup of fresh water, please.” The nurse darted off and returned soon with the cup, which Aragorn pressed into Gríma's hands with an order to drink up.“Better?”“A bit,” the man rasped. His voice had been reduced to a rough whisper, but it would have to do.“There was a fifth scroll with this collection. Maenir said you'd left it out on the table for the ink to dry. Did you remove it later in the evening, perhaps?”Gríma's head canted upward to look at Aragorn in confusion. His eyes were badly bloodshot as small capillaries had broken by the repeated coughing. After a moment, he shook his head vehemently, then cringed from the pain it no doubt caused him. “No, what use would I even have for it?”“These four pertain to the summoning of the Nameless, of malevolent spirits. I assume the missing scroll is of a similar subject?”Gríma paused, staring down at the scrolls as though they offended him. “Yes, they were all similar in subject. No one could use them without also having the necessary... artifacts. And certain skills.”Aragorn thrust the four scrolls back into the bag. “If you had those artifacts in your possession, could you use these, Gríma? Do you have such skills?”Gríma looked up at him again, his mouth slackened in something akin to horror. “I don't have the scroll, sire, I swear it!” Gríma began coughing again and Aragorn waited patiently until it ceased, gamely ignoring it when he spat the results of it off to the side again. The man had been given a chamber pot for such activities, but Aragorn had other priorities at the moment than Gríma's poor manners.Aragorn continued, keeping his tone as calm and even as possible. “I didn't ask whether you took the scroll, Gríma, nor did I accuse of you making any plans to use the instructions within it - simply whether you possess the ability to do so.”Gríma looked away from him, hunching over further. Aragorn knew he was running out of time here, as the ill man's limited stamina was waning quickly.“I... suppose I could summon the spirits as described, if I had what was necessary. Although they would almost certainly turn upon me immediately - it would be suicide, sire.”Aragorn nodded, his earlier suspicions confirmed. Gríma was many things, but he was not stupid. Unfortunately, that left Aragorn with no other leads in where the scroll had gone. “Who else could use these scrolls, theoretically? Whether it resulted in his death or no?”Gríma swayed where he sat, and Aragorn took hold of his shoulder in an attempt to steady him.“Saruman could easily have done so, but he is dead.” Gríma paused, his eyes narrowing in thought. “There were... men... among Sauron's servants. Cultists of some kind. From Angmar a few came into Saruman's service. I was not allowed to speak to them directly, other than to serve upon them when they came to Isengard. They had... they had strange knowledge, and sorcery I did not recognize. Saruman took a great interest in their lore. I was not privy to their meetings, but I believe these men used such spirits.”Aragorn stood up, feeling momentarily disturbed. He knew of whom Gríma spoke. The Black Númenóreans had been in Sauron's service for centuries, and although their power had waned after the war of the last alliance, they had not all perished. The Mouth of Sauron had clearly been of their bloodline, and a few others had shown themselves on the battlefield of Pelennor. In their forays into the defeated foe's realm in the months after the war, the rangers had also run into some who had survived, and they'd proven to be formidable foes who did indeed use all manner of sorcery.Faramir had reported some time ago that there were those even now who still believed their fallen master would return, and sought to rule Mordor in his name until then. Other factions of Sauron's followers had opposed them, though, hampering their efforts. The remnants of Mordor's armies had mostly scattered after Sauron's destruction, but enough had remained to create various factions that proceeded to fight amongst themselves over scraps. The rangers had cleared out the bulk of them after the war, but there were corners of Mordor which were still too dangerous to enter, in which such men may still hide. There was no evidence that any of them had made their way into Minas Tirith, though, and why should they need a scroll to carry out sorcery they already had mastery of? There was, of course, also the issue of getting hold of the necessary items for the ritual, a lack of which may render the whole thing moot, anyway.Gríma slumped over even more, and Aragorn finally took pity on him and aided the man in stretching out again on his side, pulling the blanket up over him. He was already asleep again by the time Aragorn turned to leave.Maybe in the end, the lost scroll was just a lost scroll. Perhaps someone had picked it up to keep as a morbid sort of curio, and was too afraid to admit the misdeed once it had become apparent that it was more serious a matter than a bit of wasted ink & parchment. Maenir had mentioned that some of the junior scribes would occasionally pester Gríma into reciting something in the black speech for their entertainment. It wasn't something Aragorn wanted to encourage, but neither had he instructed Maenir to forbid it. Maybe he should have. In any case, Gríma could translate the scroll again once he recovered, or perhaps it would be better to burn the whole lot, original and translation alike, but that was something Aragorn could contemplate later. It was a loose thread and Aragorn did not like loose threads, but for the moment there wasn't enough within reach to pull upon.Aragorn walked through the houses of healing again, looking over those who remained there. The numbers were slowly diminishing. They'd had a few deaths, but not as many has he'd feared there would be, and fewer people in the city were falling ill with each passing day. The winter solstice and its attendant celebrations were not so far away, and he was looking forward to a more festive mood.  Minas Tirith had a relatively mild climate, even compared to Rohan, but the frosts had finally arrived in earnest with midwinter. Gríma pulled his cloak more tightly around himself. He'd managed to save up enough of his wages to purchase a heavier cloak than the one he'd brought with him from the Shire just a week ago, but as the cold wind bit at his face, he missed the fur-lined one that had been ruined during the war.His eyes watered in the wind as he pushed his way home. The other scribes had been in high spirits as they cleared off the tables at the end of the workday, putting away ink and quill and parchment which would not be touched again for the next week, until the holiday was over. All had various plans for the night of the solstice, which they had been discussing amongst themselves for days. Gríma had no family of his own, though. Some of the unwed youths had, at the last moment, hesitantly invited him to join them for drinks at one of the taverns. He'd managed to force a smile and excuse himself, saying he had other plans. They'd probably seen through the white lie, but he didn't think they'd been too disappointed with his answer.Gríma had recovered from the fever he'd had the previous month, although he still coughed frequently, and his voice retained a roughness that was only slowly improving with daily consumption of the herbal tea blend he'd been making for himself. It was frustrating, however, to find himself getting more easily winded as he walked up and down the various levels of the city. The winding layout of it might be useful defense against an invader, but it was hell on anyone who had difficulty breathing or even simply bad knees.The boarding house was empty when he finally arrived. Even the old woman who owned it was elsewhere, probably visiting with one of her children or grandchildren. Gríma shrugged and went to his room. He'd just managed to get a log lit in the small wood stove when someone knocked at his door.“Who could possibly-” Gríma wrenched open the door, already annoyed at the unwanted intrusion.A nervous young citadel guard standing in the hallway grinned at him stupidly from underneath his crooked helmet, his hand still raised as he'd been about to knock a second time. “Mister Gríma? I've been sent by the king to fetch you.”Gríma shuddered momentarily, wondering what he'd been accused of this time. He knew nothing about the missing scroll, he'd already told King Elessar as much, and had redone the translation for Maenir a couple of weeks ago. Cursing under his breath, Gríma threw the water from his washbasin into the stove to put out the fire he'd just gotten started, not wanting the wood wasted in his absence. He grabbed his cloak and came to stand before the youth, who was still waiting in his doorway. “Well? Lead on, boy; you don't want to keep your king waiting, do you?”Following the guard back out onto the street, the wind was kicking up even harder now that the sun had set entirely and the cloudless night sky was filled with stars. By the time they had scaled two levels up to the citadel, the skin of Gríma's face was red and chapped.  Gríma was brought directly to Merethrond, the feasting hall, through a door just off to the right of the main entrance of the Tower of Ecthelion. The place was brightly lit with torches, candelabras, and braziers, in addition to the massive chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. Evergreen and holly boughs had been brought down from the forested slopes of the mountains behind the city and used to festoon nearly every available surface. The place was already crowded as groups of courtiers and rangers and various provincial lords and ladies milled about, their boisterous chattering echoing about the expansive room. Plates of finest porcelain had been set on gleaming gilded chargers over the many long tables, with real silverware and crystal goblets. They were currently empty, but if the smells from the kitchen below heralded anything, there would soon be plenty on them.What any of this had to do with Gríma, he didn't know. He hadn't eaten since noon, and swallowed against the saliva that the scent of food had provoked. He had some bread and a bit of cheese back in his room that he'd been about to get into when the guard had arrived to drag him away. Looking across the room toward the raised platform with the table where the king and queen and their most honored guests would logically be seated, he found the king himself standing behind it, his queen beside him, and both in conversation with one of the former ruling council of Gondor. Gríma recognized him as a man named Lord Neldir, one of the few of said former council who had survived Pelennor. Lords Forlong and Hirluin, his closest companions according what Gríma had overheard, had perished on the battlefield.The young guard cleared his throat behind Gríma. “Uh, right. I think I'm supposed to bring you directly, ah..”Gríma had begun this venture annoyed and now he was growing genuinely cross. Could this not have waited until the following day, whatever it was? He allowed himself to be steered across the room by the boy. Part of him wanted to kick at the youth, but given that the boy was wearing armor and Gríma was not, there was no point. Finally arriving before the raised table, the guard shuffled on his feet, unwilling to interrupt and waiting for his king to notice him. Finally, King Elessar glanced to his side and saw the two of them. He turned to the young guard and dismissed him, then motioned to Gríma to come closer.The king looked Gríma up and down and sighed heavily, for some reason. “I don't suppose Celonor told you why you were being summoned?”Gríma raised an eyebrow. “He said the king summoned me, and then led me here. I suppose the matter of that missing scroll has come up again? Or have I committed some other grave error before your sight that I am unaware of?”The king's lip curled slightly as if in disbelief, either at what Gríma had said or possibly at the mildly sarcastic tone in which he'd said it. Normally Gríma wouldn't have the gall to be even slightly sarcastic to a king who could by rights chuck him out of his kingdom, or even kill him on a whim, but Gríma's temper had momentarily overrun his sense of self-preservation.“The scroll? What could possibly have led you to believe-- Hmm. I'll have to speak to that boy later...”Gríma watched the king of Gondor and Arnor suddenly roll his eyes and grin in amusement, showing his teeth. Gríma felt like he'd been swept away to some strange land, or perhaps he'd fallen asleep in his room and was having a peculiar dream. Other eyes were now on Gríma and the odd conversation the king was having with him. Lord Neldir, some courtiers Gríma had never met, and the ever-mysterious elven queen who, as one of the Eldar, towered above most other occupants of the room.The bubbling chatter in the room suddenly decreased in volume and the sound of feet shuffling about replaced the babble as a veritable army of servants flooded in with large trays piled up with more food than Gríma had seen since before the war. He watched as they moved in two streams across the room, filling up the king's table first, then spreading out to the rest of the room. King Elessar's hand caught Gríma by the elbow as he passed, dragging the half-stunned man a few feet and depositing him next to the seat at the end of the table before proceeding with his queen to the center.The king stood at his appointed place, looking out over the assembled crowd as each lined up to stand beside the benches along the massive tables. King Elessar picked up the jewel-encrusted golden goblet on the table at his place, which had been filled with wine, lifting it to the crowd. “I bid welcome to all in my hall on this night of the solstice! I know you are all expecting a long speech, but, alas, you won't get it tonight!”With that, the king lifted his goblet higher before bringing it to his lips and downing half of it in one go. The crowd all picked up the crystal goblets from their own places, returning the gesture before sitting and proceeding to fill their plates. Gríma, still not understanding what, exactly, was going on, stood transfixed in confusion until a hand to his left grabbed his sleeve and yanked him downward.Gríma sat, glancing to his left where none other than the Prince of Ithilien, Faramir himself, now sat. Gríma also noted that Eowyn was to her husband's other side, and sank down in his seat, although he could not dare hope to escape notice.“She won't bite you this evening, if that's what worries you. The king himself invited you, after all.”Gríma looked out across the room at the assembled crowd. Some he recognized as nobility, a few were captains or other soldiers, some served in the king's own household. Many he'd never laid eyes on. That he was here was unbelievable in itself, that he was seated at the king's own table was simply astonishing. “He had me fetched, you mean. I was told nothing about this...”Faramir laughed beside him, sipping his wine. “It may have been a whim, true; I believe someone asked about you earlier and he decided you ought to make an appearance. But the point is - you are here and the food is plentiful.”The Prince of Ithilien shoved a platter at him as it was passed down the table. Gríma took a leg of roasted chicken, and was suddenly thrown back to a moment from his adolescence, into the memory of his first meal within Meduseld, and the young soldier who had humored him right until the moment he'd discovered Gríma's ancestry. Gríma flinched as Faramir's hand squeezed his shoulder and a basket of bread appeared in front of him.“I gather that crowds and merriment are not your usual entertainment.”Gríma tore into the chicken leg, determined to get through the evening with some shred of his dignity intact, or what little remained of it.“Forget it, Farmir, he always spent parties interfering with my uncle's business and then skulking in a corner somewhere when no one would dance with him.” Eowyn reached across the table to help herself from serving dish full of buttered, roasted carrots.Faramir leaned toward his wife, whispering something in her ear that Gríma didn't even try to catch. He rather pointedly decided he didn't care. He grabbed the serving dish Eowyn had been scooping carrots out of earlier and helped himself to a few. His diet this time of year left something to be desired, mostly consisting of bread, cheese, and pickled vegetables, so he wasn't about to turn down fresh cooking. Well, he wouldn't complain about a free meal, but he thought the king's seating arrangement could have been improved. He'd have been happy enough sitting at the far end of one of the other tables, certainly. Why was he sitting next to the husband of Eowyn? Perhaps it was some jest the king found amusing, but Gríma failed to see the humor in it. Gríma dropped the now thoroughly stripped chicken bones onto his plate and used the crust of his bread to gather up the remnants of the gravy.“No head for wine this evening?”Gríma startled out of his ruminations at Faramir's inquiry, glancing at the untouched goblet. He rarely drank wine anymore. He'd drink the weak ale served in a tavern near the boarding house, not trusting the water, but somewhere along the way, he'd developed an aversion to being even slightly inebriated; it always left him feeling too vulnerable.“Maybe he's worried it's poisoned.” Eowyn's tone was light and conversational, but Gríma knew exactly what she was getting at – it was largely through her uncle's love of wine and daily habit of having it with his supper that Gríma had dosed King Theoden with the concoctions Saruman had provided to render the king more susceptible to suggestion. Gríma glanced her way as she smiled sweetly, refilling her own goblet of wine from one of the large bottles left by the servants.Gríma wished fervently for the floor to open beneath him, but it failed to heed his desires. He picked at a few more vegetables sent up and down the table, and then at the fruit pie brought for dessert. At least his dinner companions had finally lost interest in him.  The food and tables had been cleared away and, predictably, out came the fiddles and lutes and pipes. The center of the room had been converted into a dance floor, and Gríma, true to Eowyn's earlier observations (as much as it galled him), had retreated to a poorly-lit corner of the room where he hoped to spend the rest of the evening beneath notice, at least until he could politely excuse himself and withdraw without causing offense.Dancers twirled about through song after song, trading off partners. Eowyn had danced with her husband first, as was natural, and was now in the arms of some grey-haired lord that Gríma did not recognize.“She doesn't hate you so much as you might think, you know.”Faramir materialized out of thin air beside Gríma, and he was suddenly reminded that this man was, in fact, a ranger. Gríma had flinched at the sudden intrusion, but relaxed again almost immediately. He glanced at Faramir from the corner of his eye. There was something strangely soothing about his presence, an evenness of speech and manner that seemed almost contrived to lower one's defenses in his presence, like a passive form of Saruman's voice. He doubted it was conscious in any way, but rather something within the man's nature. Nonetheless, it surprised Gríma that Eowyn had been drawn to him, as resistant as she'd always been to anything she even suspected might fetter her in the least. Or maybe it was just you she feared, he thought to himself.“I'm fairly certain she'd kill me where I stand, if she thought her king wouldn't object to the resulting mess in his feasting hall, but I'll take your opinion under consideration.”Faramir laughed, throwing an arm over his shoulders for a moment. What is wrong with this man? Gríma thought.“I doubt that, friend – after all, if you were dead, she couldn't bully you anymore, and that would rather take all of the fun out of it. Don't misunderstand me, I do not mean to imply that she harbors any secret affection for you, either. I think she simply no longer cares all that much anymore about you at all.”Gríma didn't quite know how to respond to that. If he'd ceased to be of any real importance to her one way or another, wasn't that a good thing? He hadn't exactly gone out of his way to avoid her, but if he'd happened to move Lady to a stall on the opposite side of the city's main stables after their previous encounter... well. It hadn't been long afterward that she and her husband had packed up and moved out of Minas Tirith to Ithilien anyway, returning to the city only occasionally. In all fairness, Gríma sometimes thought of her in the past tense, or as a might-have-been, but not nearly as often as he'd expected to either.“That's very sensible of her. She has more important matters to spend her attention on these days, surely.”Faramir caught Gríma's gaze, looking at him for a long moment. Gríma shuddered under the pressure of it, reminded entirely too much of Saruman when his former master had forced his way into his thoughts. Faramir, like his father before him, was known to occasionally have prophetic dreams, and like many in his bloodline before him, possessed peculiar abilities. Gríma would not have been entirely shocked to learn the man could, in fact, read minds. Gríma stumbled backwards, vertigo overcoming him. Faramir grasped him by the arms, preventing him from falling. The room still swam around him, but for once he managed not to faint.“Do you need to sit down?”Faramir was still looking at him, but his eyes had softened in concern and Gríma felt less like a live insect suddenly pinned to a board. He pulled himself from Faramir's grasp, leaning against the wall instead. “I'll be fine in a moment, it is nothing.”“It's grown warm in here with such a large gathering. Come, we can sit outside. I'll share a pipe with you, if you like.”Gríma had no time to respond before he was already being led for the second time that night by a firm hand grasping his elbow, trailing him around the margin of the room and down a flight of stairs, then outdoors. Faramir stopped on the landing outside, pulling Gríma down to sit on the steps. A match flared and a pipe glowed as it was lit. Faramir held it out to him, but Gríma waved it off. (If Pippin had spent months attempting to convince Gríma to smoke pipeweed and had failed, Faramir would not succeed.)“Would you be willing to tell me what that was all about? Eowyn mentioned you'd fainted in front of her brother, and again in front of her, when pressed about certain subjects. But I haven't greatly pried into your past tonight, have I?”Gríma looked up at the stars overhead, drawing his cloak around himself tightly. It had been cold as he'd been led up here earlier, and was even colder now. Faramir leaned over slightly, casually pressing a shoulder into his.“No, my lord, you have not pried into anything specific, as far as I know.”“'As far as I know'? An odd way to put it.”Gríma shivered slightly, again wishing he still had the fur-lined cloak of his past. “Saruman had a certain... talent... for extracting the thoughts of his servants, whether they willed it or no. The way you were looking at me, earlier...” Gríma shook his head. Why was he suddenly spilling his thoughts to this man? He barely knew him at all.“Hmm. That is interesting. I have not Saruman's power but... if I tell you something in confidence, can you keep it?”Gríma turned to look at his companion, but could see only the outline of his profile and the starlight reflecting from his eyes. “Most would warn you that I am not known for being trustworthy, my lord.”Faramir peered back at him through the dark, and Gríma shuddered again at that same feeling overtaking him, and turned away.“You know, I think I'll tell you anyway. Call it a vote of confidence if you like, or an apology for discomfiting you. Yes, I will tell you this – that I cannot directly read thoughts, as your former master did, but I am able to perceive something of the minds of others. I have never known anyone to notice it, however. That is... quite curious, I think. How do you know, exactly?”Gríma swallowed heavily, not certain if it was better or worse knowing without doubt that this man could pry into his mind, to any degree. Faramir's disarming nature was clearly something of a misdirection. He increasingly seemed quite dangerous indeed to Gríma, even if his intentions were not hostile, and yet Gríma was still continually drawn in by his soft manner. “It is... as if a shadow were falling across one's mind. Not precisely that, but I cannot think of any other way to describe it.”Faramir's pipe flared as he puffed at it. The scent of pipeweed smoke grew heavier as it clouded about them, and Gríma suddenly coughed violently; he'd always found the smoke somewhat irritating, but after the fever his lungs had grown even more temperamental.“My apologies, friend.”The pipe was snuffed out and put away. A hand patted and rubbed at his back until his involuntary hacking and sputtering finally ceased. Gríma couldn't understand what this man's interest in him was, and everything about the evening had wrong-footed him, from the sudden invitation to this inexplicable friendliness from someone who by all rights ought to at least dislike him, if not despise him outright, considering who he was married to.“Did Saruman teach you to read the thoughts of others?”Gríma shook his head, then remembered it was too dark to be seen. “No. I am not certain it is something that can be taught, or Saruman likely would have had me breaking into the minds of Rohan's king and court on his behalf.”“How, then, did you manage to master Theoden, if not through reading his thoughts?”Gríma hunched in on himself. This man was known to be something of a scholar, and it should not be so shocking to Gríma that he was curious about such things. He disliked having to recount the sins of his past, though. “Does it matter, now, how I did anything? The war is over, and Saruman is dead.” The hand returned to his shoulder, squeezing slightly.“I meant no offense. I studied under Mithrandir, in my youth. Much to my father's displeasure, naturally. He taught me much, but not the sort of craft your wizard apparently specialized in. I suppose I am merely curious – after all, had it been my wizard who had fallen to corruption rather than Saruman, our fates might easily have been reversed. My father's downfall, alas, came without my or any other's interference, save that of Sauron himself, through the palantir that was kept here, much as one in Isengard overtook Saruman.”What a thought, that. It wasn't that Gríma hadn't pondered what his life might have been had Saruman not turned against the free peoples; he had indeed spent many a long night wishing it had been thus. In some of the darkest periods of his past, he often lost himself in vivid fantasies of a better world than the horrors of the reality he'd found himself in. He'd never stopped to consider, though, that his fate might have been traded with another. It was difficult to imagine the soft-spoken man beside him engaging in the kind of leechcraft Gríma had, whatever his circumstances.“He trained me in the use of my voice, mostly. It is a subtle sorcery, not obvious to most upon whom it is used against, and certain herbs may be used in conjunction with it to soften the defenses of a mind even further. Then, one becomes open to suggestion...”“Could you still use this skill, if it were needed?”A jolt shot down Gríma's spine at the question. Faramir, indeed, was proving to be full of all manner of surprises this night. “I... No. Never again.”“Theoretically, I mean. I am not suggesting you intend to engage in anything illicit in the future. Is it that you cannot use this ability now that Saruman is dead, or simply would not?”Gríma ought to get up and leave, he thought. Why had he allowed himself to be led out here? He didn't want to go back inside, either. He could find his way home, despite the dark. There were torches along the main paths of the city, after all, kept lit well past midnight on festival nights such as this. He needed to get away from this man, somehow, without causing offense to someone who certainly had the king's ear.“I haven't attempted it since I fled Edoras, and I don't care to put the theory to the test. What difference is it, either way? It is certainly not a skill that can be used for anything but ill ends.”“A hammer may be used to build a house or tear it down, Gríma. I am not so certain. But, unless some unforeseen situation arises where it might be needed, I suppose it does not matter either way.”Another squeeze to his shoulder, and he felt Faramir stand beside him.“I think I'd best return, lest my wife begin to wonder where I've disappeared to. After all, she may need rescuing, depending on who has dragged her onto the dance floor by now. Will you join me?”Gríma hauled himself to his feet, looking back toward the door and the merriment he knew was still going on behind it. “I think I'd better go to my bed for the night. I tire easily, lately, since this cough... If you may, give my apologies to King Elessar, he likely had some jest in mind when he summoned me, and I may well have spoiled the punchline by departing too soon.”“The king did not bring you out here tonight to mock you, Gríma. I don't know precisely what led to his decision, but it is not in his nature to be cruel in such a manner. Nonetheless, I will give him your regards and let him know you have retired for the night. I think he will understand.”Faramir turned aside and as he opened the door to the feasting hall, laughter and warmth briefly spilled out into the night. The door shut behind him, and Gríma began his walk through the chill wind of the city's paths back to his room. The log in the stove ought to be dry by now, at least, and might not take too long to light again.  Gríma slept late into the next morning, having no particular reason to rise. It was nearly midday by the time he came down the steps to venture out in search of something to eat besides stale bread. The widow stopped him as he passed.“A package was left for you this morning, Mister Gríma.” She twitched her head toward a table beside the door where the item had been placed.Gríma hadn't been expecting anything delivered, certainly, but he picked it up and found that his name was written clearly on it. He untied the twine and pulled back the parchment to find a thick, woolen muffler inside, but no letter or note nor any indication of who had sent it. Shrugging, Gríma wrapped it around his neck and face, covering his mouth and nose before venturing out into the bitterly cold air.For the first time in weeks, he managed to make it to the market and back without coughing.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The next day, Gríma found himself idle to the point of boredom as the city's work remained paused for the week of the solstice festivities. The lanes of Minas Tirith were crowded with people from the countryside who had poured in to visit family or simply take advantage of the holiday markets. Even the normally sedate boarding house he lived in had suddenly become insufferably noisy. The remaining vacant rooms were rented for the week by various travellers, including one family with three young children in the room immediately adjacent to his own that had arrived the previous afternoon.Waking up multiple times during the night, having been driven out of sleep by the crying of an infant, had done nothing to improve his mood. He'd complained about the noise to the widow who had told him tersely that the family had paid as much for a week as he did for a month, and he'd just have to suffer their presence until they departed. “It's only a few nights, stuff cotton into your ears before going to bed and you won't even notice them.”Gríma had no intention of stuffing anything into his ears, and doubted it would suffice to block out the piercing wails of the children. Not everyone was half-deaf as the old widow was, but he didn't think it wise to tell her so. Instead, he had retrieved his cloak and new scarf from his room, and fled outdoors immediately. The day had dawned cold but sunny, and while the air was icy, the sunlight quickly warmed the dark indigo cloak against his back. Still, he had little to occupy himself with at the moment, the houses of lore locked and unattended for the duration.Gríma found himself wandering around the holiday markets for a few hours. He had little money to spare at the moment, and there wasn't a great deal that tempted him in any case. He stopped at the various tables and booths set up along the margins of the streets mostly for lack of anything better to do.A cloth merchant peered at him suspiciously as he idly rifled through his wares, as though he were going to stuff an entire bolt of cloth into his robes and abscond with it at any moment, but Gríma tried not to notice. He'd been treated in such a manner his entire life, after all, firstly in Rohan because of his dark hair and features, and now in Gondor because apparently Eowyn couldn't refrain from gossiping about him until the entire city knew of him and, whenever recognized, proceeded to treat him like a thief.Technically, he had been a thief in Rohan in a certain capacity that had not included merchants' wares, but that didn't make it any less annoying. He lifted up a bolt of finely woven cotton cloth dyed in an unusually rich shade of sky-blue. It wasn't the simplest or cheapest color to achieve with dye, and no doubt the price would reflect that. It would make a fine dress for a beautiful lady. Eowyn would look marvelous in it. Gríma let go of the cloth immediately at the sudden intrusive thought, and walked away. The merchant turned to inspect his wares for loss or damage the moment he departed, which Gríma noticed after making the mistake of glancing back, souring his mood even further.After walking for a couple more hours without any destination in mind, simply moving through the city, he eventually succumbed to the smells wafting out of the taverns. It was nearly noon, and he was hungry. He walked into the next tavern he passed. Glancing up at the sign as he passed beneath it, it was called The Splintered Shield, and given that he was on the same tier as the armories and several barracks, likely full of soldiers and guards. It was certainly not one he'd ever set foot in before. Maybe if he were lucky, the proprietor and patrons weren't gossips and wouldn't know anything about him.  Gríma collected his ale and food and turned to find somewhere to sit, then paused in his tracks, cursing under his breath. He had no luck today at all. I knew I should have stayed in bed, those brats would have eventually left with their parents and I could have slept all day...Gríma shook his head and started off toward the opposite end of the tavern. Faramir rose from where he was seated at the large table, surrounded by half a dozen of his rangers and, of course, his wife, and darted in front of him. Gríma nearly walked right into the man, avoiding losing his plate only as Faramir grabbed it at the last moment.“Come, join us! I was just talking to one of our herbalists about you.”Gríma scowled at the man, who smiled back at him, trying to calculate the risk of losing his entire meal if he attempted to grab the plate from Faramir, who still had it in a firm grasp. Faramir's expression and tone were friendly and casual, but Gríma knew the invitation wasn't optional. Gríma still did not know why this man had suddenly made it his goal to drag Gríma to his side at every opportunity, or what his ultimate goal might be. Was it all some sort of convoluted plan to eventually avenge his wife, or did he simply enjoy seeing Gríma suffer for mere entertainment? If it were the former, it was a very strange way of going about it.Cautiously, Gríma followed him back to the table. Faramir shooed one of his rangers further down the bench, placing Gríma's plate beside his own and, acquiescing to his fate, Gríma sat.Faramir gestured to a woman sitting opposite him. “This is Idhrien. Idhrien, Gríma.”Gríma nodded at the woman, who narrowed her eyes at him before nodding in return and taking a sip of her ale. If Faramir noticed anything of their stilted greetings, he said nothing. Gríma also knew Eowyn was on the other side of her husband, again, but refused to take any notice of her.“Idhrien has been lately in the surroundings of the Morgul Vale, studying what grows there. I know you have been translating more scrolls removed from the tower, and thought she might make use of them; were any pertaining to the flora of the area?”Gríma chewed at the bacon sandwich he'd purchased, trying to remember. “One, I believe, detailed a few specific plants that were used for... purposes. There was nothing in the way of a general treatise on the subject. I don't believe the inhabitants of Minas Morgul – or any province of Mordor - were terribly concerned with anything that they could not bend to some nefarious end.”Faramir drank more of his ale, looking back and forth between Gríma and his herbalist, before settling on Gríma. Gríma could feel that same shadow descending over his mind, as if coming under the gaze of a great eagle circling above him, and shuddered. “I wish you would not do that, my lord.”Faramir turned away, sighing. “I forget how perceptive you are, my friend, forgive me. I meant no ill.”Another ranger leaned forward, peering at his lord and the strange guest in their midst, with a look of slight confusion. They must not know what their master can do, Gríma thought to himself. Leaning over his plate, from the corner of his eye Gríma caught Eowyn herself peering strangely at her husband. If he happened to hear him whisper in her ear, he kept it to himself. “I'll explain later, my love.”Faramir hadn't told her either, then. Curious, but none of his business, after all.“Gríma, we will be departing again at the end of the festival week. If your master will allow it, I would like you to travel with us for a time, and aid with Idhrien's work.”Gríma did not want to go to Ithilien, and wanted even less to enter any part of Mordor, but he knew he had no standing to refuse the Prince of Ithilien. “O-of course, my lord, if Maenir gives leave for me to depart his service for a time.”Maenir might refuse, but Gríma doubted it. He picked at the rest of his food as the rangers around him laughed and chattered away over their ale. He just couldn't keep out of trouble, no matter how much he tried...  Gríma hunched over Lady's neck, pulling his scarf more tightly over his nose. This chill wind, apparently, was a feature of Gondorian winters, carving its way from north to south, through the valley created between the easternmost ridge of the white mountains and the mountains which bordered Mordor. It would take a couple days to pass from Minas Tirith through the partially rebuilt ruins of Osgiliath and into Ithilien, then a couple more weeks to actually enter the Morgul Vale.The bridge to Minas Morgul (now also in ruins) had been thrown down by Gandalf himself, leaving no way to pass over the abyss that cut it off from the Gondorian side, but there were other paths to enter that narrow valley, all treacherous ledges winding through the mountains that required them to go far to the south and then back-track northward again once on the other side of the mountains.There was another path, of course, that went through the plains of Gorgoroth, but given that there were sluggish but still active lava flows through that region that shifted and changed and could not be mapped accurately for any length of time, it was the southern pass they would use.He'd been given a set of clothing like the rangers of Ithilien wore, which were warmer and more suited for travel than his usual scribe's robes or the trousers and tunics he'd brought from the Shire, but somehow the wind seemed to cut through all layers of it regardless. He urged his horse onward, not wanting to fall behind the rest, all mounted on animals with a longer stride.Faramir had tried to press him into taking a different mount, but he didn't trust the stable hands in Minas Tirith to look after Lady properly in his absence and thus didn't want to leave her behind. She'd carried him this far, after all, and had proven quite hardy despite her small stature and what some claimed was an unrefined and unpleasant appearance. Plenty had said the same about her master over the years, after all, and somehow despite all, he was still here too.  