Chapter One:
Memories of Years Past
(III. 3016)
Edoras was silent and still. The air crackled with tension, uncertainty, fear. It grew oppressively greater every day, weighing on his heart, drowning him beneath the suffocating shroud of imminent doom. The only solace to be found was there, under the sky, peering up into the calm black. The stars shimmered in their place, the world was not yet changed. Yet. He sighed, watching his breath hover momentarily, a puff of gray against the night. Behind him, Meduseld sat, a premature burial tomb for the questionable future of the land and its surely ill-fated heirs. What would become of the Riddermark? What could the race of men do in such dark times; when all life and hope has faded, condensed into the singular pulsing of a distant star?
Silent footsteps across the cold, ancient stones of the Golden Hall. The soft flickering of candles illuminated his pallid skin, sparked embers in his thoughtful, dejected cerulean eyes. On sleepless nights, he often found himself wandering below the seven heavenly bodies which made up the Wain, dreaming secret fantasies about the tales of anteceding years; about the Elves, wars of old, valor in battle, of the sea and desert and forests and beyond. He would never admit to another these very personal reveries, even if he did have a confidant to permit into his forlorn psyche. The harsh façade remained and his true self obscured from all.
It was too late to change the course of events, and he knew it. A sick, empty feeling in the pit of his soul would open up on those insomniac walks beneath the constellations. During the day, his mind was preoccupied with the matters of Rohan. Or, in a more truthful sense, bringing about the decline and eventual fall of the horse masters. There were days where he wanted it to be more of a painful plummet, and then some times where he wished he had never taken Saruman's offer and had lived out a quiet and resigned life. Ambition and lusts of all variety and filled him with passion, though, and he was terrified of the outcome of the strife he had caused. It filled him with a delicious sense of accomplishment. That he Gríma, son of Gálmód, could bring the Rohirrim to their dirty knees.
His father was a quiet man, a weak-willed man with a delicate, introspective nature. Gálmód had inherited his father's scrolls and books that told of ancient deeds and tales. By profession, though, he dealt in more banal and practical things than literature. It was Gríma's mother, Éorlithas, who read to the young man these stories. She told him of the lovely and distant Elves in their woodland realms, singing in foreign tongues. She told him of the fabled Holbytlan, hole-dwelling little folk of the west. She told him about the men of Westernesse. She told him of their ancestors from the northern lands.
At the age of seven, he would close his eyes beneath harsh brown wool blankets and imagine riding on a huge pale horse through thick snow drifts. He was a warrior and scholar, an ancient king of Forodwaith. He did what needed to be done for his people to survive, yet was a caring and gentle man. Clad in pure white robes, tall as the mountains and strong as the Mearas which carried him. Yet outside of the safety of his dream world, he was not strong. He was small, and frail, with a demeanor much like his father. His hair was dark and unlike the other Rohirrim.
At the age of ten the vision began to fade. The wind blew snowdrifts over his dream and new fantasies replaced the old. Children taunted him in the streets and his soul became hardened. His soul remained gentle but a shell formed, an exterior personality that was cold and cruel. His visions of a better life were all but obscured by his teen years.
Gríma decided that he would defeat all of Rohan through words and intelligence, since he could not fight with strength and brutality. He would avenge the loneliness of his life, the tears he fought back when hateful words and whispered insults assaulted him from all sides. He would triumph over cold nights in the solitary darkness.
His path laid before him, his destiny shaped from before his birth. Soon it would be time.
Edoras was silent and still. The air crackled with tension, uncertainty, fear. It grew oppressively greater every day, weighing on his heart, drowning him beneath the suffocating shroud of imminent doom. The only solace to be found was there, under the sky, peering up into the calm black. The stars shimmered in their place, the world was not yet changed. Yet. He sighed, watching his breath hover momentarily, a puff of gray against the night. Behind him, Meduseld sat, a premature burial tomb for the questionable future of the land and its surely ill-fated heirs. What would become of the Riddermark? What could the race of men do in such dark times; when all life and hope has faded, condensed into the singular pulsing of a distant star?
Silent footsteps across the cold, ancient stones of the Golden Hall. The soft flickering of candles illuminated his pallid skin, sparked embers in his thoughtful, dejected cerulean eyes. On sleepless nights, he often found himself wandering below the seven heavenly bodies which made up the Wain, dreaming secret fantasies about the tales of anteceding years; about the Elves, wars of old, valor in battle, of the sea and desert and forests and beyond. He would never admit to another these very personal reveries, even if he did have a confidant to permit into his forlorn psyche. The harsh façade remained and his true self obscured from all.
It was too late to change the course of events, and he knew it. A sick, empty feeling in the pit of his soul would open up on those insomniac walks beneath the constellations. During the day, his mind was preoccupied with the matters of Rohan. Or, in a more truthful sense, bringing about the decline and eventual fall of the horse masters. There were days where he wanted it to be more of a painful plummet, and then some times where he wished he had never taken Saruman's offer and had lived out a quiet and resigned life. Ambition and lusts of all variety and filled him with passion, though, and he was terrified of the outcome of the strife he had caused. It filled him with a delicious sense of accomplishment. That he Gríma, son of Gálmód, could bring the Rohirrim to their dirty knees.
His father was a quiet man, a weak-willed man with a delicate, introspective nature. Gálmód had inherited his father's scrolls and books that told of ancient deeds and tales. By profession, though, he dealt in more banal and practical things than literature. It was Gríma's mother, Éorlithas, who read to the young man these stories. She told him of the lovely and distant Elves in their woodland realms, singing in foreign tongues. She told him of the fabled Holbytlan, hole-dwelling little folk of the west. She told him about the men of Westernesse. She told him of their ancestors from the northern lands.
At the age of seven, he would close his eyes beneath harsh brown wool blankets and imagine riding on a huge pale horse through thick snow drifts. He was a warrior and scholar, an ancient king of Forodwaith. He did what needed to be done for his people to survive, yet was a caring and gentle man. Clad in pure white robes, tall as the mountains and strong as the Mearas which carried him. Yet outside of the safety of his dream world, he was not strong. He was small, and frail, with a demeanor much like his father. His hair was dark and unlike the other Rohirrim.
At the age of ten the vision began to fade. The wind blew snowdrifts over his dream and new fantasies replaced the old. Children taunted him in the streets and his soul became hardened. His soul remained gentle but a shell formed, an exterior personality that was cold and cruel. His visions of a better life were all but obscured by his teen years.
Gríma decided that he would defeat all of Rohan through words and intelligence, since he could not fight with strength and brutality. He would avenge the loneliness of his life, the tears he fought back when hateful words and whispered insults assaulted him from all sides. He would triumph over cold nights in the solitary darkness.
His path laid before him, his destiny shaped from before his birth. Soon it would be time.