The Allure of the Dark Angel

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

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Chapter One - Light the candle, John

The clearest night skies are to be had in autumn. I stand in the doorway of my simple home to admire the indigo veil that covers the world in a swathe of twinkling stars. The cool evening air swirls around my ankles, and my nostrils twitch at the scent of approaching winter, the brittle smell of dead leaves, the pungent smoke of peat fires.

It is quiet in the village so late at night, and I savor the moments of peace that find me here admiring the silvery face of the moon as it hangs, pregnant and full in heaven's vault. Her light casts shadows on the ground and over my wrinkled hands as I raise my arms in silent benediction. She is the lodestone of feminine power, the sister force of the ancient seas that still ebb and flow in the cloudy recesses of my memories.

I am old. And I am tired. My daughter watches me with the eyes of a hunting falcon these days, ever alert to any sign of fatal weakness. I taught her well. She is now the village's healer, renowned throughout the territory for her skills. They have surpassed mine, and there is little I can hide from her; the occasional shortness of breath, the hours of exhaustion that leave me bedridden, as if I once again traversed the Riddermark on the back of an injured mare, weary and hopeless of finding her father again.

She is much like him in aspect, more like me in spirit. Hair blacker than a crow's wing, with fine bones and small stature, she is lovely, though I know I see her from the biased eyes of a loving parent. I am of Gondorian peasant stock, and while age and time have bent my back, I am still taller than she, the gray of my hair hiding what had once been locks the color of a bloody sunset.

I sigh, rubbing my aching hands where the joints have swelled with the bone sickness, crippling me so that I can no longer hold a vial or grind herbs for a healing draught. I used to curse this insidious disease, helpless to do nothing but wait as it twisted the very parts of my body that defined who I was. Now, I no longer rant, having found a measure of peace in the slow march of days while I wait to join the one I lost.

I again look skyward to the swollen moon, her milky, blue luminescence bathing the dusty pathways and whispering trees that lead into the village. I used to see her aspect in my lover's guileful eyes, heavy lidded with dark machinations and a sorrow deeper than silence. I miss him to the depths of my soul and often wonder how the ageless, elven wife of the Gondorian king will survive the passing of her loved one at his appointed time. Sometimes, immortality is a curse of the damned.

I have been a widow twice. I never grieved the death of my first husband. I still grieve the death of my second. He never truly left me, remaining instead to entwine within the strands of my daughter's dark hair and dart through my son's piercing eyes. Still, my bed is empty, my heart is hollow. And so I wait, quietly eager for my moment to pass through the gates between worlds. I know he lingers there, a patient shade, biding time until I join him again. Until then, I will continue to gaze at the pallid moon and see his vulpine features in the drifting shadows of her celestial face. And remember.

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Chapter title is taken from a Loreena McKinnett song, Skellig. The first stanza goes like this:

Light the candle, John The daylight's almost gone. The birds have sung their last. The bells call all to Mass.