Gríma stared into the fire, having finally gotten the logs to catch fire despite the wind. He fed more kindling into the growing flames until all of the firewood was burning. The other rangers had set up the camp, staking out tents and working out a watch rotation amongst themselves. He'd offered to be included, but the ranger in charge of it, a man named Mablung, had waved him off.They didn't quite trust him, and, glancing at Eowyn where she stood with her husband in conversation with Idhrien and a ranger he thought might be named Tordoron if he'd overheard correctly, he could easily guess why. No doubt he'd been the topic of much conversation over campfires just like this in the past months, none of it flattering. Gríma could only hope that Faramir commanded enough loyalty from his men to prevent a mutiny. A shared meal in a tavern in Minas Tirith was one thing, but he could tell they resented his presence, already poisoned against him before they'd ever met.Really, he ought to hate Eowyn at this point. He ought to, but knowing her motivations for preemptively tarnishing his name amongst these people, he could, in the end, only manage to hate himself.As the tent-building and other activity came to an end, rangers began wandering toward the fire Gríma had made in the center of camp. As Tordoron (or whatever he was called) sat down a few feet away from him, and others swiftly joined him, Gríma rose and walked away, stopping behind a nearby oak tree. He took advantage of the relative privacy to empty his bladder into a patch of weeds nearby, then wedged himself into a corner between the tree's roots, pulling his legs up under his cloak for extra warmth.  “I'd wondered where you'd skulked off to. Go back to the fire, Wormtongue, before my husband sends out a bloody search party.”Gríma opened his eyes, finding her staring down at him. By the general rules of society, he ought to rise and greet the wife of the lord of this land, but it was cold and he didn't want to break the bubble of warmth he'd managed to create beneath his cloak and up against the tree out of the wind. Eowyn couldn't possibly hate him more than she already did, despite what her husband had said at the solstice feast. He returned her hard glare with a passive expression. “I wouldn't want to ruin the evening's mood, my lady.”Eowyn crossed her arms, baring her teeth at him. “If you don't want to ruin the mood, then go back to the fire, sit down, and at least attempt to act like a normal man for once in your life. They already think you are some soft paper-shuffler, although I've told them you've weaseled out of more calamity and disaster than anyone else I've ever met, you're more stubborn than a bad rash. But if Faramir has to take several of his men to come searching for you, which he will eventually, it most certainly will ruin the evening's mood. ”“So go back to your husband and tell him I'm safe where I am and will return soon enough, then he will have no need to search.”“You're also sitting on the only tree nearby large enough to offer any semblance of privacy and I have need of it. Clear off, already.”Gríma reluctantly rose, shivering slightly as the envelope of heat he was in dissipated in the wind. Eowyn grabbed his cloak as he walked past, stalling him.“Faramir, for reasons unknown to me, seems to think you aren't completely beyond all hope. He's a good man, a much better man than you. At least try not to disappoint him completely.”Gríma stared at Eowyn for a moment in the dwindling twilight. “Why do you insist upon doing this every time we cross paths? What is it you want from me, madam? An apology? If so, then I am, indeed, sorry for the harm I have caused you and your kin. But I can do nothing – nothing - to alter the past.”“I don't care for your flimsy apologies, and I don't believe for a moment you've changed in the least. You're a coward, Wormtongue, and if you are sorry now, it is only because you no longer have your powerful master to hide behind. You'll betray us all in an instant if it gets you something you desire, just as you betrayed my uncle and all of Rohan. Why my husband should put such faith in you, I will never understand. He must know, on some level, how much you despise him.”Gríma shook his head, finding nothing but confusion in her words. “Why should I despise Faramir? I barely know anything of him and thus far he has done me no harm. You assume much of me, madam. Far too much.”Eowyn cocked an eyebrow at him. “You hate him because I married him, and not you. Don't play coy about it, my brother certainly wasn't blind to what you were up to and neither was I. Everyone knew you were watching after me any chance you got. You even admitted Saruman dangled me in front of you as a prize to be won. I was nothing but a piece of meat in front of a starving dog to you, and the entire court could see it.”Gríma pulled away from her, all but yanking his cloak from her grasp, his temper flaring. He couldn't hate her, but he was starting to truly hate her constant goading any time they accidentally crossed paths. “What difference does it make? Nothing came of it. Are you not happy with the ranger you've gotten for yourself? Or is a mere prince too lowly for one such as you, who would rather have a king instead?”Gríma, to his credit, did not react when she slapped him across the face, but to simply close his eyes against the sting.“Eowyn, come away from him.”Gríma turned to find Faramir standing nearby, having arrived silently sometime during their argument. Even Eowyn flinched at his unexpected voice. For a moment, Gríma watched as Eowyn glared nearly as angrily at her own husband as she had at him, something unspoken happening between them. Gríma held his breath, not wanting to be drawn into the middle of it.“Wormtongue and I clearly still have a few things to settle between us. I will meet you at the fire soon.”Faramir didn't respond to her, but neither did he depart. The two stood staring at one another, some sort of silent struggle or debate going on between them.Tiring of the impasse between the couple, Gríma made his own decision, and left, walking back toward the camp and giving the angry woman and her husband a wide berth. He bypassed the chattering crowd seated around the fire and went straight into the tent he would be sharing with a ranger named Anborn, and crawled beneath a blanket, pulling it over his head.  The morning dawned grey and dreary as clouds filled the sky overhead. Gríma was content enough with it, as it matched his mood. The wind, at least, had abated somewhat with the changing weather. He'd helped Anborn pack up the tent and load it onto one of the pack mules. The man had tried to draw him into conversation about the history of the region, of which Gríma had read plenty in his youth, but he couldn't seem to focus on anything other than his own abject misery.He'd strongly considered attempting to sneak away into the night, but a watch had been set and the rangers were skilled at tracking and would notice the movement immediately. It wasn't like sneaking out of Meduseld had been, under the noses of men more interested in horses and girls and drink than in court security.  At noon, they stopped to rest atop a ridge. Gríma held himself off to the margin of the group, pulling something out of his pack to eat while he stared out over the forests of south Ithilien. Idhrien had ridden beside him for most of the day, generally silent but occasionally pointing out particular herbs. Some he'd known well, others he'd seen only illustrations of in books. A few were entirely new to him. She had expounded upon the medicinal uses of many of them. It struck him as odd that she suddenly now felt compelled to speak to him, given the suspicious looks she'd been throwing him since they first met across the table at a tavern in Minas Tirith, but perhaps knowing they'd be obliged to work together once arriving in the Morgul Vale, she'd decided to be generous.In return, he'd pointed out a few of the poisonous ones, which she had found amusing for some reason. After pointing out one in particular that was commonly used to paralyze fish, she'd stopped briefly to gather some and extracted a promise from him to teach her how to use it later. The group had mostly been subsisting on the dried fruit, nuts, and meat in their packs, but as wildlife was returning to the area, the occasional rabbit or grouse was appearing in their evening meals. A few had loosed arrows at deer darting between the trunks of trees, but none of them had thus far hit their target.“I'm not much of a hunter,” Idhrien had commented earlier, “but if I could procure some nice fish from one of these creeks, they might see me as less of a burden, at least.”Faramir's rangers hadn't struck him as the sort to overly resent a woman's presence, especially one who was an herbalist and healer and thus useful, but he also hadn't been paying a great deal of attention either. He'd been focused more on Eowyn than Idhrien since she had slapped him, and they wouldn't dare speak against their captain's wife whatever they thought.He was tired of thinking about Eowyn, though. She'd stayed away from him this day, at least, likely due to her husband telling her not to approach him again, he thought. She wanted to kill him, Gríma also thought, but the notion of outright murder rather than dispensing death through battle must offend her sense of honor. Maybe that's why she insisted on provoking him – if he ever raised a hand against her, then finally she'd have leave to kill him. He didn't doubt that she would be capable of it, either. He'd been in a few fistfights as a boy and had fended off the occasional ruffian, but he was no trained warrior.Breaking into smaller groups, rangers headed off in twos and threes in multiple directions. Some to scout ahead, others to hunt. Eowyn had headed off with Tordoron and Rhadrog to hunt. Gríma was left with Idhrien, Anborn, and Faramir himself to watch over their pack animals and the gear left behind.“Come, Gríma, you can help me refill the water skins, I think there is a stream nearby if my recollection of this area is correct.” Faramir nodded at Idhrien as he pulled Gríma away by the arm.“I suppose I had misjudged the depth of Eowyn's remaining feelings toward you. Truly, she does not speak of you that often anymore when you are not present. It's only when you are in front of her, it seems, that she cannot put the past away.”Gríma pulled empty water skins from pack mules and saddlebags, putting them into a sack to carry. Faramir turned toward the nearby line of trees and Gríma followed. “She has cause to hate me, my lord. I am not going to deny that. I do try to stay out of her way but somehow she seems to run into me regardless. I do not seek her out, I swear it!”Faramir laughed at him. “I don't recall accusing you of it! I know you have not sought her attention since you have come to Gondor, I do keep a close eye on her, but these things seem to happen of their own accord. I have advised her to simply depart without speaking to you at such times, but her temper gets the better of her. Ah – here is the creek. My memory is not so poor, yet.”Gríma sat down on a large, flat mossy stone beside the creek, dipping water skins in one at a time to let them fill. “She believes I resent her marriage to you.”“Yes, I noticed that. I was standing there for a while, last night, actually. I suppose I should have interrupted sooner.”Gríma set one filled skin aside and began filling another, growing silent for several minutes as the babbling of the stream and the noises of birds and animals in the trees surrounded them. “I should not have mentioned her... history... with the king I suppose.”Faramir nodded beside him. “It was unwise, although I cannot say it was unprovoked. For the future, I would give you the same advice I gave her – simply leave, preferably before things come to blows. I've been going over the entire exchange between the two of you in my mind for hours, and I no longer believe there is any immediate way to resolve this. Her anger with you is not only her anger with you – it is her anger with Saruman, her anger over the entire war, and at the heart of it, the grief of losing her uncle and her cousin as well as years of watching Rohan suffer. You played only a part in it, for which I believe you have repented. But, alas, Saruman and his army of uruk-hai are not here for her to take her temper out on, so she has heaped all of it upon you as the last surviving representative.”Gríma filled the last water skin and stashed it in the sack and stood. He stared into the water as it sped away through the grey trunks of leafless winter trees. Faramir, in a gesture that was now becoming all too familiar, squeezed his shoulder momentarily.“I don't know what to do about any of it. She ascribes to me much that is not true. I do not hate you, nor do I now resent her for her choices. I will admit I sometimes wonder if she might have thought differently of me, if I had never served Saruman, but-”“If you'd never been taken by Saruman, Gríma, I doubt you'd have ever met her. Weren't you a carter's son in some border province, before the wizard removed you from your father?”Gríma turned, looking into Faramir's eyes, and steadfastly ignoring the now-familiar feeling of a shadow coming over his mind. “It was never meant to be, was it? Just as well, I suppose. Even if we had met, I doubt my mixed blood would have endeared me to her...”“Probably not, which is an unfortunate blind spot common to the Rohirrim generally, I've noticed, and commoners in general are rarely noticed by the high born anywhere... Oh, don't be so glum! If you'd stop hiding yourself away and occasionally talk to other people, you might not feel so alone, you know.”Gríma pulled a face. The old “you just haven't met the right girl ” routine... He picked up the bag with the now-filled water skins, hefting it's considerably increased weight over his shoulder. Faramir did the same, heading off back toward the ridge they'd come from.“I don't think your rangers care much for me either, for that matter. I suppose Eowyn has already told them of me.”Faramir began tying filled waterskins to the packs on the mules and onto the saddlebags of the company's horses. “She's told a few stories over the campfire, yes. But you've hardly provided any opposing view, either. Some of them may never care for you, but I think others might be swayed if you bothered to try. Anborn seems to be intrigued, at least, and Idhrien, I noticed, spent a bit of time riding beside you this morning. What were the two of you discussing?”“She was pointing out a few herbs to me as we passed them, and I was doing the same, in return. I don't have quite her breadth of practical knowledge on herbs, but I've come across a few things in my studies she has not.” Poisons, mostly, he didn't add.“See? You already have something in common. Build on that.” Faramir slapped his shoulder as he passed, and walked up to the top of the ridge and well downwind of Gríma before lighting his pipe.  Faramir followed his wife into their shared tent that evening. She'd barely spoken to him at all since the previous night, still angry with him, apparently, for interfering with her argument with Gríma. He'd hoped she would cool off, eventually, both toward himself and toward the troublesome lore-master.“We could turn aside, if you like. We are only a few days from Bâr Húrin and it is not a long detour. You could remain there until we return.”Eowyn shook her head where she was seated beneath the small lantern hanging from the side of the tent, taking the braids out of her hair. “I'm fine, love... certain company aside.”“Gríma, you mean?”“Wormtongue, yes! Why did you bring that fool along? There are plenty of other lore-masters in Minas Tirith.”“But none with his knowledge of our former enemy's craft. I haven't even told him all of what we intend to do, but his skills will be useful. I don't know of any others who know the black speech as thoroughly as he does.”Eowyn huffed, pulling her comb out of her pack after getting the last braid undone. “Of course he knows the black speech, he has a black heart.”Faramir moved behind her, talking the comb from her fingers to begin removing the tangles from her hair, starting at the ends. “Does he?”“I've told you all he's done, do you need to hear the tale again?”“No, I remember it well enough. Since the hobbits removed him from Saruman, though, he doesn't seem to be doing much harm to anyone.”Eowyn turned and pulled the comb out of his hand. “I wish you'd stop trying to convince me about him. I will never like that man.”Faramir held out his hand for the comb and Eowyn hesitated for a moment, then gave it back to him. “I'm not asking you to be friends with him. Just, perhaps, to not tear into him every single time you see him. It only seems to make you angrier with each exchange, and accomplishes nothing else.”“I can't just forget all the years he was stalking about my own home, forever lurking in shadows, eavesdropping on everyone's conversations, and slowly poisoning my uncle! And watching me any time I was in the same room with him. You know, it was his master's orcs who slew my cousin as well, at the first battle for the Fords of Isen. That worm no doubt knew what his master was planning and warned no one! That battle had utterly been futile from the beginning-”Faramir began combing Eowyn's hair again, slowly. He stopped a few times to work gently at the more stubborn tangles, swearing under his breath at one in particular.“Oh, give me that.” Eowyn took back the comb and attacked the tangle herself, until finally giving up and simply tearing the strands until it came apart. She gave the comb back to her husband to complete the task.  The mountains surrounding Mordor were jagged and inhospitable as ever. It had been over two years since Sauron's downfall yet still nothing grew but the occasional stunted thorny shrub or poisonous weed. Faramir led them in a single-file line through a narrow canyon that opened out onto a ledge with a precipitous drop to one side. The sound of frightened horses traveled down the line to where Gríma lingered at the back. He'd dismounted to lead Lady by the bridle, but his horse seemed little concerned about the path they were taking. Perhaps being smaller than the other animals, the narrowness of the ledge bothered her less, or maybe she was just bolder than the “better” mounts the rest of the company had. Gríma reached back to pat her nose briefly, then pushed on.A broad, wind-blasted and lifeless plain could be seen below to their right as they now travelled north on this precipitous path, a wall of solid stone to their left, and a drop of at least fifty yards to their right. One false step here would be fatal. Minas Morgul now lay to their north, and they would enter the valley by scaling another mountain, coming down near a tower known as Bâr Nírnaeth, the Houses of Lamentation. It had once been a burial ground, when Minas Morgul had still been Minas Ithil, but had been overtaken and repurposed by the servants of Sauron into a seat of sorcery and necromancy, with a sizeable fortress called Ufurok built just past it, the two edifices connected by a long bridge. Past Bâr Nírnaeth and Ufurok was a forest called Thuringwath, which could be no ordinary forest any more than Bâr Nírnaeth was an ordinary tomb.Faramir had assured Idhrien and himself that the bulk of the enemy's servants had been dispatched, but had also warned them that malevolent spirits still lingered who could not be easily destroyed.  Gríma clung to Lady's reins, his breath coming in pants as he tried to push down the rising sense of panic. They'd managed to navigate their way downward and skirted past Bâr Nírnaeth, only for a foul rain to begin falling. No mere water, it burned against any bare skin where it fell, and the entire company had been pressed into a gallop, rushing up into Ufurok, the Dreadfast. Most of the fortress that was easily accessible had no roof, rather only tall spires piercing upward toward the thunderous sky above, but they managed to find shelter where a second level had been built over the first, creating a ceiling.Faramir and his company huddled together in the center of this small space, as far from the acidic rain as they could manage. Wind blew, and Gríma pressed himself between Lady and the wall behind him. The malevolent weather continued, and showed little sign of abating. Finally, Faramir dismounted, seating himself on the stone floor. The others soon followed suit. Gríma allowed himself to slide to the floor as well, partially underneath Lady, trusting his horse not to step on him.“Gríma, it's cold, come over here with the rest of us.” Gríma's head snapped up and he looked underneath Lady's belly at Faramir where the man gestured to him. He shrugged and shook his head, pulling his cloak around him. He'd endured worse, after all, and other eyes upon him did not feel as welcoming as their captain's. He let his eyes close, and nearly drifted off by the time a hand grasping his ankle pulled at him. He opened his eyes to find Faramir smirking at him as the man dragged him a short way.Faramir let go now that he had Gríma's attention and gestured again. “Stop being stubborn, and get over here. We won't be moving again until morning, and I don't care to deal with a case of hypothermia. We have enough trouble as it is.”“Oh, leave him be, he said he's fine.” Eowyn glared at Gríma over her husband's shoulder, but Faramir once again pulled at Gríma, this time taking hold of a wrist. Gríma allowed himself to be led, too exhausted from the journey and the hostile company both at this point to put up any fight. He was dragged into the center of where the rangers were laid out on the stone floor underneath and in between their mounts. Lady followed him, nosing her way in between a couple of ill-tempered mules to stay near Gríma.Gríma rubbed hard against his eyes as he turned away and curled up into himself. Faramir's back pressed into his shoulders but with Anborn on his other side, he had no room to move away any further. Lady bent her head to snuffle at his legs, nipping at the hem of his cloak. The sun set swiftly to the west, falling behind the mountains, and the rain continued to fall.  Gríma awoke, suddenly. He'd been dreaming of something formless, hunting him, and upon awakening, the oppressive feeling did not leave him. He sat up, peering into the darkness. The rain had stopped some time in the night and the clouds had thinned out, allowing a small amount of moonlight to break through, but it was still terribly dark. He could hear his companions, both human and animal, breathing and snoring and shuffling around him, but if anyone else was awake, he could not tell.Carefully as he might, he rolled upward onto his knees. He squinted where he sat, struggling to see through the gloom, looking southward, across the long bridge that led to the entrance of Bâr Nírnaeth.Faramir had said that the place had been entered before, and that what evil lay within had been routed, over a year ago. Gríma could scarcely see anything other than dim, shifting shadows, but felt in his bones that something was there, watching.“You feel it too, then?”Gríma gasped and nearly fell, so startled he was by Faramir's voice beside him. His heart hammered in his chest and he took several deep breaths as his head swam. He startled again as Faramir's arm wrapped itself around him, squeezing at his shoulder. He could feel Faramir's breath against the side of his face, as the man whispered in his ear.“Yes, there is something there, across the span, and it knows we are here. I'm afraid come light of morn, we will have to investigate it. I thought we had dealt with the enemy here last time we passed this way, but something eluded us, I suppose. Your skills and knowledge could be useful to us, but you may remain here with Idhrien if you do not wish to go; I did not bring you here to risk your life. Sleep now, if you can. A watch will be kept until daybreak.”Gríma stared into the distance for another minute or two, still not entirely sure he trusted his safety to these people. He could still feel his pulse thrumming heavily from the spike of adrenaline, and doubted he'd sleep again regardless of his exhaustion. He could see nothing in this darkness even if he could feel it, though, and decided to lay down, stretching out on his back. A hand came to rest on his chest, over his hammering heart. Faramir whispered something above him, and his pulse began to slow, finally, and he soon fell asleep again, sliding back into another furtive dream where eyes followed him from shadow.  Dawn broke cold but dry and clear. When Gríma woke, Faramir was still sitting beside him, looking out across the bridge at the tower beyond. The rest of the rangers were stirring around him, pulling themselves to their feet, a few wandering around corners to relieve their bladders out of sight. Eowyn was standing between two horses nearby, redoing the braids in her hair.“As soon as everyone is up and sorted, we will be entering Bâr Nírnaeth.” Faramir turned to look at Gríma directly. “Have you read anything in the scrolls you've translated that might shed light on this place?”Gríma pulled himself to his feet, and took the waterskin from Lady's saddlebag, drinking a bit before turning back to Faramir, who was watching him with a peculiar look. “I have not seen that name in particular anywhere, no. Most of the scrolls I've been given are rather... general, in nature.”“The Nazgul inhabited it. They and their servants used the tower for whatever rites and sorcery they carried out. Truthfully, I do not know what all went on within those walls. The last time I entered into it, there were bones scattered about and many strange artifacts. Wights, shades, and other spirits still lingered despite their masters' demise. We had defeated what we found there last, and did not believe anything remained.”Gríma swallowed heavily, looking past Faramir at the imposing tower. It looked abandoned, from the outside at least, but what he had felt the night before had been no mere imagining. Something lingered inside those walls, still.Saruman had committed great evil, particularly in the breeding of uruk-hai, when he crossed orcs with men to create something even more abominable. He had cut down swathes of forest to feed his forges beneath Isengard, and had sent Gríma back to Edoras to make his king and kingdom weak and divided. Saruman had allied himself with orcs and with cultists out of Angmar, and had probably committed much more that Gríma did not know of – after all, Saruman did not tell Gríma much, especially in later years, when he had had no patience at all left for his servant. Servant. He may have been a servant once, when he was young, but by the end, Gríma had been a slave.But somehow, Gríma had never felt such cold settling in his spine as he did looking at this former tower of the ring-wraiths, even if its current inhabitant or inhabitants were of some lesser order.“You will remain here?”“Of course he will, Wormtongue never risks his own neck if he can avoid it. But who knows what might sneak up behind him, even out here? That forest doesn't look too inviting.” Eowyn grinned at him in a manner that was anything but friendly. She joined her husband, handing him a water skin and a bag of dried meat.Remembering Faramir's earlier advice, Gríma ignored the jibe. Rangers organized themselves and Faramir, finally, motioned for them to follow. Gríma followed him. The group was halfway across the bridge before he was even noticed.“Go back, fool!” Eowyn glared at him where he trailed at the rear.Faramir motioned him forward, despite his wife's protest. “Are you armed, at all?”“...I have a dagger, yes.”“That is all? I suppose it will have to suffice. Assuming you know how to use it?”Gríma scowled at the man. He might be a scholar, but his life had not been so sheltered. Why did all of these rangers assume he was helpless?“Fine, come along then. Stay closer to me, though.”  From the entrance they came into an immense hall. Braziers stood around the room, which had been lit, the flames an unnatural looking green. The color could be achieved with certain copper compounds, Gríma knew, but the effect was admittedly a bit ominous, even when one knew how it was achieved.The place was definitely not abandoned, then. In the center was a large, shallow pool filled with what looked, frankly, like blood. The columns holding up the ceiling were carved in the shape of tortured figures, faces twisted in pain and terror. Behind the pool was an altar of some sort with a massive flame-filled brazier in the shape of an eye. Two broad staircases to either side of the altar led up to a platform with three massive statues of robed figures, the central one with a tall, spiked helmet.Gríma had seen that helmet, or at least the crumpled remains of it, in the houses of lore in a room off to the side where artifacts and trophies taken from the enemy during the war were kept. Apparently someone had picked it up after Eowyn had destroyed its previous owner.“Not exactly subtle, is it?” He'd been talking to himself, mostly, but Gríma heard a snort of stifled laughter beside him. Eowyn scowled at him when he turned toward the sound.The sound of metal scraping on stone had everyone turning. Several dented and ancient-looking suits of armor were moving, it seemed, of their own will, advancing on them with bent and rusted weapons. Faramir shouted at his rangers, ordering them into a defensive arrangement, as he shoved Gríma behind himself. Gríma felt insulted, momentarily, before the terror of the situation fell over him.Swords clanged as the group engaged the ensorcelled armor. Gríma panicked for the moment, dashing this way and that as he tried to dodge both the armor and the rangers fighting with them. He had pulled the dagger from where it was customarily hidden under his clothing, but the reach was frankly insufficient for enemies carrying swords and spears, and he knew he was, indeed, useless. Faramir's eyes were constantly meeting his as the man tried to keep tabs on the weakest link in this chain, and shame flooded through Gríma as well as terror.Somehow, in the midst of all the chaos, Gríma caught sight of a flash of gray cloth up on the platform behind the altar. Looking back at the armor, he stamped down on the adrenaline and tried to use his head for once. The dim greenish glow escaping the joints of the armor pinged something in the back of his brain. Enthralled spirits, lesser in being but useful for certain purposes.Gríma had read of this, during his translation work. The missing scroll! Gríma waited until Faramir was fully engaged with the battle, and managed to slip away, dashing up the staircase behind the altar.  Gríma stepped behind the massive statue of the Witch-King of Angmar, dagger in hand, and immediately wished he'd not been so utterly stupid.He recognized the man. One of the junior scribes, named Delioron, who had quit recently. Gríma had scarcely given him a second thought, having spoken to him perhaps once, maybe.The man stood grinning at him, his eyes almost glowing in the dark. His hands and forearms were painted in blood, or something like it. The pool below had been filled recently, it seemed.“Gríma the Wormtongue! Are you here to join the fun? You know, I had considered asking you to come with me, actually, given your... experience... but there never seemed to be an opportunity. You were always so quick to slip away at the end of the day...”Gríma could only stand and stare in shock, utterly at a loss at how to respond.“Well, on to better things. My little toys currently playing with your friends were a test-run, as it were. I think it's time to get a bigger pet.”  Faramir bashed the last armor apart with a spear dropped by another one. If the individual pieces of armor were hit hard enough and scattered, the spirit within it seemed unable to rejoin them. Sweat poured off of him, and he knew the rest were in a similar state. Faramir paused to take stock of the situation, scanning across the room. Tordoron was currently laying on the floor being tended to for a bad wound to the leg, and a few others had minor cuts or bruises, but on the whole they had come through the fight excellently.“Where is Wormtongue, I wonder? I suppose he got frightened and ran off to hide somewhere.” Eowyn sheathed her sword.“Perhaps. A dagger wouldn't have done him much good here. Discretion is not always necessarily a sign of cowardice.”Eowyn rolled her eyes. Faramir turned toward another ranger. “Mablung, I want you to help Tordoron back across the bridge. If Gríma has already returned there, more's the better, but I am not convinced that is where he went.”“He might be halfway back to Minas Tirith by now, certainly. He can run fast enough when motivated.”“Eowyn...” Faramir looked up at the platform with the statues. “I think we ought to press in further. These tin soldiers did not march under their own will.”  Gríma said nothing, for the moment, and followed Delioron in silence through a corridor to another large room. This room had a large central raised dais. Three braziers stood at the cardinal direction points, with blue flame, and at the fourth point, opposite the entrance of the room, stood another hideous statue. Between each point were stairs at an angle leading up onto the dais, forming the remaining sides of the octagon. Mordor really could have used a better decorator, he thought to himself. Fear and the absurdity of the situation morphed into a kind of giddy disbelief, and he laughed briefly despite himself, high-pitched, and borderline hysterical.He recognized what was in the center of the dais. Delioron had studied the scroll well, reproducing what had been described exactly. In the center on a stand was a dark crystal and around it were scattered recently flensed bones, still stained red and with clinging remnants of flesh. Where Delioron had found his victims, Gríma could only guess. There were still men in Mordor, former servants and slaves of Sauron. Or perhaps he'd taken them from villages and farms in Gondor.It hardly mattered, at this point. Delioron approached this altar and stepped into the circle of bones and a red mist rose from the ground as he began the incantation. Gríma watched as two red points of light appeared in the air above the junior scribe.“Grima!”Turning, he locked eyes with Faramir.  Faramir didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been this. Two points of flame were suspended in the air, and a mist rising from the ground was swiftly coalescing around it. Whatever it was forming, it was massive.“That vile worm! He knew-” Eowyn rushed past Faramir before he could stop her, heading straight toward Gríma, who was standing off to the side, it seemed, doing nothing but staring. He did nothing still as she tackled him to the ground, striking him over the head with a fist before she could even think to draw her sword. Finally broken out of his daze, Gríma raised his arms to fend off another blow.The commotion was enough, apparently, to break the concentration of a man standing in the center of the circle.“Oh, you brought friends! Good, one should have an audience when one ascends to a throne! Elessar is a fool of a man, he has left Mordor empty and unattended since the end of the war. Ithilien gets a prince, why shouldn't Mordor have one as well? Better – a king!”Several of his rangers sent arrows at the strange man, but they turned aside as if blown by a strong wind. Wisps of green danced about, vague forms that suggested the shape of men but were too dim to be clearly seen. I didn't think we'd destroyed them, Faramir thought, only we unhoused them when we destroyed their armor. They'd managed to dispel the spirits they had found here the previous year, but they'd had help from Gandalf, who had since departed, and the spirits had not been bound by sorcery.Eowyn suddenly flew backwards off of Gríma, landing several feet away, but managed to stand. “I told you he couldn't be trusted, Faramir! I told you-”  Gríma rolled to his knees, and then managed to regain his footing. Delioron was beyond foolish, Gríma thought. He knew what the man was attempting and it was absolute madness. A rogmul may be a lesser demon than balrog, but it was powerful enough to leave a trail of destruction. Delioron was a young scribe, barely out of his training, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three in age. He knows just enough to get into trouble, Gríma thought, but not nearly enough to get out of it. It took greater will and power than such a man possessed to actually control a rogmul. Gríma himself would never attempt it, despite all the craft he'd been taught by Saruman. The creature would do nothing but kill its new “master” and then go on a rampage, destroying anything it encountered until whatever tethered it to this sphere of the world broke.Gríma found Faramir standing nearby, staring down Delioron. He has no idea how to face this, Gríma thought. The ranger's face was set like stone, the visage of a man who knew he was likely about to meet death. Gríma attempted to get his attention, but his overly-sensitive lungs chose the worst moment to descend into yet another fit of coughing at the unnatural mist in the room.Crush the bones! Break the circle! You need to destroy the crystal! He wanted to yell, but couldn't.Delioron was laughing madly, directing the shades he'd previously summoned into the armor downstairs to now assail the rangers directly. They couldn't do as much immediate damage as when housed, but they could exert enough force to throw them about like ragdolls, and offered no physical form upon which they could be assailed with ordinary weapons.Gríma crawled slowly, like the worm he'd been called for so long, praying to the Valar or whatever might be listening that Delioron would not notice him. He could slip away, if he wanted, run back down the stairwell and out of the doors of Bâr Nírnaeth. He could take Lady and ride back through the mountain paths away from Mordor, into Ithilien and go north or south, it mattered little. There was Dale up north, and Rhûn to the east of that. To the south of Mordor were strange people, who had served Sauron under duress, and were likely still in a state of disorder, but there at least, no one would know who he was. Gríma suddenly thought of Merry and Sam, chasing after him through Bree, and pulling him from the grasp of Bill Ferny. Where exactly do you mean to go? Dunland? You don't know? You're just running away, aren't you? No clue where to, running away just to be running away. Gríma began moving again, as silently as he had ever managed. Upon reaching the circle of bones, he gasped sharply. An immense pressure built up in his head, growing ever more intense as he approached the center. Every blow he'd ever received seemed to return to him – his father strapping him with a belt as a child, Saruman beating him with his staff more times than he could recall, Eowyn taking out her rage against him only moments ago. His head might be splitting open, for all he could tell.A rogmul would kill everyone in this room, at the very least, and who knew how many more, once it escaped this fortress.
