Lost Dreams of Rohan

by Sliven

Once, he was a man of Rohan. Or was he ever? Gríma Wormtongue's past, as pictured in my imagination... "There is something ugly and unresolved in him..." and I need to explore that something. If you wish to journey with me, then down the depths we go, to explore what formed the traitor called Wormtongue. He was once a man of Rohan... or was he ever?

1. Prologue: Dreams

In the beginning, at the dawn of all things, I cared. I cared a lot. Perhaps I cared too much. Perhaps it was caring that became my undoing

Coming back to my homeland after many years, finding it smaller, smellier, the wind more cold, the plains much less impressive… in my memory, it was never so. I nursed a dream then, of change and of glory. But dreams can be dangerous. Dreams deceive us. And, in the end, so few things manage to live up to our dreams.

I should know. I, who hardly ever lived up to anyone's dreams. And there were those who held dreams and hopes for me, once. You may not believe it, but there were. As the first, and only son, there was a father's dream. It spoke of legacy, of bravery and glory. Perhaps it was the hardest dream to live up to.

No, I tell a lie. There was a mother's dream for me, it sang a soft song of affection, of a life full of love and acceptance. There were eyes resting on me once, asking nothing of me. And then those eyes were gone, forever closed, and the world asked everything of me, and I crumpled. This was the hardest dream to live up to.

Then again, there were the dreams of a young girl, who long thought my presence and my work to be of good for the kingdom, who held dreams that I would help bring about changes and hope. I too shared those dreams for a time, but when I did no longer, they still lived on in her mind for far too long. I could never live up to her dreams, and she would never forgive me for it.

And the one who would be my master, what of him? Blissfully, he never had dreams for me, thought me but a tool. If he ever had dreams and hopes for any man, I pity them; for I doubt that anyone could live up to such dreams as he must have dreamt. Dreams of madness, yes, but such glorious madness. Compared to his, my own dreams turned bleak and meant nothing to me any more. I was bewitched by his words and his ambitions, as they were so very superior to mine. And he was great, you see. Great enough to over shadow whatever previous priorities and promises I'd made, great enough that I would become his agent and aid his mission.

And with that, all other dreams eventually withered and died. In the end, I had none left. In the end, I bitterly regretted some of my choices, because they left me with nothing. Not even dreams. And a man must have dreams, must he not? Otherwise, how could he call himself a man?