This is probably an AU... yes it is. And its especially for people who
empathize with Gríma!
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Gríma Wormtongue
Even as a small boy, he had been shunned. Gríma had been shunned all of his life, and it had made him bitter. He did not like other people, and did not talk to them if he could help it. It wasn't as if they ever listened to what he had to say, in any case. His mother and father had abandoned him when he was fifteen years old, leaving him their house and a small sum of gold - hardly enough for him to live on for very long. He never really understood why they left him - he could only suppose that it was because of his less-than-ordinary looks. His dark, greasy, straggly hair reminded one of rat's tails, or perhaps worms tails. He had several weeping pustules on his face, which drove him mad. His right eye was slightly cloudy which on the whole gave him a curious lop-sided appearance. However, Gríma was resigned to the fact that he was unable to do anything about his strange looks and tried to bear it. And he could bear it - it was other people who refused to accept him.
When he was a small child, the other children had laughed at him and called him names and would not let him play with them. And it was these people who he would have to grow up with, and these people he sat with now, in the scribe room. For when he had discovered tat he had not enough money to live on, Gríma had gone to Meduseld, the residence of Théoden, King of Rohan and asked if he could have a job. The gatekeeper, Háma, had taken pity on him, for he was only young himself, and Gríma had found himself of the service of the king, waiting on his lesser needs.
He had been there for five years or so when one day, he overheard the king speaking with his young nephew, Éomer. They spoke of the defences of Rohan. They needed to write a message to Denethor, steward of Gondor, but all the scribes were busy. Here, Gríma had seized his chance. He had not been idle during his years at Meduseld. With the help of the books in the library, he had taught himself to read and write and could easily compose letters. He stepped forward.
"Excuse me, my Lords, but I am afraid I could not help overhearing - you need somebody to write a message to Gondor - I will do it if it pleases you."
Théoden looked with interest at Gríma.
"You can write, Gríma?" he said in surprise.
"Yes, my Lord", nodded Gríma.
"Well then, all is well", said Éomer, and took Gríma to the scribe room where there were several men sat around a table, all writing carefully. A few of them looked up curiously when they saw Gríma enter. Éomer sat him down.
"You must write to Denethor and warn him that a party of Orcs is headed towards Osgiliath. They number two thousand and Rohan will be sending warriors to their aid. Are you clear?"
Gríma nodded, and pulled a piece of parchment towards him and began to write... And he had been writing ever since. That was his job now, to write messages to neighbouring lands. He would have been fairly happy with his situation, were it not for his fellow scribes. They could never accept him. They teased him relentlessly about his peculiar appearance, and if one of the messages that he wrote was misunderstood in any way (which, it had to be said, was very rarely) they blamed him and said that he was a traitor, called him a liar. In fact, to most of the court at Edoras, he was known as Wormtongue - Gríma Wormtongue - whether those who said it meant it to be an insult or not, that had become his name, and he loathed it.
"Wormtongue!" called a sharp voice, interrupting his stream of thoughts. "Stop daydreaming and continue writing that message. Or maybe..." the man sneered. "Maybe Master Wormtongue wants the message to be late? Being disloyal to Rohan again Wormtongue? Haven't you learned by now that it is no use? There's many of us, and only one of you."
There was much laughter at this. Gríma stared at the scribe with hatred in his eyes. There it was again. He was an outcast separated from others. He was just about to retaliate cuttingly when a female voice spoke. Gríma startled, for there were no female scribes.
"Why can't you just leave him be for once?"
All heads turned to the door where the voice had come from. Éowyn the King's niece stood there.
"Always you taunt him and call him cruel names, and yet he had done naught to deserve it", she said angrily.
Gríma looked at her with interest. He had never really noticed her before, yet now he saw her, he wondered how he could have failed to miss her. She was young - about twenty at the most and she had a long river of beautiful golden hair he could hardly take his eyes off. Her face was fair - but at present it was screwed up in anger.
"My lady, you only need look at him to see that he is a deceitful snake", retorted the scribe.
"I do not care to judge people by their looks", she replied. "And nor do I look kindly on conversing about people as though they are not present, when quite clearly, they are."
She stared at the scribe defiantly, her emerald eyes filled with anger. The scribe looked at her, speechless. She turned to Gríma.
"My Lord, if these people give you any more grief, seek me, and tell me and I shall report it to my uncle."
"Thank-you, my Lady." whispered Gríma, unable to take his eyes of her fair face. Éowyn left without another word. When she had gone, the whole room erupted with hilarity.
"Am I to suggest," said one of the scribes, a fat one with piggy eyes, "that dear old Wormtongue had fallen in love with the King's niece?" and he roared with laughter. Gríma felt his face redden. It could not have been so plainly obvious, could it?
"Éowyn wouldn't look twice at you if you were the last man left in Middle- earth", snapped another.
Gríma rose slowly to his feet, steadying his anger with a deep breath.
"I think I'm going to get some fresh air", he said as calmly as he could. And he left the room, left the scribes to their jesting.