It is possible to hold one's own life too dear, and that more than anything, is your greatest failure.
He felt blood drip from his nose, trailing down his chin as blackness ate away at his vision. The world around him receded until the only thing he could see was the black crystal that was now in his grasp.Crying out in the greatest pain he'd ever felt in his life, he smashed it against the floor. The last thing he felt were shards of stone piercing the flesh of his hands.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hot breath against his face woke Gríma. He opened his eyes to be greeted with the nose of Lady snuffling at his face and hair, and the sound of her hoof pawing at the ground nearby. He reached up weakly to pat her, only to find his hand wrapped in a bandage.“He's awake, Faramir."He turned his head to find Idhrien seated nearby. His head ached like he'd been in a prize fight and lost. “Wha-what happened?”Faramir materialized nearby. Gríma noted absently that Faramir's left arm was in a sling and he had a bruise on the left side of his face, as if he had landed badly on that side from a fair height. His right arm was undamaged and with that he reached out to prod at Gríma. “Anything hurt at the moment?”Gríma took a moment to take stock of himself. “My head, mainly.”Idhrien reappeared to wave a hand in front of his face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”“Two. What. Happened?”Faramir hovered over him. “You really can't remember? What's the last thing you do remember?”Gríma thought hard, trying to piece everything together despite the fact that his head currently felt like it was stuffed with spiderwebs. “That fool Delioron trying to summon a rogmul, of all blasted things.”“Delioron? You knew that man?”“Not well, some junior scribe who quit some time after I arrived. I don't recall speaking to him much. Maenir might know more of him. He must have been the one that took that scroll, although he'd resigned his post before then. How did he even know of it?”Faramir tilted his head. “A good question, but one which will have to wait. You truly don't remember breaking that artifact?”Gríma remembered seeing it, and he remembered a terrible heat and pressure in his head. “I was trying to reach it, but there was some sort of... fire... in that circle. It hurt- ”“I surmised that much from your reaction, which I am fairly sure could be heard as far away as Minas Tirith. But you did manage to destroy it. It is a good thing you did - I don't know what a 'rogmul' is but whatever that man was trying to summon, it wasn't small. In any case, Delioron is no more; he refused to stand down and we were unable to take him alive.”Gríma suddenly felt hot all over, and knew there were many pairs of eyes on him. He attempted to sit up and the pain in his head intensified, bringing with it a wave of nausea that he fought against. Someone behind him took hold of his shoulders, keeping him more or less upright. There were, indeed, many pairs of eyes staring at him now with varying expressions. Only a few of the rangers' attention was elsewhere. He saw Mablung nearby going through the pack on one of the mules for something, and Idhrien had walked over to Radhrog to change a bandage wrapped around the man's forehead.They were still in Ufurok, it seemed, and it appeared to be just after dawn. “A rogmul is a kind of... fire spirit. Lesser than a balrog by far, but dangerous enough. It doesn't matter now, as the ritual was broken before completion... how long was I unconscious?”Anborn's voice came from behind, solving the mystery of who was currently holding him upright. “Nearly three days.”Gríma squeezed his eyes shut. Someone thrust a water skin into his bandaged hand and he shakily lifted it to his mouth. The water smelled strongly of athelas and had the bitter taste of willow bark, reminding him unpleasantly of the time he spent in the houses of healing a few months ago. He drank all of it in two long gulps. He glanced up at the hand that reached out again to take the water skin back and saw Eowyn peering down at him with a pensive expression. He handed the skin back to her, and said nothing, as too many deeply conflicting emotions about her crowded his head. At least she isn't hitting me again.“How much longer will we stay here? Are we still going into the vale?”Faramir sighed deeply. “That's something we have been debating. The original aim of this journey has not been completed, obviously. But this latest adventure has left too many of us worse for the wear, yourself most of all.”“I can return to the city alone once I am able to sit upright in a saddle, I recall the way well enough. I shan't burden the rest of your mission.”Something akin to anger flickered over the ranger's face, momentarily taking Gríma by surprise.“No, you can't return on your own. Or, I should say, I won't allow it. I am not familiar with the particular sort of sorcery your fellow scribe was attempting, but the effects of it upon you are clear enough. I am only relieved you woke at all, as I was not certain you ever would. Idhrien is a competent healer, and I know something of the art myself, but neither of us are the king and even the king is not his foster-father. It is a poor state that such remnants of the enemy's craft linger while much of the knowledge of how to heal it has departed middle earth forever. But we will rest here for a few more days, then leave Mordor as swiftly as possible. We can return another time.”“Studying the local flora and fauna is hardly a taxing venture, especially in winter when very little is likely growing or moving; I should think we could manage it... barring any more fools trying to summon what they do not understand.”Faramir hesitated for a moment, looking off into the distance. “The herbalism was one... peripheral aim, yes, but there were other matters I meant to attend to. Minas Morgul was demolished to its foundations, but in its many cellars were found... well, we are not sure what, exactly. I was hoping for your aid in translating the inscriptions. Something like stone crypts, sealed tightly by unnatural means, although I do not believe they are graves. They may contain yet more artifacts of the enemy, and considering what we just encountered, I am all the more convinced they need to be removed and, at the very least, studied. Destroyed, eventually, perhaps. But the ruins of Minas Morgul are not easy to navigate and require a bit of rope and climbing to enter, and I do not think we will be capable of it again for some time.”Gríma's lip curled up in a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. “You couldn't have simply said that from the beginning? I did wonder why a survey of plant life was being proposed in winter. It isn't my place to criticize the king or those who serve him, naturally, however I-”Faramir shrugged. “I wasn't certain you would agree to it, given how resistant you were at the solstice to the notion of putting the knowledge and skills you gained under Saruman toward more noble ends. But I know of no one else available to us with your mastery of the black speech or knowledge of the arts of the enemy. In short – I needed your help. Need your help. We will have to return eventually. I would hope you could forgive my small deceit in this matter.”“You say that as though my agreement was ever necessary to begin with.”“If you had protested, I would not have forced you out here against your will.”Gríma squeezed his eyes shut. His head pounded, still, and while he could understand why Faramir had done what he had done, it still managed to bother him for reasons he did not care to contemplate too deeply at the moment. It wasn't like he hadn't been manipulated his entire life, so what was one more deceit by a man in a position of authority over him? He'd have come regardless of the reason; it was not like he'd had any real choice. Since when has my will ever mattered in the least to anyone? The sense of wounded betrayal settling like pain in his guts was exaggerated and irrational, he knew. Gríma felt once again the shadow of Faramir settling over his mind.“For what it is worth, I am sorry, Gríma, I should have been honest with you.”Gríma pulled himself from Anborn's grasp and laid down again on his side, turned away from Faramir, and feigned sleep. His head ached like madness and despite spending several days comatose, he was somehow still terribly exhausted, in ways that went well beyond the physical, and had no more endurance to deal with Faramir or anyone else. A blanket was pulled up over him, and the presence lingering over his mind departed.  “It's been a total bust, hasn't it? We can stop at Bâr Húrin, I think, and rest a bit, before returning to Minas Tirith.”Faramir put the last of his supply of pipeweed into his pipe and lit it, puffing away for a few minutes before responding to Anborn. “We managed to stop at least one fool from unleashing something dangerous in ignorant ambition, and I'm going to claim a victory in that, at least. Although Gríma is correct to question whether that man was acting entirely alone, and I am loathed to tarry anywhere before returning to Minas Tirith. The king will need to be informed swiftly of what has happened; I do not like the implications of it at all.”“I suppose the rest can wait, for a while. Whatever is in the cellars of Minas Morgul has likely been there for centuries and will remain there still for some time. After all, our previous efforts at breaking open those caskets failed miserably, whatever spell holds them shut has not waned with the destruction of whomever cast it. The king will still be interested in seeking out whatever's growing around vale as well, even if it was only a minor task, although I can't imagine whatever was there in the days of Minas Ithil has survived. We've found much that was thought lost in Ithilien in the past months, but so many of the useful herbs that once grew in the region are still unaccounted for. Mordor remains an impossibly hostile climate. Frankly, I'm starting to wonder if some of them ever existed at all.”“Some seeds can remain dormant in the soil for years or even centuries, just waiting for the right conditions to begin growing again; it may simply be too soon. And as for the cellars of Minas Morgul, I do not think it wise to leave the matter unattended for too long, especially now. But we are in no fit state to pursue it, it will take time to heal.”“A few bruises, cuts, scrapes, and a couple of broken bones, nothing too serious, considering... I think we should be fit again by the end of spring, at the latest. Idhrien will certainly be pleased at returning in a season more suited to her skills.”Faramir looked to where Gríma lay sleeping fitfully again, the man's brows drawing together and his lips pulling back in a grimace as his dreams once again turned unpleasant. Faramir walked over to him and bent down, pressing a hand over his forehead, attempting to calm him. After a minute or two, Gríma's face slackened and his twitching ceased. It had been two days since Gríma had regained consciousness, and, ironically, he'd spent most of that time sleeping, although not soundly. He'd managed to stand and walk without aid that morning, but was still clearly weak, and Faramir did not have much faith in his ability to remain upright in a saddle for long, especially on the treacherous path they'd be obliged to return on. He'd regained much of his strength after the illness he'd suffered in the month before the solstice, but this encounter had set him back severely.Faramir was, nonetheless, growing impatient to leave this oppressive place. “I think we should begin packing up tonight, and plan on leaving in the morning. Gríma cannot ride on his own, but we can put him in front of another and pass him off every few hours to keep the horses from tiring too greatly under a second rider.”“He'll object to that plan, I'd wager. He's rather attached to that little northern mare of his, and the mare won't allow anyone else to touch her, much less lead her. It's strange, when you think about it. He doesn't seem like the sort to be so sentimental about animals, especially one so obstinate.”Faramir blew a couple of smoke rings, just managing to get the smaller one to pass through the larger, and smiled to himself at an old memory of Gandalf teaching him the trick many years ago. “His outward appearance may favor his Dunlending mother, but his inner nature is rather more that of Rohan, despite everything. They're all fond of their horses beyond reason.”“We're fond of real horses. I don't know why he insists on keeping that stunted nag despite repeated offers of a better quality animal.” Eowyn plucked the pipe from her husband's fingers, taking a puff and handing it back. She didn't smoke the shire's weed regularly like Faramir did, and always refused when he offered, but at random moments, she'd take it out of his hands. He had a sneaking suspicion she simply did it to tease him. Anborn nodded at Faramir, withdrawing to allow the man to spend some time with his wife.“She's carried him a long way, my love. Perhaps not as swiftly as a taller horse would, but that 'nag' seems tough enough. Some of the Grey Company that arrived with the king rode horses of the same breeding, and rode them north again after the coronation. They have their use, it seems, whatever the rest of us think of them.”“Perhaps. I'll admit Wormtongue came in use on this venture, which I had certainly not expected.”Faramir glanced at his wife, and blew another smoke ring, replying in a conversational tone. “Can you still not call the man by his name, after all of this?”Eowyn shrugged at her husband. “He's been naught but 'Wormtongue' for so long, it is hard to think of him as anything else. He gained the epithet long before he'd begun damaging Rohan actually; he was known for frequently speaking in riddles almost from the moment he arrived in Meduseld. It was some sort of game he liked to play, to turn a phrase or question with more than one meaning and wait to see if you could discover the jest. As a child, I'd found it amusing, but many of the men in my uncle's court assumed he was mocking them for being less educated, and despised him for it.”“Was he mocking them?”Eowyn looked away, into the bleached, ghostly forest that lay beyond the fortress. “My brother believed he was, as did his comrades.”“I didn't ask what your brother believed, I asked what you think,” Faramir replied rather pointedly.Eowyn stole his pipe again, holding onto it for more than a moment. She attempted to blow a smoke ring of her own, but it didn't quite come together, despite her husband trying to teach her the trick ages ago. She'd never quite managed it.As it was for most women in Rohan, even in the royal house, for most of her life no one had particularly cared what Eowyn thought. Her husband frequently pressing her into expressing a considered opinion was still a somewhat novel experience.“In the beginning, I think he was simply bored and knew of nothing better to speak of. He had little in common with most of the men – he could barely hold a sword and was only an average horseman. It's funny, though - Merry once mentioned that many hobbits enjoy trading riddles as a pastime and even repeated some that I'd heard from Wormtongue himself many years prior. I think that's all it was at first – a mere game. He might have been there only a week or two before he recited a few of them to me over the dinner table for the first time. Some of them were actually quite funny once you figured out the twist. Later on, however...”Eowyn botched a second attempt at a smoke ring and handed the pipe back to her husband in defeat. “He grew quite bitter within only a few years and his riddles certainly took on a more scornful tone then. By then we had ceased speaking to one another almost entirely, although he'd certainly begun watching me more intently. But he certainly took much delight in making other men look dull-witted.”“The same men who had tripped him at every opportunity?”Eowyn hesitated, but eventually responded. “Yes, those same men. I'm not stupid, I do understand what you have been hinting at for months now with him. Yes, he could have been better treated, but I don't think any of that absolves him of what he did.”“It was never my intention to say so. But it is still worth understanding, I think, what even small cruelties can cultivate in the darkness.”Eowyn rolled her eyes, annoyed to be told what she already knew. She loved her husband, but sometimes his penchant for lecturing on every subject imaginable wore badly on her patience. “Yes, yes. I get it. I never harassed him myself, unless he bothered me first, for what it is worth... You know, in hindsight, that might have been why he became so fixated upon me in later years, and perhaps I'd have done better to be a bit more cruel; he might not have held false hope that I could ever have had some interest in him, and maybe he'd have been less apt to serve Saruman if there had been no prize to promise him.”Faramir drew deeply on the pipe again, falling silent. Eowyn leaned against him, staring out at nothing in particular with entirely too many thoughts churning in the back of her head over what had transpired over the past few months. There was something that had been bothering her for a while, but she had not been able to pin it down, until now, when it coalesced in an instant like a lighting bolt.“You weren't the least bit surprised when he went after that artifact, despite the terrible pain it caused him, were you? I was shocked to my core, so certain he had betrayed us again up until that moment, but you-”Faramir pulled his wife into his side, wrapping an arm around her firmly. “No, it did not greatly surprise me. He is in fact quite loyal, to a terrible fault, in his own fashion. He remained with Saruman for a long time after the wizard had ceased to be kind to him, because even the distant memory of that early kindness was enough to tether him to his master beyond all reason. I suppose on some level, he foolishly hoped that if only he served the wizard well enough, he might regain his master's favor.”Eowyn scoffed in disbelief. “No one is that stupid, surely! He must've been promised much – not only me but perhaps some province of Rohan to rule over as the wizard's deputy.”Faramir pressed a kiss into Eowyn's temple, holding onto her tightly. “He likely was made many promises through the years, and many of them indeed must have tempted him greatly, but by the time they'd gone to trouble the Shire, no such promises could ever be offered; Saruman was utterly defeated in Rohan and most of his power broken, and he despised his servant openly, but Gríma went with him regardless. It was only another act of kindness from one who had done him no harm and who demanded nothing in return, that finally parted him from Saruman.”“That's why you did not suspect him of another act of treason, then? Simply because you had been kind to him before we came here? There must be more to it than that, to place such trust in a man with a long history of duplicity.” Eowyn pulled away from Faramir slightly, enough to look up into his eyes, both familiar and suddenly foreign. Faramir sighed, and bent to kiss her before pulling away.“You know I love you, my wife, but there are certain things I have not been entirely forthcoming about. Mostly to do with my father, and what I have inherited from him.”Denethor. Eowyn never met the man, who died by his own hand while she was otherwise occupied in the war. But she knew the memory of him and his perennial displeasure with his second son was a source of deep pain for Faramir. Eowyn stilled her breath as he continued, wondering what he'd reveal now, two years into this marriage.“You know of the prophetic dream I had, which sent my brother to Rivendell, and, ultimately, to his death.”“Yes, you've told me the tale before. Did you have a dream, then, about this?”Faramir sighed, hesitating. “No. Certain bloodlines out of Númenor may carry peculiar abilities. My brother also occasionally dreamed, but only rarely and less vividly than myself or our father. He did not inherit our father's other gift, however. Only I received that talent; that is, an ability to perceive the hearts and minds of others, somewhat.”“You can read minds..?”Faramir snorted, stifling laughter. “Not as such, no. Gríma made the same assumption, however.”Eowyn pulled away from her husband, sharply. “You told Wormtongue about this, before you told me?”Drawing a hand over his face, Faramir shook his head vehemently. “No, he discovered it himself and I had little choice but to explain the difference when he assumed I was doing what Saruman had done to him in violence, and nearly had a fit because of it. I've never met anyone else who could sense what I was doing, but somehow Gríma always knows, instantly. He described it as a 'shadow' coming over his mind, and can clearly perceive my presence. It's astonishing, really – not even my own brother or father knew when I was prying, as it were. I can only assume his prior contact with Saruman has made him extremely sensitive to such intrusions, however gently done.”Eowyn's eyes narrowed at him as she considered what he said. “So that's what he was asking you not to do, over the table in The Splintered Shield the day after the solstice? I had wondered-”Faramir nodded and sighed when his pipe went out, the last of the hobbit weed spent entirely. He knocked the ashes onto the flagstones at his feet and put it away. Eowyn was still staring at him in some mixture of astonishment and annoyance.“You looked into him, then, and...”“And found no ill intent there. Pippin's account of him in his letter to the king was not inaccurate – whatever ambitions he may have had in the past, he no longer seeks any great power today. The war has changed us all, Eowyn – some for the worse, some for the better.”“If you found no ill intent, what did you find in its stead?”Faramir shook his head. “I am satisfied with what I found in so far as I do not think he is an immediate danger to those around him, but beyond that, it is not my place to speak openly of what lay hidden within another man's heart. You may ask him yourself if you truly wish to know what he now desires from life.”Eowyn was about to respond when the subject of their discussion suddenly woke, grasping his head as he sat up. Eowyn retreated a few feet away as her husband crouched down beside Gríma, looking over him to assess his condition.“Your head is still hurting you?”Gríma managed to get his feet under him, with help from Faramir, rising slowly. Even on his feet, he remained bent over somewhat, rubbing at his eyes. “Less than yesterday...”  Faramir kept hold of Gríma's arm, supporting some of his weight as he helped Gríma away from the main camp and around a corner. Faramir turned his head aside as Gríma emptied his bladder over the edge of the fortress. Once Gríma had shaken off the lassitude of sleep, he proved steadier on his feet than the day before, at least.Afterward, Gríma stepped over to a column nearby and leaned against it, looking askance at Faramir. “Pardon my forwardness in making the suggestion, my lord, but I believe you should return to Minas Tirith as quickly as possible to inform your king of what has transpired. Delioron could not have acted wholly on his own; someone put that scroll in his hands and possibly even affected his mind in some fashion. If you leave a bit of the food and water, I can rest here for a while longer, then make my own way back; I will only slow you down.”Faramir bit back a laugh. “None of us will be moving too swiftly, your hurts may be the worst among us, but all of us were injured in some capacity. We will make our way back together, however long it takes. I do not think it will be as slowly as you fear, though. We will begin packing up tonight and leave in the morning.”Gríma glanced over his shoulder, some shade of hurt still lingering which had nothing to do with Delioron's sorcery. “I will endeavor to keep up, of course.”Faramir sighed, trying not to grow annoyed at this man's constant expectations of mistreatment, even if he knew much of it was born of long experience. He'd thought – or merely hoped, perhaps – that he'd gained some small measure of trust. Faramir's omission about the purpose of this expedition hadn't helped, but he'd already given his apologies and there was nothing else to be done about it now. “You will not be left behind, Gríma, but will be carried by another rider until you regain more strength. Anborn and myself have the strongest mounts, so you will be spending most of the journey with one of us, although you may have to suffer the company of others from time to time.”“Lady – my horse, that is, she will not allow anyone but me-”“She will follow you to the ends of the world on her own, I imagine. I do not think she will require leading. She may not have the best manners, but she seems quite loyal to you. Indeed, she has been standing over you for days, it took a bit of finesse to get her to back away long enough to tend to you. Eowyn mentioned that your horse nearly bit her when you fainted, some months ago.”“Well, if Eowyn didn't constantly insult Lady, perhaps she would be better disposed toward your wife.”“Perhaps. Although you did once carry a torch for Eowyn, perhaps Lady is simply jealous.”Gríma scowled while Faramir chuckled at his own joke.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Gríma spent much of the following days scowling further, as he was passed around the company of rangers like an ill-tempered sack of potatoes. He was currently sitting on Anborn's horse, in front of the ranger. He was fairly certain he could ride at least a few hours a day on his own without falling out of the saddle, but Faramir had flatly refused to let him attempt it while they were still within the bounds of Mordor.He still woke with a headache every time he slept, which was still frequent, and often while they were indeed still on the move. How many times had he already woken held upright only by the ranger behind him, without any memory of having fallen asleep? It was something he had found deeply disorienting (not to mention humiliating) every time it happened.When they reached the narrow mountain passes that led out of Mordor, the entire company had to dismount, taking the horses by the bridle to be lead single-file. Gríma found himself walking behind Faramir's horse, while Lady followed. Her saddle and bridle had been removed by one of the rangers before they'd left Ufurok and had been stashed away on one of the pack mules, but as Faramir had predicted, Gríma's horse followed him of her own accord without straying.Going up the path was proving more taxing than going down had, and Gríma soon felt lightheaded. They had been stopping frequently since beginning their ascent, sitting down with their backs against the wall of stone and feet dangling over the edge of the abyss to rest, as several of the rangers still had ankles or knees wrapped tightly. Of them, though, Gríma was certainly struggling the most, and as they hit a particularly steep stretch of their path, his head swam.  Eowyn had been lost in her own thoughts for days at this point, following the path with nothing in particular to look at other than the back of Wormtongue's head bobbing along over the hind end of Wormtongue's horse. Faramir took the lead as was his duty, but had wanted the still-ailing man directly behind him, which left her further separated from her husband and with little to do on the drudging trek back through the mountain pass other than to ruminate on many of the same thoughts she had been unable to banish from her head for months now, any time she was forced to inhabit the same space as that traitor.Every instance she'd ever witnessed of Wormtongue whispering in her uncle's ear flitted about in her mind like a swarm of moths, in between thoughts of Helm's Deep, Pelennor, the houses of healing, and a million other memories from those dark years leading up to and during what was now being called the War of the Ring. She thought of Theodred too, who by rights should now be king of Rohan, even if she did not begrudge her brother the throne. Eomer may not ever have Theodred's refinement and sense of diplomacy, but he was a strong, respected leader and a good and just man who would lead Rohan well. Still, she wondered what sort of king Theodred would have been, if fate had been less cruel.She would never know, of course. Gríma had not been the one to land the killing blow on the battlefield, but he'd still practically killed her cousin, by sending word of their army's size, armament, and every strategy and planned move to Saruman, who had known precisely the strength of the company that had moved to defend the fords of Isen. Saruman had met them with overwhelming force in response, and Theodred's company was decimated. Many good men died that day, not only Theoden's heir.King Theoden certainly would have ridden to Gondor's aid once the beacons were lit under any circumstances, but her uncle would have had more men at his disposal if he'd not had to fight Saruman's hoards at Helm's Deep first. Maybe Theoden would still be king, if he'd had more soldiers on the Pelennor. Would the battle at Helm's Deep have even happened without Gríma? Maybe, but as with her cousin, she would never know. Pathetic wizard's toady. One noble act cannot undo a lifetime of wickedness. Eowyn shook her head, trying to push such thoughts away, but it was little use. Faramir had once lamented to her that Denethor had dismissed him as a useless “wizard's pupil” (in comparison to his brother, naturally). The irony of the parallel was not fully lost on her, but it made her insides churn unpleasantly to think too deeply upon it. They are nothing alike. Nothing alike. She tried to look past the horse in front of her, and the increasingly grey-streaked black hair of its master to find her husband, with his kindly face and soft voice, but the path curved off slightly and he was, for the moment, out of sight.Pale blue eyes in an ashen face, like two small points of sky showing through gaps in a gathering storm cloud. She'd been perhaps nineteen or so when he began that particular bullshit, eyes following her from dark corners when he thought she wasn't looking. He'd nearly always turn aside the moment she turned toward him as the weight of his gaze grew too heavy on the back of her neck, making her skin prickle. On rare occasions, he met her stare for a long heartbeat before turning away, his expression strange and unidentifiable.More of the moths gathered in her mind as she stared down at the heels of a low-bred northern horse, anything to not see him, following its footsteps exactly as her mind wandered another path entirely.Fear had been what she had seen most often in his eyes, in the past, even if she had not wanted to notice something so human in a creature who appeared to her utterly debased and inhuman. Longing and desire as well, and that had frightened her, as she had never been entirely sure what he intended to do about it. He wasn't an honorable man, after all, and is it that far from being a liar and a poisoner and a willing puppet to being something much worse? In the end, he hadn't attempted to take advantage of her, but she had always been quite certain it was only Eomer's vigilance that prevented him from giving his lust free rein. Her brother had said as much, more than once, reminding her to be careful of him, to avoid speaking to him, and above all to never be caught alone by him.But now, she was less certain of much she had never had cause to doubt in the past. Would he have hurt her, in those days, if given the chance? She no longer knew, and she wasn't certain she wanted to know.Wormtongue could have escaped, could have fled and left them to their fate.Wormtongue had crawled over that pile of gore and bone, screeching like a dying sow. Wormtongue had saved their necks in a moment when no one else seemed to know what to do. Part of her hated him even more for doing it, for giving her these wretched doubts about what she'd known to be true for most of her life, even if the rest of her recognized the irrationality of the feeling. One noble act cannot undo a lifetime of wickedness! Eowyn looked up at the sound of shifting stone. The man who so occupied her current thoughts was plodding along in front of his horse ahead of her, his steps heavy and deliberate as he swayed slightly on his feet, dislodging gravel on the narrow path.Time seemed to slow as he swayed too close to the edge and it gave way under Wormtongue's boot, sending gravel rattling down the steep slope below and Wormtongue himself sliding after. Eowyn stared dumbly as his mare took his cloak in her teeth at the last moment, snorting as she tried to drag him back up the embankment despite the lack of room to maneuver, her haunches pressing against the stone wall behind her with nowhere else to go. Wormtongue scraped at the embankment with hands and feet, trying to find purchase on the steep angle that plummeted to the plain below, sending more dirt and debris flying down hill.If he falls, she thought, he will trouble my mind no more. The darkness of the thought sent a shiver down her spine, yet she could not make herself move, her feet seemingly rooted to the ground as the drama played out in a kind of dim unreality in front of her. Her husband finally caught up to what had happened, ducking around his own horse and leaning around the struggling mare to grab Wormtongue's clothing as well, hauling him the rest of the way back onto the path with his one good arm. Faramir looked up and locked eyes with her. For the first time since she was a child, Eowyn felt ashamed.  Idhrien laughed as she rushed to use a long branch to pull several stunned trout to the bank of the creek before they washed downstream and out of reach. She grabbed them by the tails, holding them up and grinning. Gríma nodded at her, taking a couple of the fish from her to carry back up the hill.They had departed Mordor, finally, and were travelling once again on solid ground through the familiar and friendlier paths of Ithilien. The weather was still cold, but after a brief spell of snow and sleet as they had made the final descent from the mountain pass, the wind had shifted and the sky had cleared and had remained so for several days. Idhrien reminded him of his promise to teach her how to use the fish poison he'd shown her, and so he had. His headaches had finally abated, and while he still had occasional spells of vertigo, he was once again recovering some of his endurance.Idhrien had finally put the fish poison to use today, netting four good sized fish. It wasn't enough to feed the entire company, but he was secretly hoping she'd share a bit of it with him. He was getting tired of grouse and rabbit and what was left of their dwindling supply of dried fruit, and the thought of eating any more of the dried strips of mutton they'd subsisted on in Mordor turned his stomach entirely.Returning to the campfire, he pulled the dagger from his belt and offered the handle to the herbalist. She sat down, gutting the fish and throwing the entrails into the flames. The smell was unpleasant but brief as the offal burned away. It wasn't long after that all four of the fish were roasting away on a couple of makeshift spits and several rangers were suddenly loitering nearby, probably with similar hopes to his own.Anborn plopped down beside him, leaning over him to grin at Idhrien. “Going to eat all that on your own?”“Of course not, Gríma helped me catch them, it would be unfair not to let him have some.”Tordoron sat down on the other side of Anborn. “That's still quite a lot of fish for only two people. You might give yourselves stomachaches...”Idhrien shrugged, smiling to herself. “Well, I suppose I must give our good prince some as well, and it would be remiss if I did not also offer some to his wife.”Grumbling travelled through the crowd, as that list put paid to all four fish currently roasting over the campfire. Gríma looked about at the assembled crowd, discomfort growing in him at the amount of attention that was now directed partly at him. He rose, taking up the fish-gut covered dagger. “You can all fight over my share if you want it so badly, I need to clean this before it dries.”Returning to the creek, Gríma scrubbed at the blade with a handkerchief that wasn't much cleaner itself. The fish gore had already begun to dry out and stick to the steel, and it took several minutes of scratching at bits of it with a thumbnail to dislodge it all. He dried the blade on his cloak before returning to camp and began rifling through the mules' packs for sword oil. The dagger wasn't exceptionally valuable, but it had been well-made many years ago in one of the forges of Edoras, and was the only thing left of Rohan that he owned, and he did not want it to rust.An oil flask was thrust at him. Eowyn didn't quite meet his eyes as he hesitated before taking the item. He pulled out a slightly less soiled handkerchief and soaked a corner of it with the oil before handing the flask back to her, and began cleaning the blade immediately, occasionally glancing up at Eowyn. The woman lingered, briefly, but said nothing, then after another awkward minute, departed without a single word. Gríma simply shook his head. Nothing about her made much sense to him anymore.“Gríma! Come eat this fish already, or I'm giving it to someone else!”Gríma looked up at where Idhrien was standing near the campfire, with half a trout still impaled on a stick. One filet of it had already been claimed by someone, and he watched as Idhrien ducked out of range as Mablung made a teasing grab at it. Gríma sheathed the dagger before returning to the campfire to claim his supper.The fish was unseasoned beyond the wood smoke of the campfire, but he was hardly going to complain, and made quick work of it, pulling the needle-like bones out and tossing them into the fire as he went. Rangers chatted amiably around him and the fire crackled and flared up as someone threw another log onto it. Anborn launched into a story, gesturing wildly as he told it, frequently jostling Gríma where he sat beside him.Throwing the rest of the picked-clean bones of the trout into the flames, Gríma looked up at the sky as the last twilight of the day gave way to an expanse of stars overhead and the voices and activity of the camp bubbled around him. An odd feeling settled somewhere in the pit of his stomach as he sat in silence but, for once, not in solitude.No one had spoken much about what had happened in Bâr Nírnaeth, as too many unanswered questions left a lingering anxiety, but the Ithilien rangers' general opinion of him had finally shifted, it seemed, in his favor. It was a novel experience, to say the least.  The warmth and light of the campfire receded as Gríma retreated from the jovial group. A flask had been pulled out from somewhere and was currently being passed around. Gríma had assumed the supply of liquor had run dry weeks ago, but someone had apparently saved back a bit for the return journey. There were still arms in slings and various joints wrapped and wounds bandaged and Idhrien was certainly earning her keep as herbalist and field medic, but moods had improved considerably since departing from Mordor. Now that they were only a week away from reaching Minas Tirith, the rangers were finally beginning to unwind a bit.Ducking into a copse of trees and shrubs nearby, Gríma leaned back against a tree trunk and pissed into the bushes. Someone scoffed nearby and he hastily finished up, feeling himself blushing profusely and grateful for the fact that it was too dark to be obvious. “My apologies, I did not know I had company.”“For someone who spent years sneaking about, you've grown terribly complacent.”Eowyn. Of course. Gríma could see naught but shifting shadows under the bent branches of the trees around them and had she not spoken, he'd have been hard pressed to locate her even if he had known she was there. She'd been the wife of a ranger for two years and had spent at least some of that time in the wilds with him, and no doubt had picked up some of his craft; if she'd wanted to kill him, he'd already be dead, so silent she had been.“I wasn't expecting an ambush, but I shall endeavor to be more vigilant in the future, madam.” With a sudden sensation of déjà vu, he recalled the advice Faramir had given him the last time he'd run into Eowyn upon stepping out of camp. He bowed out of habit, and felt foolish immediately afterward. It really was too dark to see a damned thing, with only starlight above. The moon was a thin crescent that night, offering little aid. He turned and began picking his way back through the brush toward camp, careful not to humiliate himself in the dark by tripping over a root. He was forestalled by a hand gripping his cloak, once again.“Wormtongue - Gríma – wait...”He could hear her breathing nearby as she struggled with whatever she wanted to say. He held his own breath, contemplating the odds that he was going to be slapped across the face again before the end of this encounter, although the darkness worked in his favor in that regard; she might miss.“I can't... I can't like you, and we shall never be friends...” And water is wet, he thought but did not say. He bit his tongue, trying to have a shred of patience with a woman who had rarely had any with him. She sighed heavily beside him. That sentiment, at least, he knew well enough.“I have made no such demands...” He squeezed his eyes shut, wondering how to bring this impasse to an end without provoking her temper. The entire situation between them had been insufferable for months now, despite all of his attempts at avoiding these periodic confrontations ever since he arrived in Gondor. Maybe I should not have come to Gondor at all. The hobbits had thought Gondor would give him a new beginning, and in many ways, it had. But it had also inadvertently thrust both himself and Eowyn into a part of their past that would have been better left buried. He was tired of it, and knew Eowyn had to be getting fed up as well. “Perhaps... perhaps we could call a truce, of sorts, and simply leave it at that.”“I... yes, fine - we can call it that. For my husband's sake, at the very least, as for some reason he seems fond of you, and our arguing grieves him, even if he will not say so directly.”Gríma felt the tension on his cloak disappear as she let go of him. “As you wish.”With that, he departed as swiftly as he could manage, returning to the campfire to sit between Idhrien, now slightly tipsy, and Anborn, now drunk. The flask, nearly but not quite entirely empty, was pressed into his hands. Acquiescing to the mood of the evening, he tipped it back, allowing the last drop of the whiskey to burn his throat, and managed to only cough a little.  “We'll reach Minas Tirith tomorrow. I will need to report to the king directly...”Eowyn shifted where she lay pressed against Faramir's side, resettling herself more comfortably. She did not have Wormtongue's apparent sixth sense about Faramir's clear sight, but she knew him well enough to know he'd been watching her closely of late. He was gentle and patient, and she loved both of those things about him, but sometimes his habit of beating around the bush irritated her more direct nature, and she wished he'd speak more plainly.“We don't have to remain in the city for long. If you wish to depart in a few days, we can leave once the healers have tended to my rangers. Some may need to remain behind and catch up later, but we'll have enough and may return to Ithilien swiftly.”Eowyn shook her head against him. “Your rangers need rest, all of them, as do you. I am content enough to remain in the city for a time. I wouldn't mind visiting the markets without having to fight the crowd and noise of the solstice festival.”Faramir said nothing, but she could practically feel the inquiry trying to fight its way past his sense of caution. She rolled over, throwing an arm around his chest and propping her cheek on his shoulder. “I shan't be getting into any more arguments with Wormtongue, provided he doesn't start any. We've called a truce, or something like that. I'm tired of thinking about him, and I suspect he feels the same about me.”Eowyn had thought the declaration would mollify her husband, but he swallowed heavily and practically squirmed in her arms. “Does that not please you?”Faramir hesitated for some time, but eventually spoke. “It does, my love, I do not like seeing you returning angry and discomfited after every chance encounter with him, and I am pleased if you will be content to ignore him...”He was still holding something back, that much was obvious. Why he had ever taken such an interest in Wormtongue in the first place, she still did not know. She could only assume the man's suffering under his former master's hand evoked some kind of immense pity in her husband, despite his many crimes. “But..?”“I have been trying for days now to think of how best to broach the topic without it sounding like an accusation; I merely wish to understand why you stood by and would have let him fall to his death... do you hate him so greatly, still?”Eowyn pulled away from her husband as the shameful weight of that moment of cowardice, however brief, returned to her.“I... I don't know why I did not react, truly. I know well that we might all be dead were it not for his swift action in Bâr Nírnaeth, but it was as though I had been rooted to the ground and what was before me was all a dream. There is something about him that forever puts me outside of myself. It all happened so quickly...”She knew he was looking at her in the darkness of their shared tent, and wondered what Wormtongue actually felt when her husband peered into him. Ever since he'd revealed the secret of it, she'd tried to feel his presence in that way, but it was lost upon her entirely.“Whenever I look upon him, I can only see every terrible thing that involved him, over and over again. Perhaps he has indeed repented of his past misdeeds, but whenever I am in his presence, I cannot escape it.”Faramir sighed beside her. “Did you know it pains him as well, to look upon you? Indeed, he endeavors not to, as much as he is able to avoid it.”“And I should pity him? He is only regretting what he wants and cannot have--”“That may have been true once, but he is long past that at this point. Much as he has become the symbolic representation of everything you have lost, the sight of you ever reminds him of his own failings. You have become his accuser, even when you do not speak to him at all.”Eowyn laughed bitterly. “He does not require me to accuse him; his sins are his own, and even if we had never crossed paths again, he already must know what he is and what he has done. If he is indeed capable of feeling regret somewhere within that black heart of his, all the better for him. Perhaps he ought to be occasionally reminded, lest he stray again. But, as I said, I have already told him in so many words that I will leave him in peace so long as he does the same. I will leave him alone going forward, in return for the service he has done us lately, and if you desire his company, I won't impede you. But, please, don't ask more of me. I cannot regard him as I would another man, whatever the circumstances.”Faramir's arms gathered her up, pulling their blanket up over her shoulders. Eowyn shut her eyes and willed herself to sleep.  The king sat at his desk, his elbows propped on his knees as he stared down at the floor in frustration. “Delioron left nothing – no letters, no journals, no personal items at all?”Maenir shook his head, wringing his hands. “I went through everything he might have touched in the archives, every corner he might have visited. Other than a stack of unused parchment and a few quills, nothing remains. He only worked under me for about a year; he was barely out of his apprenticeship. He was from Dol Amroth originally, and was trained in the library there, but honestly I did not speak to him much outside of work.”“You said he lived with a cousin?”“Yes, I visited the cousin this morning. He said Delioron left some time ago – that he simply packed up one day and told his cousin he was returning to his parents' home in Dol Amroth. He left nothing behind.”“Did he have any friends in the city, anyone who visited him at his cousin's home?”Maenir shrugged. “I asked who he might have had contact with, his cousin said he kept to himself. If he had companions, he spent time with them elsewhere.”Aragorn nodded, scratching at his beard. “In the meantime, I want you to gather up everything in the archives that has been taken out of Mordor – original and translated – and bring it to me. I will have them placed in a vault for now. Thank you, Maenir, you may return to your work.”Maenir bowed to the king, nodded at Faramir and Gríma, and departed.Aragorn stood, and paced the room for a moment before coming to stand in front of a window overlooking the courtyard and white tree far below. “It is possible Delioron was working alone, but somehow I doubt it. What I have trouble understanding, quite frankly, is the possible motive behind this – had Delioron been successful in summoning that demon of his, it would have destroyed him and fled out of Bâr Nírnaeth into the Morgul Vale. It is unlikely it would have ever caused trouble to anyone not in Mordor, which already has plenty of malevolent spirits still roaming about. Delioron's death would have gone unseen and his family left wondering as to his fate.”Faramir glanced aside at Gríma, who was distinctly uncomfortable at the moment, fidgeting in the corner. “What is it, Gríma?”Gríma fidgeted a bit longer before responding. “I am not certain what happened was the planned outcome of whomever arranged this... mischief. I fear this may all be my fault, in a sense.”Faramir leaned forward, trying to catch Gríma's gaze as well as reaching out with his mind, but Gríma looked away from him, shuddering under his scrutiny. Faramir withdrew. “My apologies, friend, I'm afraid it's a rather ingrained habit at this point.”Aragorn turned from his contemplation of the window, looking at the men sitting in his study. “Gríma, what makes you believe what happened was not what was intended?”Gríma wrapped his arms around himself. “Something Delioron said before... I... I came upon him first, before the others arrived. I had gone up the staircase after seeing movement on the platform above, as the rangers were otherwise engaged with the possessed armor suits in the entrance of the tower...” Gríma cringed, awaiting a declaration of scorn from the two warriors in the room for cowardice.Faramir looked back at Aragorn. “As I mentioned this morning, I had suggested he remain at the camp outside, but he came with us regardless. He was armed with only a dagger; our opponents carried swords and spears.”Gríma glanced up at the king, whose expression remained neutral. “I understand, Faramir. Continue, Gríma – what did he say to you?”“He said he had considered asking me to join him as my 'experience' suited his ends, but my habit of leaving immediately at the end of the day had left him with no opportunity to speak to me alone. I do not... socialize... with the other scribes overly much, but perhaps whoever gave him that scroll was not aware of this fact. Furthermore, I did not have the original scroll, nor the translation, until after Delioron had resigned. He had to have been speaking with someone for weeks before the opportunity for theft arose...”Aragorn returned to his seat at his desk, stretching his legs out. “Someone he already knew, had been in conversation with for some time. It could not have been someone who would have attracted attention simply by entering, or the door warden would have taken notice. And all of this happened before the solstice. I don't suppose you managed to piss someone off the moment you stepped through the gates? Did that horse of yours bite someone, perhaps?”Gríma flinched slightly at the mild criticism, though he knew it was mostly in jest. “I... don't believe so. The only direct confrontation I had in those first days was when I crossed paths with Eowyn in the stables. We argued then, briefly, before she departed.”“...and Eowyn does not frequently spend time in the houses of lore, so her presence certainly would have been noted,” Faramir added. “However much she dislikes Gríma, this sort of scheming is not something she would attempt, I can assure you, and if she had, I doubt she would have botched it so thoroughly.”Aragorn pressed at his forehead. “Your wife is not under suspicion here, Faramir. If she truly wanted to harm Gríma, I suspect she would simply pick up a sword and issue a challenge... Nonetheless, there are more people in this city and its surroundings than I can personally keep up with. Permanent residents as well as merchants, envoys, diplomats, and various other wanderers. The houses of lore in Minas Tirith are well-known for the size and rarity of its collection and they are visited by many who do not necessarily live nearby. A foreigner stepping into the houses of lore might not necessarily garner too much attention, provided they were dressed as a scholar of some variety, which is easy enough to do.”Aragorn stood and resumed his pacing. “Basically anyone could have come in one day, witnessed what you were doing, and contrived to make you look guilty by returning later and taking the translation. Giving the scroll to a foolish and vain young scribe and putting the suggestion that he approach you with the temptation of using it is not a plan of great cunning; that it failed utterly is hardly surprising.”Gríma sighed. “Most likely someone from Rohan, then, who has cause to hate me. In other words – the entire country. That hardly narrows it down... Most of Rohan is illiterate, though, so that does shorten the list somewhat. They would need to read Westron, at least, to know what was in that translation, or have the cooperation of someone else who does.”“It's a starting place, at least. They may not be inclined to try again after having bungled things so badly, but I would suggest vigilance. I will speak to the door warden about keeping a record of who enters. Not only those who remove books, but any who visit. A mandatory signature in a guest book at the door, perhaps...”“What is it, Gríma?” Faramir was leaning toward Gríma again, who had hunched over, his hands fisting in his hair. Aragorn's eyes watered slightly; if he pulled much harder, he'd soon be ripping the hair from his scalp.“Perhaps it would be better if I simply leave. My presence in Gondor is proving to be... disruptive... at the very least to your wife, and clearly to others who know who I am. She has certainly told the tale to many, if the looks I receive in the markets say anything. I could go north, to Dale, perhaps, or south...”Aragorn watched silently as Faramir reached out to grasp Gríma's shoulder in an attempt at some sort of comforting gesture, although Gríma did not respond. Aragorn had not actually spent much time in Gríma's presence since the man had arrived in the city, although it seemed Faramir had forged something resembling a friendship with him. His strongest memory of Gríma still was of that day on the steps of Meduseld as the man fled back toward his terrible master, having spat at the feet of Theoden. At the time he had assumed Gríma still trusted Saruman to give him whatever reward he had promised, although now Aragorn wondered if Gríma had simply misjudged that the cruelty of Saruman would somehow be less than that of his countrymen.Gríma had fled the Shire, too, according to Merry and Pippin, until he was fetched back and reasoned with, once he believed he'd outworn his welcome. Aragorn had promised Merry, Pippin, and by extension, Frodo Baggins, that he would give this ragged exile a permanent home. That Gríma now thought to flee again was deeply disappointing, especially in light of the tale Faramir had told him that morning of Gríma's deeds at Bâr Nírnaeth.
Two steps forward, one step back.
“That is rather unnecessary, I should think. Eowyn spends little time in Minas Tirith in the general course of things, and the two of you have reached something of an armistice agreement lately, according to Faramir. I suppose you may at times be called to travel with them again, but you will both simply have to learn to work around one another.”Aragorn pulled his chair closer to Gríma, who was still threatening to pull his own hair out, and sat down. “Look at me, Gríma.”Gríma failed to respond to the verbal command, but Aragorn managed to get his head to tilt up with a finger under the chin. He did not have Faramir's clear sight into the minds and moods of others, but he had long years of dealing with all manner of men, and knew despair, defeat and panic when he saw it.“You can't keep running away at the first scent of trouble. There is trouble everywhere; it is simply a fact of life. Eventually you will run out of places to run to.”Gríma's eyes watered slightly where Aragorn stared into them, and eventually slid off to the side to land on some neutral point. He's still afraid to look at me, Aragorn thought idly as he sat back again. He wondered if Faramir had any better luck with him in that regard, but somehow doubted it. Aragorn leaned up and pushed his chair back, giving Gríma a bit more breathing room.“Gríma, we will deal with this saboteur, whoever they are, if they reappear. In the meantime, I am going to move you out of that boarding house and into quarters here in the Tower of Ecthelion.”Gríma's head snapped back up. “Sire... Are you certain-”Aragorn stood. “Yes, quite certain. The citadel guard does not simply hire anyone who walks in off the street; they are all vetted before being allowed to serve here. In fact, I believe the quarters next to Faramir's are currently empty; they have been used in the past to house visiting diplomats but not in recent years. On the slight chance someone is able to slip past the guards and there is trouble, you will be able to reach him swiftly.”Gríma sat for a moment, trying to process. Eventually he managed to respond. “Eowyn will not like this...”Aragorn laughed. “Eowyn is a big girl, and I'm certain she can put you in your place if you step out of line; she's certainly proven capable in the past.”Gríma's face reddened and Aragorn laughed again. “Go gather whatever belongings you've left behind in that boarding house, inform the landlady you are departing, and pay off whatever rent you may still owe. The rooms will be made ready by the time you return.”Gríma rose hesitantly, and departed.Faramir gave his king a crooked half-smile. “He's not wrong about Eowyn, she'll be annoyed to say the least. I think she was looking forward to being away from him after so many weeks travelling in his presence.”Growing more serious, Aragorn sat down again. “I truly am sorry if this is a burden to her, but until we locate the thief who handed Delioron that scroll, I do still fear for Gríma's safety. This was a rather cackhanded attempt at a frame-up but it was reckless in the extreme, and their next scheme may prove more clever.”Faramir pulled out his pipe and filled it from a pouch of pipeweed on the king's desk, now that Gríma and his sensitive lungs had left the room. “If Gríma had not fallen ill when he did, I do wonder if we would have been so quick to dismiss him as the guilty party. It was a hopelessly childish and stupid scheme, but...”Aragorn fished his own pipe out of the desk drawer, and spent several minutes puffing away at it, blowing smoke rings, and contemplating the puzzle that was Gríma the Wormtongue and the trouble that seemed to follow him everywhere.“Perhaps not. He suffered from the fever, certainly, and for a time I thought he might perish, but in a sense it may have been fortuitous in that it made it impossible for him to have committed the theft. This mysterious assailant's plan was too dependent on chance from the start, and upon certain assumptions. Namely, that Gríma's past and reputation alone would be enough to condemn him on even circumstantial evidence, and, that failing, he would be unable to resist the temptation of dark sorcery and would be too stupid to realize summoning a rogmul would be a lethal mistake. Or perhaps this schemer is the one who did not know what the result of using that scroll would be.”“You had instructed the city's guards to keep a close eye on Gríma, it wouldn't be unreasonable for someone to believe you would be instantly suspicious of him.”Yes, I had, hadn't I? I told the guards, I told the man he would be working for, I told several others across the entire city that this man had a dark past, that he was untrustworthy, and that he needed to be watched closely lest he commit evil. Moreover, Eowyn had told plenty herself about him across several taverns in the city. Aragorn shook his head, blowing smoke from his nostrils. “I judged him earlier for his solitary nature, thinking he was perhaps too arrogant or too resentful to connect to others. But he might have had little choice in the matter, after so many had been warned against him.”“I don't think you were incorrect to be vigilant about him. He seems to have changed his ways but people can slide back into old habits more easily than they would like to believe, and in those early days we had only the testimony of the hobbits to judge his change of heart. For what it is worth, he has friends among the rangers of Ithilien now, at least. I include myself in that statement; I will be keeping an eye on him as much as I am able.”Aragorn lifted an eyebrow at the younger man. “I had noticed you seemed rather concerned with him.”Faramir shrugged. “He's not always the most pleasant man to deal with, but he is certainly... interesting.”“'Interesting'? That's not the sort of word generally used to describe him.”“I suppose 'wicked' or 'duplicitous' are the more common ones applied to him. He's not really so terrible, I think. A little bit of kindness goes rather a long way with him. I'm not certain he understands what it is.”“Hmm. You know, Arwen has been telling me for some time now that I need to trust those who serve me with greater responsibility. I think Gríma can be your project, for the time being. Half of your rangers are out of commission at the moment anyhow. The other half can pursue the matter of whoever is persecuting him while they wait on the rest. And you can keep both eyes on our Wormtongue.”Faramir pocketed his pipe, which had gone out anyway, and rose, bowing to his king. “As you wish, sire. Who knows, maybe Eowyn won't stab him while he sleeps.”“Tell her I'd rather she didn't, it does make quite a mess of the laundry.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

A crowd formed in the street around them, opening and closing behind the mounted party like a school of fish around a passing leviathan as the entourage made its way up the through the city. The king of Rohan and his retinue of servants and retainers kept a steady pace as they ascended. Eomer occasionally glanced to the left or right, without turning his head, attempting to look at least somewhat like a proper king while travelling in another man's kingdom. He didn't normally go in for ceremony, in most respects – he was a practical man with practical concerns, and while he demanded the loyalty and service of his subjects, he wasn't the bow-and-scrape sort of monarch. His uncle hadn't really been, either, and Eomer had proven even less so. Some grumbled about his “abominable” casualness, but he'd always disliked wasting time. Perhaps if he'd been raised for the throne from birth like his cousin, he might have turned out otherwise, but he hadn't, and the grumblers could, frankly, stuff it.Gondor was a different sort of place than Rohan, with its long history and roots in the exiles of Númenor. His childhood tutors had made him read scrolls full of that history, pacing back and forth in front of him as he tried not to sneeze from the dust off the parchment itching his nose. His Westron had been serviceable even back then, but he'd never been able to wrap his tongue around many of those names. He'd never been interested in academic study; most in Rohan never learned to read at all, and like other boys his age, he was more keen to get back outdoors than memorize lists of long-dead monarchs and dates of battles.Even now, in the second year of the Fourth Age, centuries later, many of the common folk of Gondor, especially in Minas Tirith, had a more formal manner in speech and custom than even the nobility of Rohan, and literacy was far more commonplace if not entirely universal. The place felt like something out of a story for children, in some respects, and Eomer always felt a bit like a sore thumb any time he had to visit it.The horse of one of the two standard bearers preceding him suddenly halted, its hooves clacking on the flagstones as it danced in place, and the rest of the company pulled to a halt as a result. Leaning forward in the saddle, he watched a small child who had rushed forward bend down to retrieve a rag doll in the street. The child's mother darted forward, grabbing the hand of the girl, about four or five years old at most, bowing frantically and apologizing profusely as she dragged her now-crying daughter into a nearby alley. If this had been Edoras, Eomer would have dismounted and attempted to console both the mother and the child, to reassure them that they were in no trouble, but as it was Minas Tirith, he simply waited for the trivial drama to finish playing out before giving the signal to proceed. He only hoped the woman wouldn't punish the child too severely.Lothiriel, his wife, had been making noises about starting a family recently, and he certainly wasn't opposed to the idea. He'd be expected to provide a male heir, as custom dictated, eventually. He honestly didn't care if he only had girls or even no children at all, and Eowyn had a son who ended up on Rohan's throne instead, but politics being politics, it could cause trouble. So much blood spilled over blood through history. Or bloodlines, anyway. People are stupid about such things. A leader should be just and strong. Everything else is so many details. A couple of the more disagreeable members of the court in Rohan had made comments questioning his own legitimacy after he made some edict or other they disliked, but as Theodred had left behind no offspring of any sort, they were shit out of luck when it came to acceptable alternatives. As king, he could have them hanged for such talk, which could by rights be interpreted as conspiracy to commit treason, but he simply couldn't be bothered. They were cranky old men who talked too much after drinking too much, and were mostly harmless. If it ever grew to something more, he'd do something about it then.As much as Eomer did not care for Minas Tirith, he was glad of the break from such petty court drama of his own kingdom. He'd appointed a steward to oversee things in his absence, and good luck to the man. As long as the country hadn't burned to the ground or been sold off for magic beans by the time he returned, he'd not complain.Lothiriel had parted from him at Dol Amroth, where her father, Prince Imrahil, still led the city, and her mother and siblings still lived. The company had spent the night there before moving on without her, and would pass through again on the return journey to retrieve her. He would have preferred Lothiriel stay by his side, but could not begrudge her a visit with her kin. Sighing to himself, Eomer tilted his head to look upward at the entire stacked “wedding cake” structure of the city, rolling his eyes. If it wouldn't have risked trampling innocent pedestrians, he'd have taken the rest of it at a gallop, just to get it over with. Aragorn had better have some decent ale at his table today.They began moving again, and Eomer closed his eyes, loosening his hold on the reins and let his mind wander as his well-trained horse followed those of the standard bearers. The smell of cooking fires, animal dung, rubbish, and the rest all mingled in his nostrils. The city might not look much like Edoras, but cities all certainly smelled more or less the same.He twitched a wry smile and opened his eyes again as the chatter immediately behind him was followed with the smell of burning pipeweed. Merry, Pippin, and Samwise Gamgee leading donkey carts full of pipeweed barrels had entered Rohan a couple of weeks after the winter solstice, intending to restock their food supplies from his larders and rest a bit before pushing on. “We have business with the king,” Sam had explained over the table, immediately turning an impressive shade of red the moment he'd said it. “The other king, I mean.” He'd reddened further as Eomer had laughed, refilling Sam's mug of ale from his own pitcher. “I know what you meant, hobbit. And I have business with him as well, actually.” He'd then talked them into staying in Edoras for a short while, and then travelling together. He was somewhat disturbed by their proposal of shutting the Shire's borders entirely, for reasons he could not entirely formulate. “Do you still have such trouble with banditry, so long after the war? I could send a few riders to patrol your borders,” he'd offered.Merry had waved him off, a half-eaten pork chop still in hand, shaking his head vehemently. “No, no, the bounders are quite competent in keeping the wrong sorts out, m'lord, we need no more than what we have. Truly, we've long since sent off everything that had ridden in on Sharkey's coattails, other than a few vagabonds passing through what want to start trouble occasionally. It's more like... well, the older folk, you know, the war hit them quite hard. And the families with little children, which is most of them. The general feeling is just that it's time for the Shire to see to its own affairs, without interference. Some of the roads through the Shire have been used by dwarves and elves and other sorts for generations to pass through on the way to the blue mountains and such, and some sort of alternative will have to be found. As the Shire is technically part of Aragorn's back garden now, so to speak, we figured we'd best have a direct talk about it. We shan't bar passage completely to foreign sorts until they're given a decent alternative – we aren't heartless, after all.”Finally, Eomer arrived at the courtyard between the Tower of Ecthelion and the prow that thrust out over the rest of the city, looking up at the white tree, currently bare of leaves in winter. He dismounted as one of the guards rushed inside, no doubt to announce his arrival. King Elessar, of course, knew he was coming and expected him.Out rushed first not the king nor his servants, but Eowyn, with her husband appearing soon after. Eomer embraced his sister, holding onto her as long as she would allow, having not seen her since her wedding. When she pulled away, his brother in law embraced him next, though briefly. Eomer had had no objection to Faramir when he learned of his sister's betrothal, and his sister quite obviously loved him dearly, but in truth he knew the man but little, other than through Eowyn's accounts of him in her occasional letters.Having been released, finally, Eomer looked up to find the king of Gondor stooping slightly as he was practically mobbed by the three hobbits, Pippin in particular already chattering away. Extricating himself, Aragorn finally rose and acknowledged Eomer, who bowed stiffly and gave the formal, customary greeting.  It was too early for supper, but servants had set out dried fruit, nuts, cheese, and toasted bread on the table, along with pitchers of ale.“So, how goes it with Rohan?”“As well as it might, I suppose. My men have kept themselves busy the last couple of years slaying whatever remnants they could find of Saruman's uruk-hai and orcs, and the supply finally seems to be drying up. It has been some months since any have been found, although the occasional pack of runty wargs still turn up harassing our herds. The beasts are often found now in the company of ordinary wolves, and I fear they may be interbreeding. I am not sure whether to be worried what the wolves will become with their blood co-mingled with that of wargs, or relived that the wargs' lineage is being diluted with that of lesser beasts. I've been debating with some of the regional lords whether to cull these mixed packs, which at this point seems to be all of them.”Aragorn swirled the remaining ale in his mug, staring into it for a moment, before downing the lot in one gulp. The hobbits had already eaten their way through most of the tidbits that had been set out, and Aragorn nodded at a servant who appeared in the doorway, sending her back to the kitchens for more. It had been some time since they had been obliged to cater to the appetites of hobbits.“I suppose one could see it either way. There is little solution to the matter that doesn't involve killing the wolves as well as the wargs, and while the herdsmen would no doubt celebrate that notion, I cannot recommend it; the wolves have their place in the order of the natural world as everything else does.”“They do tend to suppress the multiplying of the wild deer herds, which at times compete with the cattle for grazing and damage crops, but-” Eomer stopped mid-sentence as he spied a dark figure passing down a corridor seen through a doorway with a vaguely familiar stooped gait. Faramir, sitting to the other side of his sister, stood up and called out, confirming Eomer's suspicions.“Gríma! Come, sit. Eat something, I know you haven't bothered to do so today, you never stop to eat when you're working.”The man in question halted in the doorway, eyes narrowing as they scanned across the group assembled at the table. Eomer grit his teeth, keeping the sharp retort that wanted to escape behind his lips. This was not, after all, his hall. He had become accustomed to his title and position in Rohan, and it was a strange feeling to not be sitting quite at the top of the heap again, but he still had enough sense to know when it was best to keep his own council. He smirked, slightly, taking some pleasure at least in knowing that he had brought with him as a servant someone that might give this fool a bit of a jolt later, should they cross paths.Gríma the Wormtongue stepped through the doorway, hesitating, but the hobbits collectively waved him over, shuffling slightly to make room between Sam and Merry for him to sit. Eomer picked up his ale and drank, slowly, keeping his hands and mouth both occupied as the Wormtongue sat himself down amongst the halflings. Servants arrived, then, with more snacks.Samwise Gamgee immediately shoved one of the plates with dried fruit and cheese under the worm's nose. “Go on, then. I see you're letting yourself get too skinny again, and have no excuse for it now. After all Frodo did...”The Wormtongue huffed slightly at Sam's comment, then took a handful of the dried cherries. The servant reappeared again, plopping a mug down in front of him. He drank the ale, at least, without acting like a fussy toddler.Merry leaned back, rocking slightly in his seat. “Settled in, then? What have you been doing with yourself these months? You've only sent one letter, you know, I'm rather disappointed.”Gríma finished chewing what he'd eaten, at least, before answering. His table manners had always been abysmal, Eomer thought, even at a king's table, but perhaps some of the formality of Gondorian culture had worked a bit of influence.“Working, mostly.”Pippin laughed, sloshing ale on the table. “Verbose as ever, aren't we?”