But no matter how much fresh air he breathed, it could not make him forget Éowyn.
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Gríma Wormtongue
Even as a small boy, he had been shunned. Gríma had been shunned all of his life, and it had made him bitter. He did not like other people, and did not talk to them if he could help it. It wasn't as if they ever listened to what he had to say, in any case. His mother and father had abandoned him when he was fifteen years old, leaving him their house and a small sum of gold - hardly enough for him to live on for very long. He never really understood why they left him - he could only suppose that it was because of his less-than-ordinary looks. His dark, greasy, straggly hair reminded one of rat's tails, or perhaps worms tails. He had several weeping pustules on his face, which drove him mad. His right eye was slightly cloudy which on the whole gave him a curious lop-sided appearance. However, Gríma was resigned to the fact that he was unable to do anything about his strange looks and tried to bear it. And he could bear it - it was other people who refused to accept him.
When he was a small child, the other children had laughed at him and called him names and would not let him play with them. And it was these people who he would have to grow up with, and these people he sat with now, in the scribe room. For when he had discovered tat he had not enough money to live on, Gríma had gone to Meduseld, the residence of Théoden, King of Rohan and asked if he could have a job. The gatekeeper, Háma, had taken pity on him, for he was only young himself, and Gríma had found himself of the service of the king, waiting on his lesser needs.
He had been there for five years or so when one day, he overheard the king speaking with his young nephew, Éomer. They spoke of the defences of Rohan. They needed to write a message to Denethor, steward of Gondor, but all the scribes were busy. Here, Gríma had seized his chance. He had not been idle during his years at Meduseld. With the help of the books in the library, he had taught himself to read and write and could easily compose letters. He stepped forward.
"Excuse me, my Lords, but I am afraid I could not help overhearing - you need somebody to write a message to Gondor - I will do it if it pleases you."
Théoden looked with interest at Gríma.
"You can write, Gríma?" he said in surprise.
"Yes, my Lord", nodded Gríma.
"Well then, all is well", said Éomer, and took Gríma to the scribe room where there were several men sat around a table, all writing carefully. A few of them looked up curiously when they saw Gríma enter. Éomer sat him down.
"You must write to Denethor and warn him that a party of Orcs is headed towards Osgiliath. They number two thousand and Rohan will be sending warriors to their aid. Are you clear?"
Gríma nodded, and pulled a piece of parchment towards him and began to write... And he had been writing ever since. That was his job now, to write messages to neighbouring lands. He would have been fairly happy with his situation, were it not for his fellow scribes. They could never accept him. They teased him relentlessly about his peculiar appearance, and if one of the messages that he wrote was misunderstood in any way (which, it had to be said, was very rarely) they blamed him and said that he was a traitor, called him a liar. In fact, to most of the court at Edoras, he was known as Wormtongue - Gríma Wormtongue - whether those who said it meant it to be an insult or not, that had become his name, and he loathed it.
"Wormtongue!" called a sharp voice, interrupting his stream of thoughts. "Stop daydreaming and continue writing that message. Or maybe..." the man sneered. "Maybe Master Wormtongue wants the message to be late? Being disloyal to Rohan again Wormtongue? Haven't you learned by now that it is no use? There's many of us, and only one of you."
There was much laughter at this. Gríma stared at the scribe with hatred in his eyes. There it was again. He was an outcast separated from others. He was just about to retaliate cuttingly when a female voice spoke. Gríma startled, for there were no female scribes.
"Why can't you just leave him be for once?"
All heads turned to the door where the voice had come from. Éowyn the King's niece stood there.
"Always you taunt him and call him cruel names, and yet he had done naught to deserve it", she said angrily.
Gríma looked at her with interest. He had never really noticed her before, yet now he saw her, he wondered how he could have failed to miss her. She was young - about twenty at the most and she had a long river of beautiful golden hair he could hardly take his eyes off. Her face was fair - but at present it was screwed up in anger.
"My lady, you only need look at him to see that he is a deceitful snake", retorted the scribe.
"I do not care to judge people by their looks", she replied. "And nor do I look kindly on conversing about people as though they are not present, when quite clearly, they are."
She stared at the scribe defiantly, her emerald eyes filled with anger. The scribe looked at her, speechless. She turned to Gríma.
"My Lord, if these people give you any more grief, seek me, and tell me and I shall report it to my uncle."
"Thank-you, my Lady." whispered Gríma, unable to take his eyes of her fair face. Éowyn left without another word. When she had gone, the whole room erupted with hilarity.
"Am I to suggest," said one of the scribes, a fat one with piggy eyes, "that dear old Wormtongue had fallen in love with the King's niece?" and he roared with laughter. Gríma felt his face redden. It could not have been so plainly obvious, could it?
"Éowyn wouldn't look twice at you if you were the last man left in Middle- earth", snapped another.
Gríma rose slowly to his feet, steadying his anger with a deep breath.
"I think I'm going to get some fresh air", he said as calmly as he could. And he left the room, left the scribes to their jesting.
But no matter how much fresh air he breathed, it could not make him forget Éowyn.