“He works in the houses of lore, mostly,” Faramir cut in. “Some of the more complicated translation work. Knowing several languages fluently and a few more esoteric ones at least passingly has its usefulness in as extensive a collection as Minas Tirith has.”Eomer's nose twitched. “Really? I thought he only spoke four tongues - Rohirric, Weston, Lies, and Insults...”Wormtongue slumped over the table slightly, scowling but saying nothing, and Eomer watched as Merry peered at the worm with an odd expression. If he hadn't known better, he might think the halfling felt sorry for him, or something like it.Faramir refilled his wife's mug from the pitcher, then topped off his own. “Rohirric, Westron, Sindarin, Quenya, the Black Speech, a smattering of Khuzdul, and bits and pieces of a few other dialects. That I know of, at any rate. If he has more on him, he has yet to reveal it.”Eomer snorted into his mug. “Of course he knows the Black Speech. I wouldn't be shocked if it had been his cradle-tongue and Rohirric came second.”“That's enough, Eomer,” came Aragorn's voice, soft but firmly. “He's earned his keep since he arrived, and let's leave it at that.”The entire table fell uncomfortably silent for the moment at the unexpected reprimand. Eomer wasn't quite certain how to react to be told off like a child by the only living man who technically outranked him, and thus chose not to react at all other than to drink more ale. The afternoon was wearing on anyhow, and he wanted a hot bath to wash away the dust of the road, and to speak to his sister in a more private setting, to see how she was really getting on. Letters were fine, but one does not always put everything in writing, and in a crowd, one's speech may be guarded. He'd had his misgivings about Wormtongue ending up in the same place as Eowyn as soon as the creature had turned up at his border with the hobbits and Aragorn's letter, even though he'd not been inclined to provoke a diplomatic incident by interfering with Aragorn's authority regarding who would or would not be allowed into his own kingdom.Pippin, naturally, broke the increasingly itchy pause in conversation, by turning to the king and launching into a detailed account of the Shire's recent agricultural fecundity thanks to some sort of elven sorcery gifted by Galadriel, and ending by mentioning the donkey carts laden with a bumper crop of pipeweed waiting in the stables near the entrance to the city that had been brought as a gift for the king's household. Merry shouted at him for ruining the surprise, but Aragorn seemed interested enough. Eomer spent the rest of the time covertly watching Wormtongue in silence as the man picked at the food that Sam and Merry kept pressing at him like a pair of grandmothers trying to fatten up an obstinate child. Life is strange, he thought. Very strange.  Gríma hunched over his desk, flipping through the pages of the old tome again, and shuffling through the parchment he'd been roughing out a draft translation onto. He'd taken to bringing back work with him from the houses of lore, often working long hours into the night. The houses of lore were generally quiet, in the sense that chatter and conversation were discouraged, but the background hum of noise – footsteps, breathing, sniffling, coughing, shuffling about, quills dipping into ink and scratching away - that naturally emanated from other people was a distraction on its own.Maenir would never have allowed him to take valuable items back to that rat-infested boarding house so Gríma had never bothered to ask. Predicting that the head lore-master would be less apt to criticize the King's own household, though, he'd posed the question a couple days after returning from Faramir's failed excursion to Mordor. Sometimes he took enough work with him to stay busy for several days without returning, which annoyed Maenir, but Gríma's quality of work was generally excellent enough to mollify him.He glanced up as he heard the door that joined his rooms to Faramir's open and close, expecting to see Faramir himself (not Eowyn, never Eowyn). For once, it wasn't the Ithilien prince sticking his head in to remind him that food and water are necessities of the human body, but Merry and Pippin who shuffled in, probably after visiting Eowyn, and making themselves at home without bothering to ask if they were welcome. Gríma finished looking over the page he'd been double-checking, then pushed his chair back to finally regard his uninvited guests.Pippin had already rearranged the pillows on Gríma's bed and propped himself up against them, his oversized hobbit feet splayed out across the covers, while Merry sat at the edge, kicking his heels against the mattress, looking about at the stacks of books and papers and other general accumulations around the room.Merry slid off the bed to inspect a few recent scrolls stacked on a small side table that Gríma had been meaning to take back to Maenir for several days now. “Hm, you really have been busy. Is all this your work?”“Yes. And I will thank you not to mess about with it, if you don't mind.”Merry let the scroll he'd unfurled roll back up with the crisp snap of fresh parchment. “Touchy, touchy... I promise I washed up, my fingers are quite clean at the moment.”“Nonetheless, there have been... complications... with some of my work, and the head lore-master has become quite particular about the scrolls. I do not wish to give him cause to fuss even more about it.”Pippin tilted his head up from where he'd been dozing. “What sort of complications could a man have with a scroll? Paper cuts? Smudged ink? I think your boss needs a holiday.”Gríma sighed and launched into the long tale of the missing translation, his illness over the festival season, and what happened in Mordor, pausing only to cross the room and open the window to stand next to the fresh air after the two hobbits lit their pipes while listening raptly. By the time he'd finished the story, their pipes had gone out and he could finally breathe freely, although he still left the window open against the lingering smell before sitting down.“You were really out cold for three days?” Merry reached into a bag at his belt to get more pipeweed.“So Faramir told me, and please do not smoke anymore in this room. It's bad for the parchment, as well as my lungs.”“You could have just said so, you know,” Merry replied as he put away his pipe. Pippin, who had reached for his as well, grumbled slightly, but didn't argue. Merry leaned back against the edge of Gríma's desk, chewing at the ragged edge of a fingernail. “So someone's out there trying to ruin you, you think?”“Possibly. Probably. Faramir and the king are convinced of it, and I can't think of another rational explanation for it. Whoever it is, he seems quite stupid, though.”“Or she, I suppose - did you spurn some poor girl's affections lately?” Pippin grinned at him across the room, and waggled an eyebrow at him.Gríma scowled. “Don't be absurd.”Pippin sat up, curling his legs under him to sit cross-legged on the bed. “What's absurd about it? You never know, do you? I didn't know Diamond even knew I existed until she grabbed me and dragged me behind a tree a few months ago. Girls have a mind of their own, there's no use trying to understand.”Gríma rolled his eyes. “No one has dragged me anywhere in recent memory, especially not any girls.” Other than Eowyn snatching me up by the cloak a couple of times on the road, primarily to argue, but that hardly counts. Idhrien had dropped by for a visit a few times over the last month, to discuss herbs and a few other purely academic subjects. She wasn't married as far as Gríma knew, but she'd certainly not given the slightest inclination that she saw him as a potential match. Regardless, she had no cause to persecute him that he knew of, and he did not suspect her in the least. “In any case, I've never found women to be any more or less confusing than men, on the whole. Indeed, most people of any age or sex are rather irrational in my experience.”Pippin laughed, reaching for his pipe again out of habit before remembering he'd been asked not to smoke. “Well, if it's not a woman scorned, then it's probably something to do with Saruman. Sharkey's been dead for a good while now, though, you'd think people could move on.”You'd think, but no. “Most people do not 'move on' easily from such things. I cannot fault them for remembering who has wronged them. Not everyone has your forgiving nature, Peregrine Took, and you'd do well to remember that.”“I'm aware of that, thanks though. Speaking of grudges, you know Bilbo Baggins left Lobelia a box of his old silver spoons when he left the Shire for good? The very same ones she'd been trying to pinch for ages! She probably already had half the set hidden away in a drawer somewhere. I thought it was funny. I'm not sure what old Lobelia thought of it. But if you're going to settle an old score, it ought to be funny, in my opinion. Fiery demons are certainly not funny, especially when they're chasing you underground, but I wouldn't want to meet one above ground, either, even a little one.”Gríma thought for a moment, ransacking his memory. “Lobelia, was she the old woman who-”“The one who smacked you with the umbrella? Yes. Lotho's old gammer. She died recently, just a bit over a hundred years old. Not quite Bilbo's record for longevity but a respectable age for a hobbit.”Gríma stared out of the window, looking at the stars that had just appeared at the eastern horizon as the sun dipped below the mountains behind the city. The time he'd spent in the Shire had not been so long ago, but it felt like ages past. Frodo had passed into the west with his uncle, with Mithrandir, and a contingent of notable elves, he'd been informed in a letter. The same letter had held other, much happier, news, as well, at least. “How goes it with Sam's family? I'm surprised he left his wife and daughter to travel this far.”“They're quite well,” Merry said. “I think Rosy had plans to take little Elanor and went to visit some of her cousins while Sam's away. Hobbits usually have plenty of family to spare as most of us don't stray too far from home. Sam doesn't let on about it, but I know he misses Frodo something terrible. I suspect he thought some time away from the Shire might take his mind off it. Mayor Whitfoot has been hinting about resigning his post also, and it's generally agreed that Sam will probably be the next in line. Whitfoot's too old to travel such distances even if he were inclined, and so Sam was sent as his deputy to argue the Shire's interests with the king. I could have done it myself, but it's good practice, and our Sam, bless him, needs it.”“I suppose he'll be hashing out the terms of the Shire's border closing with the king as we speak?”“He's off haggling with old Strider, yes, but we haven't quite shut the gates yet. Another road bypassing the Shire will have to be cut so travellers between the blue mountains and Bree and such aren't left trying to drag carts through mud holes. Hobbits aren't opposed to hard work but given that the Shire is technically a vassal state of Arnor, we didn't want to get crossways with her king over the subject. It wouldn't hurt to have some help, or at least a bit of gold to purchase the necessary supplies. Hobbits generally barter with the Breelanders and the dwarves, but surplus grain and pipeweed only gets you so much, even with the kind of harvests we've had the past couple of years. We have the stone quarry at Scary, but it simply isn't large enough to supply what's needed. Another source will have to found, and we'd hoped Aragorn might know something to do about it, since he was a ranger in the north so long.”“The north downs were known for having many quarries, as were the hills surrounding the lake of Evendim. Annúminas and Fornost were both built from stone in past ages.”“There's a thought. I'll mention it at supper. Which, I think, should be very soon.”Pippin rolled off of Gríma's bed, heading toward the door at the mention of food. Merry joined him, and Gríma nodded at them, turning back to his desk and picking up the book again. He dropped the book only a moment later as Pippin yanked on his sleeve. “What are you waiting for? I'm hungry.”“Then go. I'll eat with the servants later. I am not actually part of the king's court even if I have been temporarily housed with them, and am not expected at his table. Not without invitation, certainly.”Pippin rolled his eyes. “If anyone questions you, I'll say you're there as my guest. You did live in the Shire for quite some time, you're practically an adopted hobbit at this point anyway, even if you still don't know the value of food. Now get up and move, I don't want to be late. Don't worry so much, Merry won't let Eomer chop your head off at the table.”Gríma sighed and rose, knowing when he was outmaneuvered. “I suppose if you ask nicely, perhaps he'll postpone my execution until after the pudding is served.”Pippin smiled and held open the door while Merry pushed him through it. “Then at least you'll die with a full stomach; can't ask for much better than that, can you?”  Eowyn sat on the bench at the far end of the prow, looking out over the Pelennor and a partially rebuilt Osgiliath to the dark mountains beyond them, and at the clear night sky above. She was wrapped in a thick fur mantle against the near constant wind. It had been a month since the return from Mordor, and she was growing restless at the forced idleness. She'd never been good at sitting on her hands and waiting, even before the war. She knew her husband's rangers were still healing from their injuries, some of which would take at least another month or two. Broken bones heal but not swiftly. She did not look forward to returning to Mordor for any reason or in any company, but she missed the forests and slopes of Ithilien. In another month or two, they'd be bursting with life as spring arrived.Eomer appeared and sat down beside her, stretching his legs out and leaning back to enjoy the view. “You've been rather quiet since I arrived. I've been trying to catch you on your own all day, but it's not easy.”Eowyn smiled to herself in the darkness. “Minas Tirith is always busy. Faramir's position comes with many demands as well, and neither of us have much time to ourselves.”“That, at least, I can understand. Lothiriel has been agitating about children lately.”“No luck, yet?”“No, although opportunities to press such luck are less frequent than we'd prefer, with one thing and another. Running a kingdom isn't as easy as our uncle made it look when we were children.”Eowyn let herself lean onto her brother's shoulder, losing herself in memories much older than the darkness that followed. “He never seemed to wear the crown too heavily, at least not until... well, not until things went badly.”Eomer scoffed beside her. “I still cannot believe King Elessar has allowed the worm such freedom. If he wants to scratch away at parchment for the rest of his life, by all means let him, but I'd keep him locked in his study and under guard in such circumstances.”Eowyn made an indeterminate noise beside him, saying nothing. Normally she was the first to join in whenever her brother castigated Wormtongue, but she found she no longer had any appetite for it. She'd had several nightmares over recent weeks of him dangling over the edge of that cliff again, begging her for help. In some versions of the dream, she stood by, doing nothing as she had in life. In others, she had gone to render aid and he had slipped from her grasp and fallen regardless. The last time, only three nights ago, he had pulled her down with him as he struggled to find footing and they had fallen together, hands still clasped, plunging into endless emptiness, and she had not slept again that night. Faramir had assured her repeatedly that her dreams were not, as his sometimes were, prophetic visions of anything past, present, or future, but simply her own feelings trying to sort themselves out. What those feelings were, exactly, she couldn't say and wasn't certain she wanted to.“What's wrong, Eowyn? If he's been interfering with you, just say the word – I will go to King Elessar and demand he be done away with immediately, and I won't take no for an answer. Indeed, I will gladly offer my sword to complete the deed.”Eowyn pulled away from him, shaking her head. “No, he's done nothing to me since he arrived in the city. He hasn't been at all what I had expected. Stranger still, Faramir and some of his rangers have grown quite fond of him. It's all rather unbelievable, really, but... Look, can we speak of something else? I prefer not to dwell on that man, or the past, any longer. Wormtongue and I have agreed to avoid one another as far as is possible, and that seems to be working out quite well for everyone. I don't want to discuss him, if it's all the same. The thought of him sours my mood.”Eomer pulled her back to his side, wrapping his cloak around her. The wind in this city really was something to behold, especially around dusk and early nightfall, and even after a couple of years, Eowyn was not quite used to it.“Are you happy in Gondor? Does your husband treat you well?”Eowyn laughed, and elbowed her brother in the ribs. “You really aren't going to stop until you find somebody to challenge on my behalf, are you? Do you miss playing Big Brother so dearly? You have a wife whose honor you can defend to your heart's content now, isn't that enough? If you go to one of the barracks in the morning, you will find a dozen overconfident young bucks to spar with, if you have such an excess of energy to expend.”“You know, I might just do that. Doing nothing but riding for days on end does get rather dreary. There aren't even any orcs left to chase after. I'm grateful for these days of peace, but I will admit I do get bored sometimes.”“I know what you mean. Too many of Faramir's rangers are still healing from the wounds they received in Mordor some weeks ago, and we shan't be able to go out again for another month at least. This wretched idleness is driving me spare. I might just join you tomorrow, actually. Those boys do need to be taken down a peg occasionally, or they get too full of themselves.”“Mordor? What in heaven's name were they doing there?”“The rangers of Ithilien have spent much time there since the end of the war, clearing out what is left of the enemy and attempting to reclaim what was once part of Gondor, although much of that realm remains utterly impassible. We went with the intention of investigating certain artifacts that were found in the ruins of Minas Morgul, but ran into something unexpected on the way. We won that fight, but not without taking our lumps in the process. We were quite lucky really.” Thanks to Wormtongue's quick thinking, she didn't add, as she still didn't want to think about him.“'We'? Don't tell me that husband of yours took you with him into bloody Mordor-”Eowyn jabbed her brother in the ribs with more force this time. “Of course he did, I wouldn't have it any other way. I may be wed now and no longer have any grand ambitions of dying in open warfare, but I am not about to sit in a corner sewing all day. We hadn't expected so much trouble and rarely run into anything seriously dangerous these days, but things do happen from time to time.”“Eowyn...”“Don't 'Eowyn' me, we've had this argument too many times already. It's a lovely clear night and you have to go and bring up Wormtongue first, and then complain about me living as I choose and see fit. You haven't been here one full day and you're already meddling like an old woman.”Eomer feigned terrible pain, clutching his chest. “Old woman? Oh, you wound me, sister, you wound me!”“Serves you right. Perhaps I'll skip the boys tomorrow and show you a lesson in the sparring yard instead.”  If there was one aspect of kingship that both Aragorn and Eomer hated, it was the paperwork. Oaths were simple enough – something you could generally memorize in an afternoon and repeat in less than a minute. Treaties, trade agreements, and other such day-to-day minutia, however...“We have no particular need of fresh horses at the moment. What we need is more hay for the ones we already have. I suppose we could send some of the old ones to the knackers...”Eomer pounded the table between them. “What a terrible thing to do to an animal that has served faithfully all it's life! I expected better-”Aragorn laughed and poured him another drop of the Shire whiskey that Pippin had gifted him along with the pipeweed. “Peace, friend, I was only jesting about the knackers. But my point stands – we are quite full up on horses, at least of the sort that Rohan breeds. We could use more of the heavier kind, to put before the plow as the planting will begin soon, but we can make do with oxen if needs must. Certainly you can spare a bit of hay, though? I recall your fields quite well, they are a nearly endless ocean of grass.”“The fields are endless; the people needed to cut and dry and transport the hay are not. Especially after the war, which did no favors to the numbers of the young and able-bodied available for such labors.” Eomer gestured to his servant, a young man of about twenty or so summers, who had been standing patiently in the corner of the room. “Calin, return to my rooms and retrieve the big ledger out of my trunk. The one with the green binding, not the smaller brown one.”Calin rose and bowed, then departed to fulfill his lord's demand. Aragorn's eyes followed the young man's path before returning to his guest. “There is something oddly familiar about him, I feel as though I have seen him before. Something about the eyes, I think...”“That doesn't surprise me. His half-brother is living under your roof after all, although as far as I can surmise, the two have never crossed paths and possibly may not even know the other exists.”Aragorn took another sip of whiskey, going through the faces of his household in his mind, trying to match up the pair. The answer hit him like a brick to the head. “You don't mean-”“Calin, son of Gálmód. Born of the man's second wife, naturally, hence the fair hair and generally less repulsive features. The eyes are primarily what all three men share in common, that same shape and color exactly. I ran into the boy on an excursion to the Stonedeans, after I'd decided to check in on some of the more distant border provinces. Ironically enough, it was Wormtongue's wheedling about certain things that had convinced me to do so. I found Calin an interesting contrast to his half-brother, so I offered him work. I think he was glad to be given something to do besides driving a cart.”“I... see. And then you brought him here, under the same roof as his kin, whom he perhaps does not know of, and whom you have not told him about. Eomer...”Eomer laughed, taking another drink. “I do wonder... if I put them in the same room together, would they ever realize they were at all related? There's a good deal of Dunlendish blood in that village, as much brown hair and eyes as blond and blue, although the true black the worm bears is something of a rarity. The mother was a full-blooded Dunlending, I was told that much by one of the neighbors; most in the Stonedeans intermingled many generations past and it is not so strong in their features.”“Eomer, I would greatly caution against turning this into some sort of jest. Nothing good can come of such thoughtless cruelty. If you cannot manage an ounce of regard for Gríma, at the very least consider your young servant, who is wholly innocent in this.”Eomer put his glass down, peering across the table at the other king. “I don't intend to provoke them into a duel or anything so absurd, my lord. It would simply be a bit of amusing irony for them to find one another here, so far from Woodhurst.”“Amusing to you, perhaps. Tell me - does Gálmód still live?”“Yes, although he is white-haired and frail with age. His wife is younger and looks after him well enough, or so it appeared. I mentioned Wormtongue - Gríma - to him, and he seemed confused, as though he'd forgotten he ever had another son entirely. His wife said his mind tends to slip at moments. It happens to some in their later years, I've seen. From what little I could gather from Calin's mother, she met Wormtongue only once, over the winter solstice the year after she married Gálmód when Wormtongue was sixteen or thereabouts. She was still carrying Calin at the time. It would have been before Wormtongue had come to my uncle's court, although I suppose he must have already been under the wizard's thumb by then. She said her husband did not receive him gladly, so he departed swiftly and never returned. Apparently Gálmód did not speak of him or his late wife. I learned practically nothing at all to satisfy my curiosity. Calin has turned out a delight, though – obedient and loyal. Not at all what I had expected from someone related to Wormtongue.”Aragorn hummed to himself. “That account more or less agrees with what Gríma himself has told me, at least. He was ten when his mother died, and thirteen when Saruman took him for a servant and apprentice. His father apparently had little affection or use for him after his first wife's death. I would tell you that Gríma's circumstances are largely what separates him from Calin, not his ancestry or basic temperament, but I know you would not agree.”Eomer drank the rest of his whiskey in one long gulp, not agreeing in the slightest, and set the crystal tumbler back onto the table with a dull thud. The door opened as Calin returned with the massive ledger, struggling under its weight as he grinned over it at his king. Aragorn picked up the flask, and they both lifted their glasses, making room for the young man to wrestle the book onto the table. Calin retreated to stand in the same corner he'd been in before, still sweating a bit and panting slightly.Eomer opened the massive tome and began flipping through the pages, some quite brittle and yellowed with age, until he found the more recent columns. He glanced up at his servant, who still looked a bit overheated. “Calin, it will be some time before I finish with this. Go to the kitchens and find something to drink and sit for a spell. I will send for you when I need you, do not return before then.”“Yes, sire.” Calin bowed and departed. Even his voice is somewhat similar, Aragorn thought. The young man was nearly a head taller than his half-brother, and less wiry in build. He looked far better cared-for, overall. So Gálmód didn't despise his children in general, just one child. “Was Calin at Helm's Deep, by any chance?”Eomer shook his head as he drew a finger down the page, looking for the numbers he'd been seeking. “No, he and his parents had already taken refuge up in the mountains somewhere, and missed the call to evacuate. His mother had had another son and a daughter before him, with a previous husband who'd died. The woman's older son, who had already married and lived elsewhere, fought at Helm's Deep. He took a bad wound to the knee there, although Calin said he still lives, and is herding sheep somewhere in the Eastfold. I don't believe Calin had ever strayed too far from home before I took him on as a servant. He drove a cart between Woodhurst and a few of the nearby villages, taking whatever goods his neighbors wished to trade for a small cut of the takings. Ah! Here it is.”Eomer turned the entire massive, well-worn ledger around, pointing to the figures. “There's the hay production in tonnage, for the past twenty years. You'll see a rapid decrease in the years immediately leading up to the war, of course, as I believe Wormtongue had much of it diverted to his master, along with plenty else. It was always excused as an orc raid, or banditry, or flooding, or something else, but we can both surmise what really happened. Things have rebounded in the past couple of years, but you'll notice it does not come close to what was being taken fifteen, twenty years prior. There's a similar pattern for wood, grain, ore, hides, wool, and essentially everything else. I know Rohan will eventually recover, but it will take a generation to replace the labor; too many men died to not be felt. There are widows and orphans everywhere these days.”“It is no better in Gondor, unfortunately.”“I know. I was there, remember?”“I have not forgotten, Eomer.”Eomer sighed, turning the ledger back around and idly flipping through the pages. “We desperately need wood, and Rohan is not known for its vasts forests. I do not know what else I could offer you in exchange without depriving my own people. But many homes were burnt by Saruman's hordes and still need to be rebuilt. Some of those widows and orphans have been living in tents and caves for over two years at this point. Winters have been... difficult.”Aragorn rubbed at his chin. “I will send what wood I can spare. Later, I will also send some of my own people to cut hay in whatever fields would be otherwise left untouched, if you will give them leave to do so, and bring back what they've gathered to feed our horses and cattle over the following winter. You won't be deprived of any labor elsewhere, and something that would otherwise simply die away with the first frosts will be put to better use. Does that sound equitable?”“I cannot find fault with it.”“Well, that matter is settled then. By the way, you ought to at least tell Calin who his half-brother is, before he finds out some other way. And I don't mean an hour-long rant on Gríma's past sins. Just tell Calin of their kinship, and let him make up his own mind. If he's as diligent as you say, he's more than capable of making his own decision about the matter. In any event, I will eventually be informing Gríma myself, whatever you do.”Eomer rolled his eyes. “Must you always be so...” He waved his hand over the table between them, searching for the word, before giving up. “The wolf may shed his coat come spring, but never his appetite. I would suggest instead that it may be better to tell neither of them, and let the matter die. Calin, as you have already said, is innocent in the matter of his half-brother. Perhaps it would be better not to burden him with such knowledge at all. Who would want to find out they're related to a man who committed treason, after all?”"Ignorance is no virtue, and leaves room for more mischief and error than it ever prevents. Moreover, Calin is young, but hardly a child. In his place, I would wish to know. And it may mean something to him neither of us could have anticipated. It would be a shame to disturb your servant again so soon, though, I think,” Aragorn replied as he refilled their glasses from the flask. “Why don't we finish our drinks, leave your ledger here, and join my wife and your sister to get some fresh air? I believe they were together, last I saw them. The gardens are not at their best this time of year, but at least the sun is out. We can speak to the sons of Gálmód later.”  Gríma walked into the houses of lore with a massive sack thrown over his shoulder. Maenir threw his hands up when Gríma gently set the whole thing down on the table in front of him.“That's everything, then? I'd wondered if you'd be getting anything done with those halflings arriving in the city. Aren't they friends of yours?”Gríma blinked, rolling the question around in his head for a moment. Were they his friends, now? It was still odd to him to think of anyone that way, but they had been spending quite a bit of time around him in recent days, and by their own choice, so... “Yes, I suppose they are. I finished most of this before they arrived last week, however.”Maenir shook his head as he loosened the drawstring and began pulling out scrolls and tomes one by one, sorting them to the left or right depending on whether they were an original or a translation. “That's all I really have for you at the moment, I'm afraid. In truth, I expected it to keep you busy longer than this. I may have more later in the week, we're still sorting through some of the shelves down in the old archives and while much of it so damaged it cannot even be handled without destroying it, I'm sure some of it will be legible. Quite a lot from that age is written in an odd style of script, although it is certainly Sindarin. I have complete faith in your abilities, though. I'll send one of the apprentices after you when I have something else.”Gríma stood for another moment, watching Maenir. Eventually, the man looked up again.“Did you need something, Gríma?”“I... no, I just assumed you would have some other task for me, if translation is not currently needed.”Maenir shrugged. “Not really. Things have slowed down a bit, actually. Go on, Gríma, relax for a while somewhere. The weather is finally turning fair, although I suppose it is not quite spring yet, technically. Why not spend time with your halfling friends, before they depart?”“I... suppose I could do that.”Gríma glanced around the building, the long tables and high vaulted ceilings. A few of his colleagues he recognized were milling about. A gawky looking teenage girl in the brightly colored robes of an initiate apprentice was a new addition, but otherwise it was the same massive, dusty library it always was. He wasn't sure he was comfortable seeking out Merry and Pippin directly, as the hobbits had closer friends than him and likely other things on their mind, but Maenir's suggestion about the weather wasn't completely without merit.Gríma left and headed down through the city until he reached the lower stables. He had been paying a stable boy to take Lady out daily, and he checked on her regularly to ensure her care was acceptable, but he hadn't had much opportunity lately to take her out himself. He went into Lady's stall and spent some time going over her, checking her teeth, her joints, her hooves, her condition generally, and concluded she was as sound as ever, and retrieved her tack from the wall as she nosed affectionately at his back.  There was an airy copse of trees about four miles up a path going north from the city gates, and it was here he rode to at a leisurely pace. Normally the place was deserted and he assumed few people cared about it, but today there was already a small gathering laid out on blankets underneath the boughs, with baskets of food and bottles of wine being passed around. Not wanting to intrude, Gríma pulled Lady to a halt and turned her back toward the road, intending to find somewhere less crowded to stop.“Gríma! You old dog, come join us!”Anborn waved at him with bottle still in hand where he was laid out on his side between Mablung and Tordoron. Idhrien was nearby as well, the only one seated upright and busy writing something in the notebook she habitually carried with a grease pencil. Radhrog was on his back and appeared to be sleeping, or at least drooling slightly.Sighing, Gríma tugged at Lady's reins, turning her around yet again. He dismounted beside the assembled party, pulling his horse's bridle off to turn her loose for a while, and had a bottle of wine thrust into his hand before he could even finish sitting down. Sniffing at the bottle, it smelled like the cheap red plonk some of the more disreputable stalls in the market sold for practically nothing. Gondor's wines weren't quite the famed Dorwinian variety, but were generally decent. Some farmers, though, would keep a side hustle going that was more focused on expediency than taste. Not wanting to offend, he took a sip, barely managed not to pull a face at the taste of it, then handed it back to Mablung, who took rather more than a sip.“Is your wrist any better?”Mablung lifted his left arm, squinting at it where it was still wrapped in a splint. “The healer said I can take the splint off in another week or two. It only aches sometimes.”Radhrog snored softly nearby, and Gríma noted that the cut on his forehead was no longer bandaged, and the stitches had been taken out. There was a slight scab remaining, surrounded by the bright pink of fresh scar tissue.Idhrien stashed her pencil and notebook in a pocket. “They finally let you out, hm? I was afraid the king had locked you up in his tower for good, like some princess in a children's story. I haven't seen you since we returned, unless I sought you out in your own room.”“I've been busy with work. We were gone for a month after all, there was a bit of a backlog. But I've completed it all, so the king let me have a day pass for good behavior.” Gríma waved away the cheap wine when the bottle was offered to him again.Idhrien laid down as the others had, making a pillow out of Radhrog's good arm. “There's another mutton sandwich or two left in the basket, if you want it.”The mutton didn't sound any more promising than the wine had been, so Gríma gave in to the spirit of things and laid down, staring up at the patched sunshine while Lady snuffled about for the first green blades of grass peaking through the soil. The tree branches overhead were still leafless, but the first hint of budding was already showing. He flinched when Idhrien's blindly groping arm slapped him aimlessly a couple of times, then grabbed hold of his tunic, pulling him closer until the top of his head was flush against her ribcage and her arm left draped bonelessly over his chest. Tordoron rolled over beside him as well, adding another arm to the situation, and Gríma found himself inextricably pinned down unless he wanted to shove them all away. He laid there stiffly and held his breath until he saw spots, not certain what to make of the situation, but eventually gave in and let himself drift off to sleep as well.  “I know you said they were fond of him, but... Hmm. How utterly peculiar, truly. You might as well cuddle a viper.”Eowyn pulled her horse to a halt beside her brother where he was peering at the tangled pile of sleeping rangers (and worm) with a look of utter bemusement. The weather was decent and Arwen had mentioned a nice area a short ride away if they wanted to get out of the city for a while. Eowyn had seen it before but forgotten about it, but growing even more bored than she had been the previous week, she had jumped at the idea of a change in scenery.Faramir stopped to the other side of Eomer. “I don't suppose Eowyn mentioned what happened last month in Mordor?”“She said you encountered something unexpected, fought it, and many of your rangers came out of it injured.”“I know of another place we can rest, a bit further down the road. It's only a couple more miles. Let's leave them in peace. I don't mind telling the rest of the story.”Eowyn rolled her eyes. “Is that really necessary, husband mine? There's not really much to tell anyway. Wormtongue finally managed to do one decent thing in his life, and suddenly he's everyone's pet.”“I suppose that's one way of summarizing it. Although there's still the question of who is trying to discredit him or worse.”Eomer laughed at that. “Anyone with good taste, I would imagine. But yes, let's go somewhere else.”  Gríma approached the king's private study, stamping down on the anxiety that had been simmering in his chest ever since a servant had knocked on his door and informed him he'd been summoned just after supper. He didn't know why he still had these fits of nervousness about the king. He'd been in Gondor long enough now to know that King Elessar seemed to have no particular feelings about him either way, or at least did not seem out to cause him harm.Still, he was a king, and kings had the privilege of being capricious, of ignoring what they chose, and acting upon whim and mood as it struck them. He'd feared Theoden before he'd subdued him, and again after Theoden had broken free of his and Saruman's control. Nothing good could come of being in the company of lords and kings, or anyone else who can summarily order one to an executioner's block.Faramir doesn't bother you, though, does he? Faramir was some sort of strange exception to nearly every rule that had ever existed and Gríma still didn't quite know what to make of him. He was simply too confusing to be terrifying, perhaps. Every expectation Gríma had had about the husband of Eowyn had been proven wrong. However, King Elessar, Aragorn, Estel, Etc, Etc, Etc, the hobbits occasionally called him Strider of all things...Shaking the straying thoughts loose from his head, he knocked on the door and stood in the hallway waiting to be acknowledged. Shuffling and footsteps preceded the door being opened, and the king calmly ushered him inside and into a chair. Why did Gríma always feel like he was about to be put on trial in this room? It could be about anything at all, but was most likely about the situation with the scroll. Maybe one of the rangers had finally found out the name of the idiot that had put it into the other idiot's hands?Aragorn looked Gríma up and down for a moment, then leaned back, crossing his stretched-out legs at the ankle. “Eomer's sense of humor becomes... peculiar occasionally, as I'm sure you are aware.”“One may describe it thus, I imagine.”“'Mean-spirited' might be another way to describe it.”Gríma lifted an eyebrow, frankly shocked at the candor with which one king spoke of another, especially considering the two appeared to be on generally good terms, friends even. One more privilege of his position, Gríma supposed. He said nothing. He'd been the butt of many of Eomer's jokes and pranks, in the earliest years at Meduseld before he'd wielded enough real power to frighten others. Eomer had never been cowed, though, even if some of the other men had, and in later years the childish jesting had been replaced with something more akin to a covert war. A battle of wills, at the least.Aragorn pulled a flask from a desk drawer, offering it to Gríma, then taking a sip from it himself when Gríma declined. “I've let this matter sit for a couple of weeks since it came to my attention, but with Eomer and his party expecting to leave in another week or so, I've decided against his suggestion that it should be left unaddressed. Last fall, shortly after you passed through Rohan, her king made a journey to some of the outer provinces to assess the damage in those areas still lingering from the war.”“After two years?”“Yes, after two years. He claimed something you said prompted it, although he offered no details.”“He made his opinion of my ancestry as being inherently untrustworthy plain to me, so I inquired as to his intended fate for others in the Stonedeans with similar lineage, and whether he considered them citizens of his kingdom or not.”Aragorn rubbed at his beard, eyes narrowing for a mere instant at his guest. “I doubt he cared for your cheek, but the blow clearly landed somewhere. In any case, he made a brief stop in Woodhurst, amongst his other destinations. That is a name you know well, is it not?”“I was born there, although I have not seen it in over twenty years.”“You never desired to return, at all? To see your father, or any friends you had there?”“I last saw my father three years after he gave me over to Saruman, and he also made plain his opinion of me. He'd recently re-married and I was... surplus to requirement. I did not return afterward.”Aragorn sat for over a minute in silence, and the anxiousness Gríma had suppressed out in the hallway began to return, and he had to stop himself from fidgeting. He was tired of acting like an adolescent called to the carpet in front of this man every time he was summoned; it was somewhat humiliating.“Eomer apparently intends to provide support for the Stonedeans and other such provinces better than they have been in the past, for whatever that is worth to you, and it is very likely you had something to do with that decision.”Gríma didn't know what to say about that at all. A small, much younger part of him was both satisfied that it would be done and enraged at the injustice that it had taken so many generations, but the greater and very present part of him barely cared at all. He would never see Woodhurst again, not even after he was dead. If he was lucky enough to perish in his bed, he'd be buried somewhere closeby. Maybe Faramir would see to it. It would give Eowyn something convenient to spit at, at least.“Pardon my impatience, sire, but is this conversation going somewhere in particular? I must confess I do not quite see why I was summoned. How Eomer conducts the affairs of Rohan is of purely academic interest to me at this point, given that I am no longer permitted within her borders. Even were I tempted to return to Woodhurst, I could not, unless her king withdraws his judgment upon me. I'd wager it more likely to rain gold.”Aragorn laughed briefly as he leaned back to return the flask to its drawer. “I would not challenge such a wager, no. I doubt you will ever return to Rohan, unless it is to seek your own death. All the more reason this be dealt with now, as it concerns your father, Gálmód.”“If he has died, I have nothing to say on the matter. His second wife may bury him however she sees fit. Or her offspring, she had a couple of them that I saw from her first husband, and possibly a third that may or may not have survived its birth and infancy.”“Gálmód is not dead. Or, at least, he was not when Eomer encountered him, although he is old, frail, and apparently growing somewhat senile. That third offspring you mentioned, however, is why I sent for you. You have a half-brother named Calin, who must have been born shortly after you cut ties with your family.”“I did not cut ties with anyone. I was informed that I no longer had any place under my father's roof and that was the end of it. And if this Calin lives, I do not see how it concerns me, I have never met him and I doubt he would wish to meet me. My reputation in Rohan is not exactly sunny.”Aragorn rose and nudged Gríma out of his seat and into the hallway. Gríma followed the king as indicated, leading him out of the tower entirely, but he was already confused. “Where are we going, if I may enquire?”Aragorn paused beneath the white tree. “To meet your brother, Gríma. And in this case, for once, I am not asking. He's already been told of you and does, in fact, wish to meet you, and I agree that he has a right to do so. If the two of you never speak again afterward, that is your own affair. I had intended to give Eomer a chance to speak to his young servant first, but apparently Pippin caught wind of him and spilled the beans, although I suppose that is a better outcome than what Eomer originally planned for the two of you.”Gríma shuddered. “'His young servant?'-”Aragorn sighed heavily, running a hand over the bark of the young sapling that symbolized his reign. “He offered the young man a job, and Calin took it gladly, and apparently prefers it to driving a cart.”Gríma grew even more skeptical, and a nugget of anger was slowly forming in his belly on behalf of a brother he hadn't even known of until just minutes ago. “Why would Eomer offer a peasant from Woodhurst such a coveted position?”“Because he found the 'contrast' between the two of you amusing. In his defense, he did say Calin has turned out to be quite competent and he has no intentions of dismissing Calin from his post, even if his chance encounter with your kin did nothing to satisfy his curiosity. But that sense of humor of his that I mentioned earlier still gets the better of him occasionally, and he brought Calin along because he thought it would be entertaining to confront you with him, possibly by putting the two of you in a room together without explanation to see if you would figure it out. I talked him it out of it.”Gríma grit his teeth, trying to bite back a fit of temper that was threatening to overtake him. “I can understand his hatred of me, but what could this Calin possibly have done to him to earn such ill-regard?”“Nothing at all, which is why it took very little effort to talk Eomer out of the foolish idea. He may be at times impulsive, but he can be reasoned with. That is when he suggested not mentioning it to either of you at all, but of course one can't account for halfings with the name of 'Took' who happen to recognize the name 'Gálmód' and connect two and two, so to speak.”Gríma turned back toward the tower, taking two deliberate steps before Aragorn's hand caught him by the wrist.“Wrong way, Gríma. He's sitting at the end of the pier. I believe the three hobbits have been keeping him company, in fact. Probably telling him things that would embarrass you, but you'll have to forgive them.”  Aragorn had turned back toward the tower about halfway down the pier, leaving Gríma to continue on his own. Gríma had been tempted to find some means of slipping away without catching notice of the guards outside the tower, but it would have been difficult.He saw no point to this. So, the child his father's second wife had been carrying had survived and grown up. Good for him, Gríma thought, but he failed to see how that involved him. That Calin had been told of his reprobate of a half-brother at all seemed more a cruelty than a kindness. The boy could have lived out the rest of his life peacefully in Woodhurst none the wiser. The food was better at Meduseld, certainly, and he hoped Eomer was decent enough to feed his servant regardless of who he was related to, but plenty of men lived and died in the Stonedeans without much complaint. They didn't know enough of the world to feel deprived of anything.As he approached the end of the pier, he saw all four of them standing together. A young man, broad-shouldered, blond haired and nearly a head taller than himself was laughing at something one of the hobbits said. Pippin most likely, who was gesticulating wildly, no doubt telling some story or other that was at least half fabricated. Sam looked up and saw him approaching first, and Gríma watched him nudge the others, who joined him as they began walking away, and nodded at Gríma as they crossed paths.Calin tilted his head to the side, looking down at him with a crooked smile. After another moment, the boy bowed in the formal manner used at court and Gríma was somewhat taken aback. As a scholar, he was technically of a higher social rank than a servant, but he wasn't a noble by any means.“I... ah...” Gríma cleared his throat noisily and looked outward, taking in the colors painting sky as the sun began setting. The evening wind was kicking up, although not as coldly as it had been earlier in the season. “Why don't we go somewhere a bit, um, warmer...”Calin scratched the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders. “Alright, then.”Gríma began walking, occasionally glancing back to find the boy following him seemingly without reservation, and a sense of total unreality settled over him.  “This is your room, then?” Calin walked over to the window, propping his elbows on the sill to assess the view.“I have been given use of it for the time being.”Standing up and wandering a bit, Calin picked up a random book off a shelf, flipping a few pages before closing it. “You can read, then?”Gríma's face scrunched up slightly as he tried not to feel annoyed at a question with an obvious answer. “It's generally in the job description for a lore-master, yes. I know several languages, spoken and written.”“I never did learn to read.” Calin bent to return the book to its place on the shelf. “King Eomer says I have no need of it. He did make me learn to speak Westron, a bit. One of the halflings said my accent wasn't too bad, although he might have just said that to be friendly. Per... Pip... P-something.”“Peregrine Took, although he generally goes by 'Pippin' amongst friends.”Calin leaned against the edge of the desk, falling silent, his entirely too familiar eyes studying Gríma, who forced himself to stand still. Let the boy satisfy his curiosity, then he will probably lose interest.“The halflings have been telling me some interesting stories about you.”Gríma pulled the chair out and sat down. “I would imagine so.”“I asked King Eomer what he knew about it. He seemed annoyed by the question, though.”“I suppose he told you some interesting stories as well, then, or perhaps his sister did.”“No, he got cross and told me to ask you myself if I wanted to know about it, and make up my own mind, then sent me to King Elessar, who sent me back to the halflings after telling me not to bother you until he spoke to you first. I haven't spoken to Lady Eowyn at all, in any case. I didn't think to ask her, but I suppose I should have. It's been a strange couple of days.”“You'll get no argument from me on that.” He was itching to ask precisely what the hobbits had told him, but part of him was reticent to find out exactly how damning an account had been given. They seemed to like him well enough these days, but he wouldn't expect Sam to mince words about anything, and Pippin, while generous, often took serious matters lightly without meaning to. Pippin also often blurted out whatever came to mind without thinking first, hence Gríma's current situation.Calin fidgeted beside him, his eyes darting about the room now. “You know, there was something I was never sure whether it was a memory or if it was just something I dreamed or made up as a child. Ma and pa were arguing one night, and I think it was about you. Ma had kept asking him about his other son, and I knew he didn't mean Arnwi. Er, my other half-brother, that is. I think I was maybe five years old, but I'm not sure...”“That would have been a couple of years after I had been sent to Meduseld. Perhaps some rumor or another reached her, although those early years went quite well for Rohan.” Even if they did not for me, he thought.“Something like that, I guess. She kept saying she had heard you were in a respected position in the king's house and wanted him to take us all to Edoras. I think she believed you could help us somehow, but pa didn't want to go and kept saying he had no other son and that she didn't know what she was talking about. I never heard them argue like that any other time, I think that's why it stuck in my memory so long.”Gríma's eyes narrowed. “At any point in your childhood, do you recall a visit by an unusually tall, bearded old man of strange bearing?”“I... yes, actually. Around the same time as that argument. Just before, I think. I thought I might have made that up as well, though. I was often accused of having too much imagination as a child. ”Gríma sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. There was a non-zero chance Gálmód's “slipping” memory was anything but natural or age-related, that Gálmód despising his first son alone hadn't been insurance enough to satisfy. He felt like he should care, but mostly he didn't, other than for Calin's sake as the boy seemed not to have the same animosity toward their father.Calin suddenly gasped beside him. “That wizard! The one the halfings said was always beating you, was that-”“Yes, it was very likely Saruman, ensuring that my father's ambitions, economic or otherwise, would not interfere with his future plans for me. I knew nothing of it, but it is certainly the sort of thing he would have done, he did not like 'loose ends' and did much that he never asked nor told me about. That was before... Well, you know what the years just before the war were like, even up on the border, and I don't need to tell you.”Calin crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at his shoes. “I mean, everyone heard about Wormtongue – yes, even in Woodhurst - but most of it seemed too fanciful to be true. All that nonsense people said about you transforming into animals to go spying, and things like that... Anyway, I didn't know that was you. I mean, I didn't really know about you at all. The halfings said I shouldn't judge you too harshly, and that Saruman is at greater fault.”Gríma mirrored Calin's posture, curling in on himself. “The halflings of the Shire are very forgiving people, Calin.”“You really aren't allowed back in Rohan at all anymore?”Gríma chuckled to himself, darkly. “No. Your King would have his border guards put an arrow through my skull at the first toe across that line. Or worse...”Calin sat down on the desk and shuffled his feet against the floor. “Maybe I could just ask King Eomer for-”“No! Absolutely not. I absolutely forbid it! You are in a rather coveted position yourself, for one of your station, and I will not allow you to jeopardize your future for my sake-”Calin's head snapped up at Gríma's outburst and the wide-eyed wounded expression made him look even younger than his twenty years. Gríma sighed, trying not to feel so much like he'd just kicked a puppy.“Gondor is not so bad, I assure you. I have plenty of work here to keep me occupied. I don't even know what I would do if I returned to Rohan. There's not much call to translate archaic elvish dialects and the black speech there, to say the least. That, and your king and most of his court hate my guts and I can't even argue with them. The halflings may be kindhearted enough to excuse my past, but I am not, and neither is Eomer. I can accept exile, considering the only other alternative.”“It just seems unfair that I've finally found you and in a few days I might never see you again. If you could visit...”Rather sentimental, aren't we?, he thought to himself. Curiosity he could understand, but the boy had known him for less than an hour and already he was expecting Gríma to drop 'round for tea. In the immortal words of Samwise Gamgee, Oh, good grief!“I can't, and that's simply the reality of it. Eomer will likely return to Gondor again after a few years; there is too much trade between this country and Rohan for their the kings to not meet directly with some regularity. Only so much can be accomplished through written correspondence and diplomats. There's also been some chatter lately about rebuilding the old north kingdom, which means King Elessar may be passing through Rohan more often, although naturally I won't be joining him. If you can, though, you ought to go that way. Perhaps see the Shire before they shut the borders completely, you won't get another chance once they do. Serve your king well, and you may see much that is interesting.”“Now I don't know if I want to. I don't like that he hates you.”
He's still so damned young, little more than a child in some ways. How could anyone retain such innocence through a war like that?
“Don't be stupid, Calin. He has just cause to hate me, and it has nothing to do with you. Eomer has his faults – many faults – but he generally treats those who serve him well generously enough. Or you can throw the baby out with the bathwater in a fit of pique, and spend the rest of your life driving a cart in the middle of nowhere.”Calin slid off the desk onto his feet. “Well, when you put it that way... I suppose I should be getting back to him, anyhow. He didn't precisely say when I should return, but he'll want a bath drawn before bed, I'm fairly certain of it.”“Really? I didn't know he bathed.”Calin snorted. “Occasionally. At least twice a month, I will swear to it!”Gríma rose to bid the young man goodbye, extending a hand. Calin bypassed it entirely, momentarily pulling Gríma into an awkward hug, nearly lifting the shorter man off his feet.“Maybe I'll see you again before I leave?”“Probably. Learn how to read even if your king doesn't see the necessity of it, and perhaps I'll send you a letter.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

"How great a forest is set ablaze by such a small fire! And the tongue is a fire, a world of unrighteousness. The tongue is set among our members, staining the whole body, setting on fire the entire course of life, and set on fire by hell" - James 3:5-6
  Why didn't I feel? Why didn't you show?The cracks under the bridge, the gaps along the road?
Why didn't I see the forest on fire behind the trees?

Why didn't I see the forest on fire behind the trees?

- Jose Gonzalez, "The Forest"
  Eomer went from room to room in the suite he'd been given, finding no sign of his servant at all. The boy had gone to do whatever it was he was going to do about his fool of a half-brother the day before, and Eomer had expected him to return that evening. When evening passed into night, he availed himself of some of Aragorn's house staff to sort out his bath, and then went to bed, thinking perhaps Calin had lost track of time, or that maybe he'd gone out to get drunk in despair at discovering he was related to Wormtongue, which would at least be understandable. It was now mid-morning, however, and plenty late enough to have slept off a hangover in a corner somewhere, and Eomer was becoming quite cross indeed.“Where has that blasted boy gone off to? It's not like him to just swan off like this...”Stalking down the hallway, he asked a passing servant for directions to Wormtongue's room, while gritting his teeth at the thought of it. He found it and thrust the door open without bothering to knock, finding the vile creature bent over his desk reading some dusty old tome.“Wormtongue! Where is Calin?”Gríma stared up at him for a moment, the corner of his nose twitching just slightly before he responded. “How should I know? I haven't seen him since he returned to your service last night. I've only just met him, how would I know his habits?”Eomer stared at him for a moment, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth or not, but failing to come up with any possible way the worm could benefit by lying in such a manner, he had to conclude he probably wasn't. “You're certain you haven't seen him at all since last evening? Did he say where he was going when he left?”“He told me he needed to return to you to draw your bath before bed, and departed. It was perhaps an hour after sunset. I have not seen him at all this morning.”Eomer leaned against the door frame, rubbing at his chin. “Well, that's a bit of a problem, you see, because he never showed up at all.”Gríma shut the book he was reading. “If he left the tower, the guards outside would have seen him pass. I would suggest finding out from the guard captain who was on duty at that time, and starting there.”Eomer raked a hand through his hair, annoyed to admit the idea was sound. “Yes, I suppose that would be logical. If you do happen to see him again, tell him his king requires him. And that he'd better have a good excuse.”Eomer slammed the door behind him after going back into the hall, and stalked off toward the main entrance of the tower. He made it nearly to the doors before a young maid stepped out from behind a marble column, staring at her feet and rambling incoherently for a moment at him while timidly holding out an envelope“Please start over, miss. I won't bite you.”“S-s-sire, please pardon me, but I was instructed to give you this.”The girl thrust the envelope out even further. Eomer sighed and plucked it from the nervous girl's fingers. There was nothing on the outside, not even a plain wax seal. It was paper, not parchment, and rather cheap quality. Not exactly the sort of thing generally used for official correspondence to a king.“Who gave it to you?”“Some boy, as I was returning from the market this morning. He asked me if I worked in the tower, and I said yes, and he told me to bring that to the King of Rohan. I haven't done something wrong, have I?”That depends on what's inside, he thought, then stamped on that thought as quickly has it arose. Don't shoot the messenger, Eomer. He could practically hear his uncle's voice. “No, you haven't done anything wrong.”He lifted the unsealed flap of the envelope and pulled out a single piece of paper, equally cheap. The girl curtsied and made to leave, but Eomer forestalled her, pinching the shoulder of her dress between two fingers. “Wait a moment, please.”She began shaking even more, but stayed where she was. He felt sorry for her, but there was little he could do about her nerves. Some commoners just had this sort of reaction, and in his experience, it was generally best to simply ignore it. Most of them would calm down eventually, once they realized he was in no hurry to remove their head.The letter was written in Rohirric, not Westron. Most of it was misspelled and the handwriting was atrocious, but eventually he managed to decipher it.“Well, damn it all!”The girl squeaked beside him, going even paler.“Not you, child. Do you happen to know the boy who gave you the letter?”“I don't know his name, his parents own a stall in the market, I think they sell dyes. I've seen him around before but that's all, I s-s-s-swear that's all I know!”Eomer dismissed her and genuinely hoped the rest of her day would go better. He knew his had just been made more complicated.  Aragorn read the childish script again, checked the back of the letter for any marks (there were none) and looked over the envelope again, before dropping them onto the desk.“The spelling is certainly... not standard, but I suspect the writer possesses some basic level of literacy. The message is still clear enough - 'If you want your servant back, bring me Wormtongue. If Wormtongue wants his brother to live, tell him not to fight.' At any rate, I think we've found our scroll thief, who may be clever at gathering gossip from court servants, tavern keepers, and mouthy hobbits named Took, but is certainly as dull-witted as I had surmised in all other ways if he thinks this scheme will go any better than the previous one. I'm assuming 'Bring him to the back left corner among the tombs' means one of the side niches of Rath Dínen, the Silent Street, where the kings and stewards of this realm have been buried for generations. It is not normally open for just anyone to go for a stroll through, but workers have been going in and out over the last few weeks as they have been cleaning and repairing some of the stonework. It would not be impossible for someone to blend in with them, or slip in behind. Indeed, if one is ambitious enough and decent at climbing, it can be entered by scaling the wall of the Master's Tier and walking along the top of it; it has been a tradition for time immemorial for the children of the city to dare one another to do it. Most of them are convinced the place is haunted, naturally.”A wounded noise emanated from where Gríma was sitting in the corner of the room with his head buried in his hands. “I will go, then. Calin has committed no crime other than sharing the same father by happenstance.”“That's settled, then.” Eomer stood up, stuffing the letter into his pocket. “I'll take you to this location and exchange you for my servant. Hopefully that will appease whoever this fool is. I suspect he wants to kill you though, so I'd suggest writing out some sort of last will and testament, if you have any property you would see to the disposition of. Although, who knows – you may just be able to best him in fight, if he's a weakling.”“Eomer, sit down.”Eomer flinched, and looked down at where the High King of Gondor and Arnor Reunited was absolutely glaring at him. A slight shudder traveled down his spine and he sat promptly without actually intending to, his face heating slightly. I really must get back to Edoras soon.Aragorn stood, crossing his arms. “This is not even close to settled. I have absolutely no intention to 'appease' anyone who would kidnap an innocent man to settle a score with another. If he is indeed the same one who manipulated Delioron and gave him that stolen scroll, he's already at least partly responsible for the death of a junior scribe and the wounding of several of Faramir's rangers. I assure you if we catch this individual, I will be 'appeasing' nothing. And Gríma, stop tearing your hair out, we'll get your brother back in one piece. Let me go inform Faramir that he will need to gather up a few of his rangers, and we'll sort out a full plan of attack before we approach this man.”  Faramir crept forward enough to be seen by his own people but still out of sight of the figure below. He gave the signal to Tordoron to advance. He could see Gríma's brother and the man who had taken him captive, crouching in the corner, although they were partially obscured by a stone crypt holding the remains of one of his own ancestors. If he wracked his brains long enough, he could probably name the particular steward, but at the moment he cared nothing for the dead and only for the living.Calin was gagged with a rag and his hands and feet were tied with rope. Faramir watched as Tordoron leaped over a gap in the high wall. He'd have a clean shot, if necessary, but Faramir hoped this ordeal wouldn't come to the spilling of blood. They'd ended up having to kill Delioron despite many attempts at getting the young man to release the spirits he was controlling, but had been unable to pierce through his madness. Faramir still occasionally dreamed of the hysterical laughter that had bubbled up out of the young scribe even as his life's blood poured out of him, and was not looking forward to a repeat performance. Looking to the other side, Anborn was already firmly in position and had trained his bow on its potential target.Withdrawing, Faramir looked back to see the kings Eomer and Aragorn walking calmly down the center path with Gríma trailing behind. The rope on Gríma's hands appeared sound but, having tied the knot himself, Faramir knew Gríma could pull free instantly without the slightest effort. Faramir climbed down silently to join them, taking position at the rear.Despite making no sound, Faramir was not surprised when Gríma glanced back at him. The man's face was the perfect picture of passive acquiescence but Faramir had already seen past the façade and into the man's heart, and knew that Gríma was in fact terrified, and for once relatively little of that terror was for himself.  Eomer turned the corner first, with Aragorn close behind him. The man holding a dagger at Calin's throat was barely a man at all, but a beardless youth of perhaps sixteen or seventeen years. His expression shifted rapidly between anger and terror as his eyes darted back and forth between Eomer, Aragorn, Faramir, and Gríma.The boy let out a slightly strangled noise. “You brought King Elessar too?” The blade at Calin's throat shifted, and a single drop of blood beaded up and dripped down toward his collar.Gríma made to step forward, but Faramir's grip on his shoulder stopped him. Faramir leaned forward to whisper. “Say nothing unless prompted. Aragorn knows what he is doing.”Eomer also made to step forward, and Aragorn forestalled him as well. Calin did nothing but sweat profusely, but one could hardly blame him.Aragorn remained silent for a moment, listening to the song of the first birds of early spring nearby, to the breeze being funneled through the narrow pathways of Rath Dínen, then finally spoke. “We have brought Gríma, called Wormtongue, as you requested. But, first, I would know why you want him.”The boy laughed without humor, then responded in a heavily accented and simple but servicable Westron. “Why? Why? Why should anyone want him, but to rid the world of his... his poison? I'll let this man go if you give him to me.”Gríma made to move forward again, but Faramir's grip, now on both shoulders, clamped down like a vice. He couldn't have moved again if he'd wanted, not without a fight.Aragorn continued, this time in Rohirric, which he'd inferred was likely fair-haired boy's native tongue. “How, then, has he so poisoned you?”The boy replied in the same language, much more fluidly. “Me!? You mean everyone, certainly? How many died in Rohan at Helm's Deep? I heard that you were there, even if I did not see you! And how many more died on your fields here, afterward? My father and brother among them. Would any of it have happened, had the vile Wormtongue not destroyed the strength of Rohan? My friend told me he was in this city, had started working in your library, and that you let him!”Faramir shook his head behind Gríma, rolling his eyes, and whispering in his ear. “Apparently you have greater power than even Sauron himself, my friend, and never knew it.”Eomer grumbled something under his breath, but Aragorn pressed him back. “Perhaps all you say is true, but what has Calin done? He did not even know he had a brother until two days ago. He has done no harm to anyone. Let him go, and I will release Gríma to you.”The boy bared his teeth, yanking Calin roughly by the collar with the hand not holding the dagger. The thin trickle of blood renewed, now dribbling down to stain his tunic more swiftly. “No! No! You send Gríma forth first. Once he is dead, I will give you this man, even if his blood is tainted.”Aragorn glanced upward, catching the eye of Tordoron above. He'd nocked an arrow and had already drawn his bow. Aragorn shook his head subtly, and watched as Tordoron signaled to Anborn across from him. Now that their hostage-taker had pulled Calin up in front of himself, it would be a hard shot to make. They'd have to aim directly for his forehead, more or less, to not risk Calin himself. The rangers could do it, if needs must; both were excellent archers and this was a fairly close distance, but Aragorn did not want to risk it unless absolutely necessary.Gríma pulled forward and Faramir renewed his grip. Gríma looked back at him over his shoulder. “Let me go-”Gríma peered at him with one hard, burning eye. Since Faramir had encountered him, the man had been almost absurdly docile – passive, too wracked with guilt and pain to do much of anything to anybody, and wanting little more than to be left alone to wallow in his misery. Which Faramir had decided he wasn't going to do, naturally, but had been met with only token resistance as he'd gently but insistently pushed the strange man out amongst other people whether he liked it or no. He'd known the story of Wormtongue well enough, having been told again and again not only by Eowyn, but also others who had been in Rohan, but it had never quite squared up with the figure he'd come to know, and indeed had befriended.One hard, blue-flame eye bored into him. “Let go of me, Faramir.”The voice was not the voice of his friend, of Gríma the ill-tempered lore-master, who loved a little horse that no one else valued, and a brother he'd just met even if he'd never admit to either. It was a voice, rather, that held many tones in one, and hissed through his mind as well as his ears, seeming to reverberate long after spoken. An almost ticklish sensation dripped from his brain down his spine, loosening his grip just ever so slightly without his meaning to do so. So that's what it's like, then. Faramir shook off the curious sensation, and once again saw his friend standing before him, however angry Gríma was at the moment. Faramir hissed back, although he had nothing but his own natural voice to work with. “Don't do something stupid, Gríma.”Faramir knew he was stubborn enough to hold his own in this battle of wills against the famed and feared Wormtongue of Edoras suddenly reawoken, but there was too much at stake right now to play foolish games. Faramir shifted his grip from Gríma's shoulders to one upper arm, slowly bringing him forward to stand beside Aragorn. Eomer leaned forward slightly to look at them, his brows drawing together. The King of Rohan was rapidly running out of patience, as well. What is it with these horse-lords and their hasty tempers?Faramir glanced at his own king and twitched his head at Gríma, hoping Aragorn would understand what he was hinting at. The situation was growing more dire by the moment as the teenage boy's panic grew. He'd backed himself into a corner, both literally and figuratively, and might end up cutting Calin's throat open without meaning to or even realizing it, Faramir thought. Aragorn was many things, but he wasn't stupid, and he knew Faramir well enough, had worked with him closely enough, hopefully, to trust his judgment. Damn it, Aragorn, he's not listening to you at all, and it's Gríma's own brother anyhow. Let him try.After a moment's deliberation, he nodded at Faramir, giving him leave to do whatever he would. Faramir stepped forward, keeping his grip on Gríma, with his falsely-bound hands, walking very slowly toward Calin and his captor. Gríma stopped a few feet away, and Faramir stopped with him, and waited to see what he would do.Gríma bowed, slightly, and again loosened his infamous tongue. “I am here, as you requested. Are you not pleased, my young lord? You have no need for that servant, any longer. He is no-one, after all, of no importance to anyone. You don't need him at all, do you?”A warm sensation growing at the nape of his neck spread across his shoulders and down his back. Faramir wanted to lean into that voice, wrap himself up in it, as though such a thing were even possible. He isn't even speaking to me, he thought , and I want nothing more than to drop at his feet and curl up like a cat. It isn't even unpleasant. Like downing a mug of hot mulled cider on a cold night. Faramir let go of Gríma entirely and pinched himself, trying not to get too lost in the fog, and regathered his wits. He watched Gríma take another hesitant step forward while repeating himself, platitudes dripping like honey on the teenage boy's weak and unguarded mind. Faramir looked into his friend as far as he would risk without knowing how that voice might interact with his own sight. Gríma was still unsure of himself, of this situation, and that terror from before still there, reined in but not quelled. Beneath it all was a growing sickness, a kind of disgust and hatred of himself that Faramir instinctively knew he'd be dealing with later. It's fine, Gríma. He has your brother, and you just want him back alive. You aren't telling the boy to go leap off the pier, after all, just to let go of Calin. I told you before - a hammer may be used to build a house as well as destroy it.Faramir sighed and risked a glance back at the two kings, and found Eomer's face twisted in displeasure. He was gritting his teeth against whatever violence he wanted to do to Gríma, provoked by hearing again the same voice that had taken his uncle's wits years ago, even if the current situation easily justified its use. Faramir was suddenly grateful that Eowyn had not come with them as well.Looking back at Calin, he watched as the teenage kidnapper's hands slackened further the closer Gríma approached. By the time Gríma was standing directly before them, the dagger clattered to the ground. In an instant, Gríma's hands were free of the trick-tied rope and dragging Calin away nearly at a run.Faramir and Aragorn rushed forward in tandem. Aragorn grabbed up the dagger from the ground before its owner could retrieve it, and Faramir took hold of the youth. The spell of Wormtongue broke, suddenly, and the boy struggled violently against Faramir's grip, beating at him, kicking, and even biting. Eomer managed to pin his arms behind his back while Faramir took up the rope that Gríma had dropped and used it to bind him, this time with real knots.  Aragorn stared at the youth through the iron bars of a holding cell in the back of one of the guard houses. These days the cells were most often used for child pickpockets who were still too inept not to get caught to wait for their enraged parents to retrieve them, or for unruly drunks to sleep it off until they were sensible enough to be informed of what they owed for the property damage. There were occasionally more serious crimes, it was inevitable in a city the size of Minas Tirith, but for the moment the boy's cell had no neighbors, the aforementioned drunks already turfed out for the day and the pickpockets probably being strapped and set in a corner somewhere.“Your friend Delioron is dead, did you know that?”The youth, who had finally admitted that his name was Garferth after stewing in silence for several hours, scowled at him from the cot. “So Wormtongue killed him too, and yet you still let that whoreson run free? What sort of king are you, anyway?”Rage bubbled up momentarily in Aragorn, and his fist hit the bars before he could stop himself. “Gríma did not kill your friend, your utter foolishness did! What did you think would happen when he used that scroll? That a fire demon would emerge from the pits under Gorgoroth and roll over like a puppy for its belly to be stroked?”Garferth sat for a moment with his mouth slack, like a toad waiting for flies. “I.. I didn't think- Deliorion wasn't really supposed to use it! He was supposed to get Wormtongue to take- I mean it's a load of rubbish, anyway, how could something like that even work?”Eomer rolled his eyes where he was propped in a corner of the room, using the point of a small penknife to clean dirt from underneath his nails. “You said yourself your brother and father died on the Pelennor, so I'm assuming you were there as well. Do you not recall the host of the enemy?”Garferth sank down even further on the cot, pulling his knees up to his chin. “I... came with them b-but.. I didn't really see much.”Eomer snorted. “You hid, you mean, and saw nothing while your kin fought for you? There was much on that field of battle that was entirely unnatural, and if you had seen, you would know that such 'rubbish' works well enough in the wrong hands.”Aragorn ignored Eomer's outburst. “What did you give to Delioron to affect his mind so?”“What? Nothing, I swear it! He hated Wormtongue, too!”“Whether he did or didn't is irrelevant, he was very clearly not in his right mind when Faramir encountered him, not even close. You gave him something.”Another voice answered from elsewhere in the room. “Ergot. Datura. Nightshade. Any of them would induce hallucination... paranoia, delusion...”Aragorn turned to regard Gríma where sat in the corner staring blankly at the floor while Faramir watched and worried over him. It was the first Gríma had spoken at all since retrieving his brother, who had been sent to a healer for his cuts and bruises to be tended to hours ago. Calin had not been seriously injured, requiring only a few stitches to his throat for what had thankfully proven to be a superficial cut, and salve on some rope burns on his wrists.“I want to know how you got those herbs, who sold them to you.”Garferth pursed his lips, staring back defiantly. Eomer rolled his eyes again. “Give me ten minutes with him, Aragorn, and I'll have an answer out of him.”Aragorn ignored the suggestion. “I can find out elsewhere, there are a limited number of people who deal in such items in this city, and while none of them would admit to it, I am well aware of them.” Aragorn turned back to his prisoner. “Do you have any other kin in this city? Have you been here the entire time, since the end of the war?”“No and yes.”It was long past the noon hour, and none of them had eaten since breakfast. Aragorn gestured to the other men and they exited the guard house.  Gríma occasionally picked at the food in front of him, his mind a million miles away from the present time and place. Faramir had tried to wheedle him into eating, but the man barely seemed aware of his surroundings. The hobbits had just recently told him in more detail of what had happened in the Shire when they had first taken Gríma off of Saruman than what had been in Pippin's letter. Faramir tried to remember that Gríma had come out of this state, then, after a few weeks, but it still disturbed him to witness it directly.Even Eowyn was repeatedly leaning forward to look past her husband, regarding him with an odd sort of curiosity as he sat blinking slowly into space. She turned to whisper in his ear. “Did he take a blow to the head?”“Not recently, no.”“So what the hell is his problem, then? His half-brother is just fine and he no longer has to worry about that obnoxious kid interfering with him, he ought to be ecstatic!”Faramir shook his head but gave no other response. Eowyn was no friend to Gríma, and while he could not fault her for that, he also did not think it right to treat him as a mere object of curiosity, even if he was in no state to complain about it.Aragorn sat between his queen and Eomer, eating and discussing Garferth. “In truth, I see no point in questioning him further. One can easily surmise what he's been up to, and any others involved may be found in time through other means. He arrived in Gondor with Rohan's armies, and remained behind after they departed, for whatever reason. Without his brother and father, perhaps he saw no reason to return home because he had no other kin, or thought he would be blamed for their death by any he does have. Neither is an uncommon thing after such a war. He befriended Delioron at some point, and when that friend told him of Gríma's arrival in the houses of lore, he decided to seek an opportunity for vengeance, even if it meant drugging and using his own 'friend,' and we already know the rest.”Eomer refilled his mug. “I don't disagree. But the question isn't what he did or why he did it, but what is to be done with him now that we've caught him.”“He may have been living in Minas Tirith for the past couple of years, but he's one of your subjects, so I will defer to your judgment, since you are present to give it.”“The crime was committed on your soil, not mine, and against one of your subjects - I'll certainly not claim Wormtongue again, whatever amends he might have made elsewhere. If you leave Garferth's judgment up to me, I would have him exiled for kidnapping a servant of the king's household and be done with it. Or hanged, if you don't want the expense of keeping him imprisoned here. He does not seem to much regret what he's done, so far as I can tell, and is highly likely to try something again as soon as he sees an opportunity. I can't fault him for wanting Wormtongue dead, although I think he vastly overestimates Wormtongue's abilities if he believes the man could have turned the entire bloody war on his own.”Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut, seeking forbearance. Arwen's hand found his underneath the table, squeezing it briefly. “He can't be more than seventeen, Eomer, which means he was fourteen or fifteen when he arrived with your uncle's army. I understand why such youths were armed to fight, given the desperation of things, but that is very young. Such terror can have a particularly ill effect on a growing mind.”“Fine, I'll concede his age garners some consideration. What would you have me do with him, then, if you are going to saddle me with his fate?”Aragorn stood, suddenly, walking to the end of the table and crouching down where Gríma sat at the end. He called the man's name, but was unsurprised when he received no response, and resorted to pulling his face toward him by the chin. Gríma was looking out at something, but it was at least a thousand yards past Aragorn's face.“Come on, Gríma, pay attention.”Faramir rubbed at a spot between Gríma's shoulder blades, then shook him slightly. “The king is speaking to you, Gríma.”Aragorn waited another moment, then stood up, shaking his head at the continued lack of response. “Did any of the hobbits, by chance, explain how they got him out of this... condition... in the Shire?”“Frodo had the most to do with it, I think. But Sam didn't seem to think Frodo had been doing much other than to keep him fed, clothed, and occupied for a while. Eventually he spoke again of his own volition, although not much until after he'd fled to Bree and they'd gone to retrieve him. Sam did say that some brigand named Bill Ferny had clocked him over the head pretty hard just before they found him, but I would not suggest giving him a concussion simply to test a theory.”“Hmm. No, I think not. I would prefer to have his opinion on this matter before settling it, given that he is the one who was targeted in all of this. I'll speak to Calin as well. But keep a close eye on him, and let me know if he snaps out of it. We can keep Garferth in the guard house for now, it certainly won't do him any harm to sit and contemplate his current situation and how he came to it for a while.”  Gríma had been laying on his bed, stretched out on his side and staring toward the window since Faramir brought him back to his room. Sam was in the desk chair next to where Merry had sat himself on the desk and was idly flipping through a book on the history of the realm of Cardolan in the early Third Age.Pippin was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning against Gríma's back as though there nothing at all to be concerned about. “He'll be fine, Faramir, I wouldn't worry too much. He gets a bit dazed sometimes, I think, any time he's reminded of old Sharkey too much. He just spooked himself, that's all.”Pippin shifted, turning slightly to give Gríma a pat on the arm. “You're fine now, eh? All's well that ends well?” Turning back to Faramir, he shrugged. “Just try to make sure he eats something. He forgets half the time anyway, but when he's like this it can be even harder to get something down his gullet. He likes any kind of fruit pie or cobbler you put in front of him though, especially if it's still a bit warm.”“It's a bit early in the season for fruit, but I'll keep that in mind.”The door to the adjoining rooms opened, and to Faramir's astonishment, Eowyn stepped through, and immediately crossed the room to stand over Gríma's bed, staring down at his slack face. “So he's still like this, then? Eomer told me all that happened. I didn't realize he could still pull that trick with his voice, I had assumed it had gone with Saruman when he didn't use again.”Eowyn stooped slightly to look at him more directly. “Cat got your wormtongue?” She reached out hesitantly, letting just the very tips of her fingers briefly brush against his cheek, then withdrew when he merely twitched slightly.Faramir shook his head. “Please don't toy with him, my love. He's had a difficult day.”Eowyn propped herself in front of the window, looking down at the courtyard. “I'm not. Not really, anyway. I don't like him, but it's just plain eerie, seeing him like this.”Merry closed the book he was reading and got up to set it back on the shelf he'd taken it from. “It is, isn't it? He trailed around after Frodo for weeks just like this, spooked the hell out of half the Shire. There were some what wanted him turned out just because the sight of him gave them the creeps. He's not dangerous like this though, I think. Or at least he wasn't then. He won't hurt anybody, except maybe himself.”Pippin turned toward her with a look that heralded mischief. “Maybe he'd wake up if you gave him a kiss, oh fair princess? I read a story like that once. Although it might have been the other way around... Or was that the one with the frog?”Eowyn made a face and gagged. “Don't be disgusting, Pip. You can kiss him, if you want to. Aren't you practically a hobbit-prince?”Pippin shrugged, bent to give Gríma an exaggerated smooch on the side of his forehead, and then nudged him with an elbow when nothing happened. “Hmph. You know, I feel a little insulted. You could at least turn into a frog for me, you know! Or was it a newt?”Faramir opened the door to the hallway and began ushering hobbits through it, bidding them farewell for the night over Pippin's indignant protests, and shutting the door behind them.Eowyn claimed the now-vacant desk chair, sitting down on it sideways and propping her arms on the backrest to peer over them at her husband. “This isn't your fault, you know. I understand he's your friend, but you didn't do this to him.”“I know, love, but I still don't like it. And if he needed a bit of looking after before, he needs more now, and I don't know quite what to do for this. I've seen similar reactions in some, especially after the war. The minds of many were... affected. The boy who persecuted him, for one example. It's been two years since the downfall of Sauron, but the memories linger, and even the land itself remains scarred in places. The wounds evil leave are often difficult to mend.”“Can't you just... look into him... as you do? Find where he's hiding and tell him to get his sorry arse back out in the real world because he shouldn't worry people like this?”Faramir shook his head. “It's not so simple. I told you I cannot 'read minds' and neither can I go adventuring about within them. It's hard to describe, but what you suggest simply isn't possible. In any case, I have been keeping a close eye on him all day, and he hasn't gone anywhere. But parts of him are... inaccessible. Like a box turtle that has pulled its head and limbs inside at the sight of danger.”“Still a coward as ever... Eomer is right, a wolf really can't shed its appetite. He might have had his moments recently, but he is ever what he has always been.”“And I'd still argue that you and your brother judge harshly, even if I understand your reasoning. His life has not been the gentlest, even before Saruman reshaped him into his thrall.”Eowyn turned around, staring down at the desk instead. She pulled one of the quills out of the stand, turning it over and again in her fingers. “Wormtongue didn't have to go with that wizard. He could have returned to his father the same day he met Saruman. He wanted the power that was offered to him.”“He was thirteen, Eowyn, and his father had already openly despised him for three years after his mother's death, and ultimately rejected him entirely. I will never say your childhood was easy, it certainly was not, but you had other family who loved you - your brother, your uncle, your cousin - after you lost your parents, not to mention adequate food; he had little of either. And he knew nothing of Saruman at the time they met, save that he was a wizard who was still known by reputation to be among the good and wise of middle earth. And who, by some miracle, was offering him a way out of an intolerable present and unpromising future. He could not have known what the wizard had planned for him or for Rohan – at the time even Mithrandir did not suspect Saruman of treason.”Eowyn snapped the quill in half between her fingers, dropping the pieces onto the desk. “I've said before that none of this exonerates him and I still haven't changed my mind. Fine – I'll concede that at the age of thirteen perhaps he did not have all the facts before him to make the right choice, but by the time Saruman was packing him back off to Edoras with a pouch full of poison for my uncle's wine, he should have known better!”Faramir nodded. “And that, I will concede. One may have carved the road to the other, but he might have taken a fork somewhere. The truth, as always, is generally somewhere in the middle.”Eowyn swept the broken quill into a wastebasket on the floor. “I really am sick to death of this argument, anyhow, we've only had it a dozen times at this point. Whatever you want to call him, Wormtongue is an absolute mess on a good day, and today is not a good day. But there's no point in making yourself suffer with him, which is all I came in here to say.”Faramir walked up behind her, leaning over to kiss her for several minutes, wrapping his arms around her. Eventually he remembered they weren't actually alone and stood up, but Gríma hadn't moved in the slightest, either at their debate or their overt display of affection. He lay still on his side turned away from them, uncaring in the least.“I'm not suffering, Eowyn, but King Elessar did instruct me to look after him. I do think he will recover in time, hopefully more swiftly than he did for the hobbits. I know it is an imposition for you to have me hovering over him so often, but it won't be forever. We'll be back in the woods of Ithilien soon enough, I should think, one way or another.”Eowyn rose from the desk, pushing the chair underneath it. “Well, he's not going anywhere for the moment, and it's getting late. I think we can safely leave him here for the night and return to our own room. We're hardly far away should he decide to stop sulking, or whatever this is.”Faramir crouched down in front of Gríma once more, pushing a bit of loose hair that had fallen over his eyes behind an ear and watching his face for a moment for a sign of any real awareness. Gríma shut his eyes in response to the scrutiny, but said nothing. Faramir pulled the man's boots off without garnering any protest, and set them by the door before leaving.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Fire. Fire and heat and glowing slag pouring into molds, the forges under Isengard threw sparks that would sizzle when they touched bare skin, vaporizing flesh without mercy. Saruman did not allow him to wander at will through the depths of Isengard, but there had been one occasion where he'd been sent to fetch one of the Angmarim sorcerers from his work among the breeding of uruk-hai below. There had already been a legion waiting beneath the earth, an endless sea of beasts that approximated the shape of men, only hulking and ravenous.
The Eldar are fading and departing this world, the second-born are divided and weak, and the dwarves care nothing for the world above their mines. The age of the orc and uruk-hai is dawning, chaos shall reign, and the earth shall tremble!
Some foolish part of Gríma had ached for the days of his youth, when Saruman had spent hours upon hours with him, testing his knowledge, pressing him to learn more and more, and was still pleased when Gríma succeeded. Gríma never succeeded at anything now, and nothing pleased Saruman any longer, save his fighting beasts and engines of war. Saruman had grown increasingly impatient, not only with his servants, but with the world itself, with the turn of history, which was not moving fast enough. Nothing was ever fast enough. They must breed faster! Work faster! More uruk-hai, more wargs, more weapons, more fuel to feed the fire!Gríma had a small, round scar just above his left wrist, where the tiniest droplet of hot iron had landed as he had returned with the sorcerer. It had burned through his sleeve, his skin, and all the way to bone, and had taken weeks to fully heal.
The wise speak only of what they know, Gríma son of Gálmód. A witless worm you have become. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth.

No, Grìma, she could never come to love you in truth – but I will give her to you regardless. I will give her to you and she shall hate you all the days of your life. That shall be your just reward.

Too long have you watched her under your eyelids and haunted her steps. Down snake! Down on your belly!
Saruman despised him and used him. Gandalf despised him and had no use for him. He was caught between their opposing wills, their mirrored wrath, pulled until he might tear in twain.Theoden had shown kindness, sometimes, when it suited him, had used him, sometimes, when it suited him. He'd come to his king, once, a few months after arriving, robe torn and bleeding profusely from a ragged gash on his forehead, blood mingling with hot tears that burned and humiliated him, but which he could not hold back. Go have that wound bound, wash your face, change into a clean robe, and then return. I have need of your council this evening. I'm sure it was an accident. These young men don't know their own strength sometimes in these games. Don't be so thin-skinned, if you but stand tall and fight back, they will surely leave you alone! They are warriors and so always testing one another's strength, they don't mean any real harm.Just a touch, Gríma. Grind it to a fine powder just before you put it in his wine. You don't want him seeing shades flitting about the throne room, after all, it would attract too much suspicion. Just enough to soften the mind and weaken the body. Then, speak to him. Speak to him. You know how. Ergot, datura, nightshade. He'd never known for sure what all was in the pouch of dried herbs that Saruman handed him, but he had made a few guesses over the years. He'd managed to make a serviceable copy of the formula, close enough to do the job. Not only the king then, did he soften, and not only in the king's ear did he whisper. He made sure no one would ever again dare to strike at him. He never shed blood nor tears again within the halls of Meduseld.At least, not where anyone could see.
A witless worm you have become! Down snake! Down on your belly! Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!
  Gríma's eyes watered in the morning light, a bright patch of which had passed through the window of his room and landed now directly across his head. He rolled over onto his belly, burying his face in the pillow.
No, Worm is not really nice.
  Sam shut the second side drawer and began rifling through the third. He didn't like going through Gríma's things, not while he was back in his 'gollum' phase and mostly unresponsive, but as he found what he'd been looking for, he shrugged off his moral reservations about it. Opening the pouch, he took a sniff. “I think this is it. He used to share it with Frodo sometimes, when Frodo was too troubled by memories to sleep well. The smell is awful, and while I never tasted it, it's probably even worse, but...”Idhrien took the pouch and poured a bit into the palm of her hand, sorting through the bits and pieces of dried herbs. “Chamomile... athelas... valerian... lemon balm. And another herb, but I don't recognize it. Some sort of basil, perhaps? A close relation, at least. I don't think there's anything dangerous about it, if used in moderation. It's a bit old I think. I have plenty of the first four, though, I could mix up a fresher batch of at least those. It might work well enough without the fifth. Hmm. I'll mix some fresh with the old and leave it with Faramir. He can prepare some for Gríma before bed, perhaps.”Sam shut the drawer and drew no more reaction than from the first two. Gríma was at his desk, scratching away with a fresh quill that Maenir had brought him to replace the one that Eowyn had broken in frustration the day before, along with a stack of old and damaged books and scrolls that needed to be copied out fresh. Gríma seemed mostly unaware of the people around him, but he clearly understood what was expected of him when it came to his work, and had set himself to the task without difficulty.Maenir had lingered for a time after Faramir had sent for him to bring Gríma some sort of work. “He's not completely insensible, then? He can clearly still read, and write. Or at least copy. Why can't he speak?” Sam had shrugged. He hadn't really understood it back in the Shire, when Frodo had first picked up the strange man out of the dust of the road, and he didn't really understand it now, at least not in a way he could articulate in words. Frodo had gone to the sea, and left the world behind. Sam both did and did not understand that as well. The sea, he supposed, might be a place in one's mind as well as outside it, if one wanted it badly enough. “He's just... upset, is all.” Idhrien put the pouch of herbs into her pocket and watched Gríma as he diligently worked, wondering how to fix this problem. As a healer, it bothered her to not know how to even partly alleviate an ailment, even one as strange as this, especially in someone she considered a friend. Gríma suddenly stopped writing, lifting the page he'd been working on and looking at it for a moment before dropping it into the wastebasket nearby and starting over with a fresh sheet of parchment. Curious, Idhrien retrieved the rejected page, and noted the wet ink streaked across the middle of it, then looked at Gríma.“Hmm. I see the problem.” Going through the same drawers Sam had raided, she came back with a wooden comb and a scrap of black ribbon. If Gríma noticed as she combed his hair, carefully worked a few spots of bad tangling out, and tied it back, he made no indication of it, but Idhrien at least was able to leave afterward feeling like she had accomplished something useful for him.  Gríma trailed behind Anborn. Anborn kept stopping and turning to make sure the man was still following him for some time, but eventually trusted him to keep up. He'd lived in the city for months now, after all, and seemed to at least recognize its paths, if not its people. Well, he seemed to at least know Anborn. Or know that he knew him. He wouldn't follow a stranger anywhere, Anborn suspected, or at least hoped. He was glad of the fact that Garferth was locked away, for the moment, but that didn't mean there could be no one in the city who might try to harm Gríma in what at least appeared to be a vulnerable state.They arrived at the stables and Gríma went to the stall with his own horse immediately, reaching out to stroke the animal's nose. He did not smile, exactly, but Gríma's face seemed to soften somewhat. It was the liveliest Anborn had seen him since he'd taken custody of him earlier. Anborn still didn't quite understand why Gríma had reacted thusly, given that his brother had come away with little more than a bad scratch and a bit of bruising, and Garferth currently remained in a jail cell where he could harm no one. Faramir had told him not to dwell overmuch on it. We just need to keep him occupied, for now, I think. Don't press him too hard to speak. He will when he is ready.
And what if he's never ready?
Faramir hadn't answered that question. Anborn wasn't certain he'd contemplated that possible eventuality. There had been something a bit bent about Gríma at least for what time Anborn had known him (and probably long before that), and maybe it had finally just broken entirely. And if the man never wanted to speak two words again, did it truly matter? Perhaps he simply had nothing more to say. Anborn preferred taciturn company over someone who did not guard their words at all, frankly.Anborn stepped into the stall beside Gríma and his horse. He pulled Lady's bridle and saddle from the wall, handing them to Gríma, before leaving to retrieve another horse for his own use. It had rained overnight, but the sun had been out all day and the mud was already dry. Some fresh air might not fix Gríma's problem, but Anborn figured it couldn't hurt. Being cooped up indoors too long was simply unhealthy.  
See, Theoden, here is a snake! With safety you cannot take it with you, nor can you leave it behind. To slay it would be just. But it was not always as it now is. Give him a horse and let him go at once, wherever he chooses. By his choice you shall judge him.
By the time Gríma had returned to Orthanc, the entire ring of Isengard had already been flooded and the machinery beneath it quenched with the freed waters of the river Isen. Gríma had never seen an Ent before. He'd read of the tree-herders, but had never quite believed in them, until one walked up, towering over him. Gríma had been plucked from the saddle like a child might lift a doll. The horse he'd taken from Edoras had fled at the booming voice, its hooves splashing in the ankle-deep water as it dashed back the way they had come from without him, and had probably not stopped until it had returned to its own stall. He had tried to plead with the tree-herd, to no avail. Stay outside and wait for Gandalf, or go in to Saruman, were the only choices he'd been offered.Gríma had dashed for the tower before the Ent could change its mind about allowing him to live at all, floundering through ever-deeper water until he had, indeed, been obliged to swim.
By his choice you shall judge him.
  Once they stepped through the gate of the city, Gríma mounted his horse and urged the little mare into a full run immediately. Anborn pulled himself into the saddle and pressed his heels to the flanks of the gelding he'd chosen, urging it on. He'd nearly caught up when Gríma pulled Lady into a hard right turn and the little horse vaulted over a low stone wall along the side of the road without hesitation.Anborn's horse was taller and faster, but proved to be less agile and unable to turn as sharply. The gelding balked at approaching the wall at a less than ideal angle, rearing upward and nearly throwing Anborn from the saddle. He managed to rein the animal in before falling and took the horse a bit further up the road to a gap in the wall and spurred it onward toward Lady's flying heels already some distance onto the Pelennor. He caught up to, then inadvertently overtook Gríma as the latter pulled the mare to a hard sliding stop. Swearing under his breath, Anborn turned around and finally came up to Gríma. The chestnut hide of Anborn's gelding was already glistening, but the mare had just barely broken a sweat.Gríma slid from his saddle and sat down, idly plucking at the fresh green blades of spring grass. Anborn dismounted, keeping hold of the gelding's reins. Lady remained close to Gríma, dropping her head to snuffle at him. Gríma pulled her bridle off and the horse began grazing placidly nearby, as if she had not just rushed breakneck out of the city and over nearly a mile of turf.“I'll never disparage your horse again, Gríma, if you promise not to repeat this performance. I don't keep a horse of my own; this one belongs to the city's stables, and thus by extension to the king. I would much rather not have to explain an injury to it, even if nothing happened this time.”Anborn glanced to the side at Gríma, who was still idly plucking blades of grass from the ground in front of him, and flicking them off to the side. “I'd ask if you heard me, but I suspect you won't answer either way.”Anborn laid back on the grass, stretching out on his back. It had turned out to be a fine afternoon, unplanned horse race aside. Now he fancied a nap. “Don't go wandering off, Gríma. If you want to leave, at least kick me awake first.”  
Worm! Worm! To the road again, Worm!
He'd crawled out of the old goat hut, pulling himself out on his hands and knees. Like a dog, but not like a dog. Less than a dog.. Starving, sliding along through the dirt. Like a worm.
These fine fellows and lordlings are turning us adrift again. Come along!

Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me.
  “Well, he drank the tea when I gave it to him, but I don't know that it's done anything much. He slept last night, though, or at least was out when I checked on him a few times. It took a bit of coaxing, but I managed to get him to eat this morning as well.”“A few times? Faramir, you were up and down all night like a new mother, sticking your head through that door. If you are going to be so restless again, I'm sleeping elsewhere tonight. I've told you to stop worrying over him, he's not dying after all. Honestly, creepy as it is, I'm almost starting to prefer him this way.”“Why? He barely ever spoke to you before, unless you spoke to him first.”There were several gardens in Minas Tirith, most of which were open to the general citizenry to enjoy at any time, but this particular one was found up a path a short way into the mountains behind the city and few knew of it. Technically, it was closed to any but the king and his invited guests, although Faramir and Eowyn often made use of it without permission and Aragorn had never said anything about it.Today it was no matter either way, Aragorn and Arwen were already present when they arrived, with their resident ghost in tow, and had greeted them warmly. Gríma had seated himself on the ground in a shaded spot under a pear tree just beginning to bloom, and Eowyn had continued onward, pulling Faramir with him until they came to a bench near a fish pond with waterlilies that she favored.Aragorn threw a bit of the bread he'd been eating into the pond, watching as the fish gathered at the surface to compete over the floating crumbs. “Eowyn is not entirely wrong; he's in no immediate danger of harm, even if his odd behavior is somewhat disturbing to those around him. I do not prefer it myself, but nonetheless, when I said to keep an eye on him, I did not mean fuss over him like a wet-nurse throughout the night. You'll accomplish nothing by depriving yourself of sleep. Perhaps try some of that tea yourself tonight, the valerian alone ought to keep you down for a few hours at least.”Faramir rubbed at his eyes tiredly, recognizing good sense. “Perhaps I will.” Throughout their conversation, Faramir had been watching Gríma from a corner of his eye, along with Arwen, who had risen soon after they had joined her and her husband, and sought Gríma out. Aragorn had not reacted nor seemed in any way concerned about his wife, so Faramir had kept his curiosity to himself. The queen was still something of a mystery to him – she spent much time among the women of the court, and was a genuine friend of Eowyn's, but he had spoken to her only a little over the past two years. He wouldn't call her shy, as she wasn't, but perhaps “reserved” might be an apt description.He was a little surprised when, after spending some time standing over him, she sat down on the grass beside him beneath the pear tree and was, it appeared, also watching him closely, even though Gríma did not seem to be doing anything at all. “I do wonder what she's trying to do. Doesn't she know he can't speak at all right now?”“Hm?” Aragorn looked up, glancing at his wife. “Oh, I shouldn't worry about that. She's quite aware of his situation. Much like yourself, she does not require speech to have a conversation. She won't harm him.”Being born of the elves, Arwen stood greater than six feet, as most elves did. Gríma measured several inches shorter in height and even thinner than usual after his illness, difficult travel, and now a general lack of appetite, and looked utterly insubstantial beside her. Even moreso, as he drew his knees up under his chin, wrapping his arms about them and closing his eyes, the curtain of his hair obscuring most of his face.  Gríma raised his head, although he took several more moments to open his eyes. He could feel another presence over him, but it was unfamiliar. He looked out and saw the one he knew, sitting with the others some distance away. Him, he knew. That shadow was there, also, but too familiar now to be worth noticing. No, that is not what had disturbed him.There was a scent on the air. The tree above was beginning to bloom. No, that's not right, is it? It was autumn. He looked around, but his vision was clouded.
Wormtongue! You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can have rest and food here for a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways.
Frodo, where was Frodo? The Shire had suffered, but not fallen. Winter was coming.
Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me.
Gríma hissed through his teeth, rage rising in him at his master's mockery. He unfolded his legs and pushed himself backwards. His back hit something solid.The tree is beginning to bloom. No, Saruman is not here.Feeling at his clothing, Gríma found he was dressed not in filthy rags, but in a clean linen tunic. There was no dagger tucked away at his waist.Yes, Saruman is dead. You are safe, here.Gríma shut his eyes again tightly, breathing heavily as his heart raced. A hand took hold of his own, squeezing it gently.Saruman cannot hurt you. He can never hurt you again.
If you are so hungry, Worm, then complete this task and there is your supper!
He died so easily. I left him there, under the tree, but it was not blooming then. Will anything ever bloom, again?  Arwen picked up a fallen pear blossom, and tucked it into Aragorn's hair with a smile. “There is nothing more to be done now than what Frodo did the first time. This is something he will have to master, or else it will master him. He is lost in a kind of Mordor of his own construction, and he will have to find his way out again. He has done so once before, which gives hope in the matter. And as before, he is not alone.”Gríma had fainted in the garden, and while it did not take long to rouse him again, Faramir had decided to take him back to his room. Eowyn had sent word that he was once again sitting at his desk, working quietly, no worse for the wear.Aragorn remained behind with his wife, and they were both now sitting beneath the pear tree, contemplating what had occurred. He picked up another pear blossom, mirroring his wife's gesture as he placed it in her hair, just above one pointed ear. “This is partly Saruman's doing, and partly the doing of his own offended conscience. It's hard to separate the two – would he have become wicked, without Saruman? I don't know. I'm not sure Gríma knows, either, and perhaps that is his difficulty.”“All have the capacity to commit both good and evil, though some circumstances certainly make the latter much easier. One may be weakest to its call when alone and frightened, I think, and this Gríma seems to have been alone and frightened for much of his life. It is hard to earn forgiveness for such acts, from others as well as one's self. That he has a conscience is a good thing, and that it pains him over his sins proves that he is not wholly corrupted. But if one becomes too bound in guilt and shame, it can become an inward obsession, where one simply treads the same paths over and over until he loses sight of the way out.”Aragorn looked upward through the boughs of the tree, its early spring flowers rustling in a cool breeze. Birds were already arriving from their overwintering refuges in south, and going through their annual courting rituals. Nesting would begin soon. Nature had its own cycles, of birth and life, of death and rebirth, a pageant which was played out again and again each year. Even in Mordor, tough little shrubs and weeds had grown, and drew insects and small reptiles and other little crawling things that had been too insignificant for Sauron to care about enough to destroy. Little things, like hobbits. Aragorn smiled to himself. You never saw that one coming, did you, you miserable old bastard? “Faramir, I think, blames him very little, although I feel his perception is colored by the unfortunate fate of his father. The parallels are difficult to ignore – both Saruman and Denethor were ultimately touched and corrupted by Sauron through use of the palantír. Both wizard and steward knew that not all of the stones were accounted for, but sought greater advantage through their use. A desperate gamble, which they both lost badly, ultimately to the suffering of many beyond themselves. I felt pity for them then, and Gríma now, but pity alone accomplishes but little.”Arwen rose, and grasped her husband's hand as he pulled himself to his feet. If his joints happened to make some interesting noises as he went, she did not bring attention to it. Though their days would be greater than most, still they would grow old together, and he would die, and then she would die. Sometimes Aragorn still wondered if he had not also committed a great evil out of ignorant desire.“Stop doing that.”“Doing what?”“Second-guessing. I know you're doing it again, and you know it annoys me. I made my own decision as well, you did not force my hand or deceive me. It is too late now to be dithering over it, anyhow.” Arwen placed a hand over her belly, giving him a pointed look. Aragorn already knew she would bear a child before the year's end, but there was no outward evidence of it yet, and he could not quite wrap his head around the reality of it. He wrapped his arms around the both of them, kissing her.After they parted, Arwen pulled him back over to the bench. “What-if, maybe, might-have-been... In the end, none of it matters, only what is. Do not worry over this, it will sort itself out, one way or another. Faramir has willingly taken on the task, although I do hope he listens to his wife and does not forget to take care of himself, also.”Aragorn chuckled. “He's been playing mother hen to his pack of rangers for so long, I don't think he knows how to stop.”“As if you were ever any better with your own 'pack of rangers' in the north?”“I cared for them, certainly, but I never mothered them as he does. I'm surprised he doesn't pack all their lunches for them each morning.”  “Gríma!”Calin rushed down the hallway. He caught sight of his brother just as he followed the Ithilien prince into his room. Calin stopped at the door and only just remembered in time that it was considered polite to knock first. The door opened again, and it was Faramir who answered, stepping out into the hallway and allowing the door to close behind him. Calin tilted his head, looking behind him as though the closed door would explain what had just happened. Faramir's hand on his arm finally got his attention.“Just a moment, Calin, before you go in. I am glad to see you are well, though. I had been told your injuries were not severe, but I have not had an opportunity to seek you out.”“King Eomer had ordered me to rest for a couple of days, and would not let me go out, but I wanted to see Gríma again before we leave, which will probably be at the end of the week. He told me Gríma wasn't injured, but there was something wrong with him. Is he ill?”Faramir shook his head. “No, he's not ill. It's more an ailment of the spirit, I think, than the body. He hasn't spoken since we retrieved you, and often seems lost within himself. I won't bar you from seeing him, but don't be offended if he does not seem to recognize you.”Calin scratched at his head. “I... okay, I guess. I think I'd still like to see him, though. King Elessar spoke to me yesterday, about the boy who kidnapped me. He seemed to think I should have some say in what happens to him, but I wanted to ask Gríma about it. I really don't know what to do at all. King Eomer seems to think it would be easiest to just hang him or exile him, but... I mean I know he did some awful things, but that all just seems a bit extreme, you know?”Faramir didn't answer the rambling question, but rather opened the door behind him, pulling Calin inside. Gríma was working at his desk, blotting a freshly completed sheet and setting it aside to finish drying.“Gríma?” Calin walked over to his brother, whose head tilted upward slowly, eyes narrowing at the young man in front of him.“You remember me, right?” Calin laughed, nervously. “I mean, you only pulled me from the jaws of death, that's hard to forget, isn't it?”Gríma's head tilted further. Calin sighed in disappointment. “Well, I remember you. I thought to myself, I'm going to die. I'm going to die here. There were two kings there who couldn't talk that Garferth out of chopping my head off, and then you were there, and I finally thought, maybe I won't die, and you were just.. telling him to let me go... in that funny way, and he did it. It was amazing, it really was!”Calin knelt beside his brother's chair, putting them on the same level, and reached out to him, pulling at Gríma until he had his brother in a stiff and awkward embrace. “I'm sorry if I did something wrong. I didn't mean to get taken by Garferth, he sneaked up on me when I went outside for a moment...”  Faramir watched from the corner, almost as disappointed as Calin, now sniffling slightly and fighting back tears. Some piece of Faramir's heart ached for this young man who was already, in a sense, losing a bit of family he'd just found. “Calin, this isn't your fault, you didn't do anything-”Faramir held his breath as Gríma finally responded, wrapping one arm around the boy's back, although he still remained silent. Calin stood, lifting Gríma from his chair as he went, holding him more tightly for a moment before letting him go and stepping back. Gríma was looking at his brother now – not through him, not past him, but at him, blinking rapidly like someone just stepping out into the sun. His hand came up, the tips of his fingers brushing lightly against the bandage on Calin's throat before dropping again. Faramir tried not to be too disappointed when he remained silent, but he'd take whatever improvement he could get at this point.Calin scratched at the edge of the bandage for a moment, then went to sit on the edge of the bed. “You don't have to talk if you don't want to. I wanted to thank you for saving my life before I had to leave, mostly. The king – both of them, actually, they want me to say what should happen to Garferth, and I wanted to ask you about that too, but... I mean, how do you decide something like that? I don't even know what to tell them. I'm only a servant, and I don't even know how to read, and they want me to decide his fate, and before we leave? I don't know what to do. I wish you would talk again.”Gríma crossed the room and sat beside his brother, staring down at his own boots, but after much time passed, and still with no answer, Calin rose, bid his brother farewell, and departed to return to his king.  Calin walked nervously behind King Eomer and King Elessar. Another day had passed, and time was running out.King Elessar had taken Calin into his own study that morning, again explaining what his expected role would be in this act of justice.  “Kidnapping a royal servant is a serious crime, Calin, and the laws of this kingdom, as written, outline a few possibilities. Exile is one, execution is another, although I don't favor it at all. Imprisonment without release. There are other crimes he committed, although you were not involved in them. As king, I may render some other punishment, if I so choose, but as the one whose life was hanging in the balance in this, it falls to you to decide.”“Shouldn't Gríma have a say in this?”“Were he speaking at all, I would let him say what he would, but as he is not, it falls to you. Even had you not been involved, you are at this point his next-of-kin, as far as the law goes, especially considering that your father no longer recognizes him at all. I've already spoken to the cousin of the scribe who died after Garferth's deception, and now it is your turn.”“What did his cousin say should happen?”“That is between me and the scribe's cousin, to be considered alongside your answer.”“I don't even know this Garferth, how can I just stand here and decide another man's fate?”  Calin looked back where his brother followed behind him. He'd gone to Gríma's room that morning after leaving King Elessar's study, and while he still could not get his brother to talk, he'd at least been able to get him to come along with him. He didn't want to do this, for a whole host of reasons. He wanted nothing more than to spend his final few days in Gondor with a brother he had been wondering about since he was five years old, and then leave with his king without ever setting eyes on the angry man who had bashed him over the head from behind, tied him up, and held a dagger to his throat.They arrived at the guard house. Several of the city's guards were in the common room, milling about, but at the entrance of their king, they all stood to attention. The king acknowledged them briefly, then pushed past them and through the door at the far end of the room, motioning the rest of them forward.  Garferth looked up when they crowded into the jail, but did not rise from where he was seated on the cot. He looked at the two kings, he looked at Calin, he looked at Gríma for the longest time of all, and said nothing. Anger burned in his eyes, but from behind stout iron bars, it was an impotent rage.Calin glanced back at his king, who shrugged, and at Elessar, who nodded toward Garferth. He found Gríma standing in the far corner, hiding in the shadows.Calin looked at Garferth, who looked back at him. “They want me to tell them what to do with you. I wanted to see you first.”Garferth looked, if anything, even angrier. “So tell them what you want. See if I care.”“I don't know what to tell them.”“Tch. And what do you want me to say? Tell them to let me go, then, so I can finish the job I started. How can you even live, having a brother like that? If I were you, I'd have killed him myself, and cleansed my family's honor. You can't be much better than he is, if you won't even do that.”Calin felt his face growing hot, not in embarrassment, but in anger. “Why are you like this? Can't you find something better to do than chase after a grudge and hurt people? Your father and brother aren't coming back, no matter what you do! A lot of people died in the war, there are orphans everywhere, you aren't special!”Calin leaped backwards in shock as Garferth was suddenly pressed against the bars, spitting at him. “What the hell do you know, you little whoreson! I bet you weren't even there, were you?”Calin stepped back once more, shaking his head. “Sorry, I guess I was too busy starving to death, halfway up the mountainside, trying not to be spotted by orc patrols when I could go looking for food! So maybe I wasn't on the battlefield, but it was nothing but problems everywhere. There were three families, mine and two others, we were all just trying to get by, and do you know what it's like to be out in the woods with some boy, some ten year old kid, trying to check snares for rabbits, and watch him get torn up by wargs, and not be able to do anything about it? We all had problems!”Garferth spat again. “If your whoreson brother hadn't ruined the whole damned country, those wargs and orcs wouldn't have even been there, and there would have been plenty to eat for everyone, so pardon me if I don't cry a river!”Calin crossed his arms and turned his back on Gaferth, too angry now to respond. This was a mistake, he thought. This hasn't made it easier, but harder. “Let him go. Just... let him go.”Calin's head snapped up at the sound of Gríma's voice. He found his brother crouching in the corner, in something like anguish. He was about to go to him when King Elessar stepped in front of him.“I can't simply turn him loose, Gríma. Delioron is dead at his hands, and your brother nearly had his throat cut. He just made it clear he isn't going to give up, either. He's a danger not only to you, but anyone he thinks he can use as a tool toward his ends.”“Just let him go.”Gríma stood, and pushed his way through the crowded room and out of the door.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The Ents milled about below; Saruman seethed; Gríma cowered. In time, the heroes of the hour arrived, triumphant, and called out for his master. Saruman dragged him out of the corner by the hair, opening the massive floor-to-ceiling window, shoving him out onto the small balcony, and telling him to see who was there and what they wanted. Saruman knew well who it was, and what they wanted, but Gríma did as he was asked and received precisely the sort of acidic, humiliating reply he'd expected from the other wizard.Gríma retreated back into the room, in terror and hatred – of the men below who despised him, of his master before him, who also despised him. Gríma hated them all in return, at first in equal measure, but as the conversation wore on, it was the back of Saruman's head which drew his rage the most of all.You took me from my father and took me from my home, you taught me everything I know, and now you scorn me? I have served you faithfully, from the first day, through pain and fear and the hatred of my countrymen! You should have loved me, as my father did not! You should have- hissing like an angry cat, Gríma's eyes landed on an object he'd also come to hate. How many long hours over the past years had Saruman spent, staring into the smokey depths of that crystal orb, growing ever colder and harsher?
This. This thing is the true wellspring of all my suffering.
He snatched the cursed object from the iron stand that held it, holding it up in his hands, coiling what little strength he possessed to dash it to the stone floor at his feet. It was utterly dark within, but as he lifted it upward, a point of heat and flame appeared in its depths, like the eye of some monstrous leviathan slowly rising from the deeps.A shout came from the balcony, and Gríma watched as the staff Saruman held in his hands split in twain, and his master stumbled backward. The palantír glowed in his hands like a sun, and grew hot, burning him. With an animal-like cry, he threw it, as hard as he could, sending it sailing out just past the head of his master, and tumbling down to the crowd below.Saruman, once he'd regathered his wits, had fixed Gríma with a look that shot fresh terror through him to the very root of his soul. The wizard no longer had the great carved wooden staff at his disposal, but the thin iron stand that had held the seeing-stone proved handy enough.Gríma had lain on the floor afterward in a growing cesspool of his own blood and filth, unable to move at all. Where his master had retreated to during those days, elsewhere in the tower, he knew not.  
By his choice you shall judge him.
  Eowyn rolled her eyes heavenward. Figures. Everyone had been in a tizzy for a couple of hours now over this fool – the king, her husband, several rangers, and even the hobbits had eventually joined the search. They'd been scouring every dark corner of the city. And here he was, sitting like a lazy toad on a log, just as she'd wandered out for a bit of air in the afternoon sunshine.She stepped forward, feeling only a mild twinge of vertigo, having lived Minas Tirith with its vertical construction for so long. Gríma was at the very end of the pier, completely still and silent, one foot dangling over empty air.“You know, just a few months after the war, a drunkard wandered out here in the dark. One of the guards saw him, but too late, and he stumbled over the edge. He didn't so much land, as splash. After mopping him up, they had to replace the paving stone he'd fallen on, which had shattered as well.”She stared down Gríma, who said nothing. Carefully, she sat down just behind and slightly to the left of him, taking firm hold of the back of his tunic in her right hand. His head twitched in her direction, briefly. Eowyn just barely resisted the temptation to shake him violently. She'd only had the dream where he'd pulled her over the edge of that cliff in Mordor with him once more after the first time, and eventually all of the nightmares had faded, but the memory hadn't gone entirely, and she did not want to get too close to the edge.She wouldn't mourn the loss of him, if he threw himself to his death. Truly, she wouldn't. And yet.“I do hope you aren't thinking of doing something exceedingly stupid right now.”Gríma shifted beside her, the back of his tunic still bunched up in her fist, pulling the dangling foot back up to tuck underneath himself to sit cross-legged. A light breeze kicked up, and the loose, ragged ends of his unkempt black hair danced within it. She had to lean forward, slightly, to hear when he finally spoke.“I should think you would cheer at such a happy occasion, to be rid of me once and for all.”Eowyn chewed at her bottom lip for a moment, her own feelings far more muddied than they had once been. She wouldn't mourn the loss of him, but the idea of him ending his own life today, so long after the war was over, after everything had ended, when his death would change absolutely nothing at all...“I would not mourn your death, Gríma son of Gálmód, but neither would I cheer over something so pointless and absurd. Merry, Pippin, Sam, many of the rangers, perhaps even Maenir might feel some twinge of loss over the permanent absence of your sour face from the world. And my husband, because he is a good and kind man, most certainly would shed tears over you, and blame himself, and for that alone I would spit on your grave every occasion that I passed it.”Gríma sat in silence for several minutes, the breeze increasing momentarily into a wind, and whistling about them. “It is not something I was considering seriously. I have been here for...” Gríma glanced up to ascertain the angle of the sun, squinting at the brightness of the vernal sky. “I am not certain, but it has been a few hours, at least.”Eowyn loosened her grip on his tunic, but did not let him go entirely. If others had forgotten his former habit of lying when it suited his ends, she had not. “Whatever it is you seek up here, know that they are all out there looking for you right now. They're searching across the city and calling for you, like shepherds who have lost a sheep. I suppose they did not think to come up here yet, although I suspect someone will arrive eventually, when they have exhausted all other possibilities.”“I should go to one of them, then, and end their wasted effort.”Eowyn tightened her grip on him again. “No, you will remain here. I do not know where they are in their search, and having you wandering around as well will just increase the chaos. A still target is easier to hit than a moving one. And I shall remain here as well, to ensure you do not... wander off.”Gríma pulled his knees up, linked his hands loosely in front of his shins, and stared outward blankly. After several long minutes, Eowyn's hand began to cramp, and she finally let go of him, although she had no intention of leaving. She fished a bit of bread she'd had wrapped in paper out of her pocket and, in some moment of weakness, broke it in half to share. Her dark companion, after some hesitation, uncurled himself slightly and took it.“I had hoped never to lay eyes on you again after the war, but you are here now, and I have made my peace with it. There are too many here who depend on you in some way or another now for you to simply slip away without notice, even if I myself would not mourn you. I know you are too stupid to understand such things, so I will tell you plainly - just as they search for you, you also have a duty to them as well whether you will it or no. You can't go haring off without telling anyone where you intend to go simply because it suits you. It is not as it was in the days when no one cared if you lived or died. And I don't know whether you can control these occasional fits of muteness, but if you can, I would advise you to cease it as well. I'm tired of watching Faramir fuss over you like an infant with croup, it is beginning to affect his sleep.”Gríma said nothing at the conclusion of her speech, and she wanted to pinch him, but did not.“Do you understand anything I am telling you, oh wise counselor?”“Perhaps.”Eowyn reached out and pinched him, hard, just once, and took immense pleasure in it.  Gríma stood first at the sound of frantic footsteps rushing up and a voice calling his name. He stepped around the bench at the end of the pier as Eowyn rose with considerably less hurry, dusting herself off.“Calin! Uff-” The air rushed out of Gríma's lungs as his brother squeezed him tightly without preamble.Gríma had calmed down, some, after hours in quiet solitude, even with Eowyn's later intrusion, but at the appearance of his half-brother, anguish returned, and only Calin's grip on him kept him upright.“Why did you run off so far? I'm sure the king would have given us some time after speaking to Garferth, if you needed it.”Gríma shook his head, pulling away, swaying slightly on his feet. He propped himself against the backrest of the bench at the end of the pier. Calin's face tilted in front of his own – young, worried, confused. Gríma shut his eyes, only to open them again almost immediately at another sharp pain in his flank.Eowyn had pinched him, again. He was certain to have bruising.“Knock it off, Wormtongue. Your brother's here and wants to speak to you. Save the navel-gazing for some other time,” Eowyn sneered at him, and walked away. She went toward her brother and husband as she spied them approaching but still some distance away, and left him alone with Calin.Calin pulled Gríma back around the bench, and made him sit, then sat beside him. “I only wish I understood you better. When I was little, I used to make-believe about having another brother; Arnwi and I had little in common and while he wasn't unkind, he never had much time for me. I was afraid to ask anyone about you, because our father had grown so angry with my mother when she spoke of you, but I used to imagine you were there, even though I did not know what you looked like or even your name.”Gríma yet again squeezed his eyes shut. “Did you also imagine me diverting Rohan's grain to feed Isengard's armies while you hunted for rabbits among the trees? You ought to hate me as much as your king does. Garferth may have exaggerated much in his mind, and gone about things the wrong way, but he is not wholly in the wrong, either.”Calin sat in silence beside him for long minutes, and Gríma struggled to breathe. He counted the passage of time, waiting for Calin to stand and leave, his childhood delusions shattered.“I don't hate you, Gríma. Maybe that makes me foolish, but so be it. Saruman would have just found someone else to do his bidding if you hadn't been there, or sent his creatures in to take what he wanted openly, and even more might have died. That he had to continually threaten you and beat you to get his way... He had men everywhere, you know, even in the Stonedeans, spying and thieving, who did so for nothing more than a handful of silver in their pocket and didn't need to be manipulated or terrorized to do it. They were men of Rohan, too, and looked no different than I do. I saw some of them sneaking about, on occasion, although nobody would listen to me when I tried to tell the thain what was going on under his own nose. No one would believe that a full-blooded son of Rohan could betray her, they thought only those in the lower part of the village, with their mixed blood, could be suspected. I know some of them still walk free, their crimes utterly unknown to those in power and enjoying their spoils without worry; I have seen them. But nobody really cares what a carter's son thinks. Garferth isn't as special as he thinks, and neither are you, pardon my saying.”Gríma fell silent, not knowing quite how to respond. Calin's manner of speech may have been that of the illiterate peasant class, but he was clearly observant and far from stupid.“I'll want the names of those men, Calin, once we return to Rohan. I am quite interested, I assure you. I had long suspected Saruman had far more agents in Rohan than even Wormtongue knew about, and I thank you for confirming it.”Both of Gálmód's sons nearly jumped at the voice behind them. Eomer had arrived, as had Aragorn and Faramir. Standing to look over the back of the bench, they saw the three hobbits and a few rangers several yards away, waiting. The search party had finally arrived.  There were too many of them to fit into Aragorn's study, so they'd gone instead into a larger room in another part of the tower. There was a large table covered in maps and the maps were covered in painted wooden figures, all representing various parts of Gondor's armies and defenses, and the entire display was covered in a layer of fine dust.Faramir picked up a figure in the shape of a mounted archer, then set it back in the same place. How many hours had his father spent in this room, arguing strategy with the seven provincial lords of Gondor? Boromir, upon reaching adulthood, had also been invited to first listen, and then later participate in the debates that went on here, as they attempted to hold back the armies of Mordor. Faramir had been allowed into this room only when called upon to receive orders, which he was expected to obey without question. Denethor and Boromir were dead and this room lay gathering dust.Aragorn sat first, which gave the rest permission to follow. “Garferth remains in my prison, and it must still be determined what to do with him. Delioron's cousin would see him hanged. I have not carried out an execution since taking the throne, and I am not inclined to begin doing so, for any cause; it is repugnant to me. Calin, you have still not given us your opinion on the matter.”Calin glanced around at the assembly, and shrugged. “I have seen him and spoken to him, and it is no clearer to me now than it was before. He is angry and grieved, and will not be appeased or comforted. I don't know what you should do with him. Mostly, I don't want him to kill my brother, even if I understand why he wishes to do it.”Aragorn listened attentively, nodding as Calin finished speaking. He held up a hand to forestall a response from Eomer, but rather turned toward Gríma, who again seemed lost in his thoughts. Faramir gave Gríma a nudge, and was relieved when the man looked up. He'd briefly feared he'd lost himself again.“Gríma, I know what you said, before, but given that you were... under duress at the moment, I would have you consider again the question. You may take a moment to think over it if you need it, but I cannot put this matter off much longer.”Gríma met Aragorn's gaze across the table, looking at him steadily and directly for perhaps the first time since he'd come to Gondor. “My answer has not changed. I still say, let him go.”Aragorn lifted one eyebrow. “He will certainly attempt to kill you again.”“I will take my chances, if only he will agree not to harm or involve others in his plotting.”Aragorn shifted where he sat, and looked to his right at Eomer. After more silent deliberation, Aragorn shook his head. “No, the risk is too great, and while you may value your own life little or none, I cannot in good conscience be so careless with the lives of any of my subjects.”Aragorn stood and paced for a moment, clearly displeased that he had been given no better options than he'd began with.Gríma turned not to Aragorn, then, but to Eomer, and spoke softly but with more confidence than Faramir would have ever expected of him. “Could you not take Garferth back to Rohan with you, my lord, and find some place for him? Some other kin may live who would see to him, though his father and brother be dead, perhaps. This place is no good for him, he has found nothing here but strife.”Aragorn stopped in his pacing. “Eomer, I had not thought in that direction, however – yes, exile, then, not from Rohan, but from Gondor, at least for some considerable length of time, if you will agree to it. You said yourself the crime was committed on my soil and against one of my subjects. I do not even know how he has been living these last years in this city; if he has had work, or if he has been stealing his bread. I do not know why he did not return to Rohan on his own, but regardless of his reasons, I think it is far past time for him to go home.”Eomer rubbed at his beard, staring at Gríma with a peculiar expression. “For once, the viper may speak actual truth. Wonders may never cease... This little trial in rehabilitation you've been testing on Wormtongue in recent months certainly has yielded interesting results, even if I am not wholly convinced he isn't still the same basic coward underneath that newly-shed skin of his. I suppose we might see if it can be replicated in another. A trade then, if a bit tardy – one foolish schemer for another. Yes, I will take Garferth when we leave and see if my men can track down any cousins or such for him. If nothing else, there are always stables that need mucking out in Edoras, and, yes - hay to cut.”  Gríma was packing up books and scrolls and Calin had been sitting on the bed when Aragorn opened his door. The animated chatter Aragorn had heard through the closed door on his approached ceased once he stepped in. Both rose and bowed and began to greet him formally, but Aragorn waved them off.“I'm quite certain it is Garferth who is being shown to the border in the morning, not yourself, Gríma. Why are you packing your things?”“I assumed with the matter of Garferth settled, I would be returning to the boarding house, or somewhere similar; I could not take the archives' texts somewhere so vermin-infested. Mice and rats have a tendency to chew anything which stays in one place for long.”“Hmm. I can see why you would come to such a conclusion. However, it occurs to me that this room had been sitting empty for years before you took it up, and now I see no reason you cannot retain it. Maenir has been pleased with the greater pace of your work since you began bringing it here. By the way, Faramir is determined to return to Mordor soon. He has already said he will be asking you to accompany him again, if you can manage to regain enough weight in the next few weeks to not be at a risk.”Gríma stared off into the mid-distance for a moment with a pensive expression. “And if I do not wish to go?”“Then you won't go. You have duties as we all do, but you are not a slave to Faramir, nor any other, although sometimes I do wonder if you yet understand it.”Gríma's face went through a swift succession of expressions. Aragorn was not certain what he was thinking but doubted if any of it were cheerful. He still fears an open hand, Aragorn thought, expecting not welcome, but only to be struck with it. Perhaps in time...“Of course, if you remain behind, that will mean that the rangers will have to copy the inscriptions on every single crypt in the ruins of Minas Morgul, of which there are at least ten, and bring them back to you to translate here. Then they will have to return to Mordor to, hopefully, determine how to open the damned things and get whatever is in them out and dealt with appropriately. Idhrien, as well, seems keen to work with you on collecting the local flora. Faramir will leave you behind without complaint, if you prefer to stay behind or do not have the strength to go, although I cannot account for Idhrien's mood as I do not know her so well. I would understand if you do not feel up to it, as would he, but you have time to think on it. Do so.”“Yes, sire. Do you require anything else of me?”“No, nothing at the moment.” Aragorn turned to leave, pausing just before opening the door. “Actually, yes. Come to my table for supper tonight, and bring your brother with you. It may be some time before you see one another again, once he departs.”  This time, it was Gríma who sat on the bed, already stripped of its linens, as Calin worked, dashing around to pack up his king's belongings into a veritable mountain of trunks. The horses had been brought out of the stables and were already being hitched to carts that were being loaded one by one as multiple servants, both Rohirrim and Gondorian, rushed about to get the entire retinue ready to depart before morning wore on too long.Gríma tried not to dwell on a strange feeling building up somewhere in his chest. “You're all leaving as well, then?”Merry nodded. “Yes, we'll have to travel through Rohan anyway to get home, might as well have company for at least part of the journey. Aragorn will be sending stone cutters and laborers later to fetch what we need from the hills around Evendim, although it'll still be hobbits doing most of the actual road building. We'll cut a road around the South Farthing, the land is flatter there than to the north, and there are high hedges around much of it already. I think the mayor will be pleased with the outcome, at least. It'll take a few years, but once it's done, that'll be it for big folk tramping through the Shire as they please.”Gríma laughed to himself, softly. “I don't know why the notion should disquiet me so; there was never any chance that I would see it again.”Sam shook his head. “You never know, Mister Gríma, what the future may hold. Little chance, perhaps, but there's no such thing as 'never any chance' in my book. Too many strange things have happened for me to ever believe in 'never any chance' again.”Pippin leaned against Gríma, propping himself on the man's back where Gríma had slumped over to stare at the floor. “Oh, don't fret about it. If you really want to drop by some day, I'll smuggle you in. We'll just stuff you into a pipeweed barrel, you're skinny enough to fit. You aren't some stranger or tramp after all, no one will tattle on you, and if they do...”The hobbits laughed, and Gríma found himself at least cracking half a smile at them. His face falling again, Gríma sighed to himself. “No, I shall not live to see the Shire again. My fate could be worse, so I shall content myself with what I have. Perhaps you all shall return south again, someday.”Pippin nodded, straightening up and finally removing his sharp elbow from Gríma's spine. “I am still technically a knight of Gondor, as the king never released me. He's threatened to recall me more than once, although I don't think he means it. But he's said he intends to rebuild the northern bits of his kingdom, soon. The stone cutters and workers he's sending are only for the Shire's benefit for a short time, but will be staying long afterward. He wants to put Annuminas back together, first, and later Fornost. At some point, the riffraff that still inhabit corners of Angmar will need to be cleaned out as well before they start some new cult. Who knows – Aragorn might bring you along, if you ask nicely.”Gríma shook his head. “He would pass through Rohan to reach such destinations, where I am not allowed. It is impossible.”Calin, having finally strapped the final trunk shut, flopped down next to Gríma, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the coolness of the morning.All five heads in the room swiveled to where the door stood open, Eomer stepping through while Eowyn lingered in the doorway behind him. “Not necessarily, although as the matter is currently only in the theoretical, there's no point in debating it. You could, once again, be escorted through, point-to-point as it were, although you can certainly forget about ever being allowed to wander unsupervised again. But for now, it matters little. Calin – finish saying your goodbyes, it is time to leave.”  Gríma hated few things more than crying in front of other people. It was something for which his father had belted him as a child, for which Saruman had mocked him, and for which King Theoden had called him thin-skinned. As the hobbits mounted their ponies, and his brother climbed into one of the laden wagons, he couldn't quite manage to stop himself.At the head of the procession, just behind the standard-bearers, of course, was Eomer himself. Gríma hastily wiped his face dry with a sleeve, going up to his former enemy, already seated high above him on a tall stallion, for one final request.“My lord, I have only one small boon to request before you depart.”Eomer looked down at him with a look of absolute skepticism. “Really? And what could Wormtongue possibly ask of the King of Rohan that he might give?”“Calin – he wishes to learn to read, though he said you had told him he had no need of it. Find him a tutor, in his spare time, I would beg of you. He's really quite bright, and...” Gríma's voice trailed off as he knew he'd already overstepped himself.Something shifted in Eomer's expression as he stared down at the old traitor beneath him, watching Gríma sweat. Eventually, he nodded. “So be it. When I can spare him, he may learn.”Gríma stepped back as Eomer's attention moved elsewhere. The king gave a signal to the standard bearers, and the whole line began to move forward, winding down through the city and onto the road beyond.  Gríma once again sat on the bench at the end of the pier as the sun set behind the city. The peaks of the mountains drew long shadows over the Pelennor and the evening winds arrived. Faramir joined him, sitting beside him for a time in silence.The first stars began to appear on the horizon.“You did well, you know, with Garferth. Tordoron and Anborn had already drawn their bows; if you had not been able to get him to drop that dagger, Garferth would have died with two arrows piercing his skull. Or I should hope it were his skull only, and not any part of Calin; there was no a clean angle from where they were positioned. Now, at least, Calin is safe and Garferth may have some chance at rebuilding his life and putting it toward better ends. Just as you have done.” Faramir paused, looking at Gríma beside him. There was no outward change in the man's appearance, but Faramir being Faramir, knew he was listening intently. “I told you before, Gríma – a hammer may be used to build as well as destroy. Short of locking yourself in your room and never coming out, I cannot guarantee that you will never again be called upon to use that voice of yours – it is, as we all witnessed, a useful tool in certain situations. You would do well to make peace with it.”Gríma's mind churned beside him, and Faramir had some small measure of pity for him, but not enough to take back his words. They needed to be said, so he had said them.“You don't know what it's like...”“No, I don't. Though I know now what it is like to hear that voice, and it's actually quite pleasant, as narcotics generally are. Should I ever suffer from insomnia again, perhaps I'll have you read me a bedtime story.”Faramir hazarded another glance at his companion, and was mildly disappointed when the jest fell flat. It hadn't been all that funny, really, but at least his inappropriate flippancy had annoyed Gríma enough to disrupt some of the spiraling misery.“We can... work on it. By the way, I want to return to Mordor in a few weeks, and I would be pleased if you would join us again, although there are conditions attached.”“Aragorn mentioned you'd be asking me about that, although he said nothing about conditions.”“The conditions are that you stop skipping meals, firstly. You've lost too much weight in recent months, and even the hobbits commented upon it. Samwise was quite upset about it, actually, and accused me of neglecting you, said I had jeopardized everything Frodo had worked so hard for. I reminded him that you are not a child, but he seems to think it is my responsibility. I do hate to upset such an esteemed ring-bearer, though, so I will be keeping tabs on your progress.”Gríma glanced in his direction. “You're serious, aren't you?”“Deadly. If I have to bring meals to your room and stare at you until you eat, I will, at least until I am satisfied you are no longer underweight. Pippin suggested I simply let you gorge yourself on pies, but I don't think there's much fruit in season yet, so you'll have to make do with whatever the kitchens send.”Gríma rolled his eyes, but did not protest. Faramir counted it as a victory.“Secondly, for the love of all that's holy, do not go running off on your own, no matter how distraught you may feel over something. If you can't talk from time to time, fine – don't. Silence harms no one. But I and my rangers can't afford to be searching every nook and corner of Mordor. Minas Tirith is not a small city, but it is contained and there are many people about; Mordor is massive, much of it is unexplored, and even the safer parts of it are not without real hazards.”Gríma scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yes, Eowyn has already mentioned how much trouble I've caused. But how can I promise something like that? I did not mean to do it before, it simply happened.”Faramir looked into Gríma for a moment, and even the memory of that moment of panic loomed strong in him. “We can work on that too, I suppose. Just do what you can to fight that impulse. Come to me directly, if at all possible. I will not turn you away, no matter what you have done, however terrible you believe it to be.”The sky darkened as they sat again in silence, and more stars appeared. Gríma wrapped his cloak around himself as the wind grew chill in the darkness, losing himself once more in his own thoughts.“You miss him already.”Gríma knew who he meant. “I barely know the boy.”“What difference does that make?”Gríma didn't answer. They both were missing many at the moment, but it was only natural. Faramir sighed into the wind, and watched a full moon rise over the Eastern horizon.  
'Wormtongue!' called Frodo. 'You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can have rest and food here for a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways.'