Farthest 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."
Wormtongue halted and looked back at him, half prepared to stay.
-from "the Scouring of the Shire" in LOTR, the Return of the King-
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gríma stumbles on the road,
he wishes to be gone. He's blinded by the light of day. The master he follows
is no longer much of a master at all, but he is all that Gríma has left in the
world.
He's doing his best to avoid the throng of Shirefolk, when suddenly the sound
of a kindly voice makes his heart burst. When did he last hear one? None ever
addressed him so, surely.
A trick, perhaps? Just a trick, like all the rest? He braves a glance at the
speaker, a young halfling so ragged and wearied by travel that he looks worse
off than wretched Wormtongue. No, no trickery. There is no trickery in this
land, save what was brought into it by force.
They'd let me stay... he muses. Suspicion and bitterness are swept away.
Darkness ripples with tiny stars of joy.
But here, the taunting comes again, so sharply! Momentary lightness gives way
to the old weight of sin - here is his master's voice carrying with it all the crimes
of his Worm, and more. Gríma can no longer recall all that he has done. There
has been much blood, much agony... it all fades into a puddle of blackness.
There is no delight in it, like there once was. He doesn't want to be reminded.
Humiliation and fury well up engulfing him.
The wizard is insane, and so, perhaps, is his servant. But the master does not
realize, as he aims a confident kick at his companion and turns to stride away,
that he's finally gone too far.
Gríma always subdued, he grovelled like the worm they wanted him to be. But
something had been about to break, for so long... a trickle of water through a
dam that no one cared to repair.
The screaming rage wells up in him now, as he lunges forward wielding the knife
he always took so much comfort in carrying with him.
A snarl, a slash, the luxurious flow of blood. It gleams brightly under the
midday sun.
The wreck that was once a great wizard crumbles easily, like an empty shell.
Now he shares some pain. Gríma is no worm. He understands that he should never
have thought he was.
He gasps for breath, half sobbing, half laughing. Surely, surely he is now
free.
Blood smears his hands and his robes and he is free.
The arrows that pierce him take him completely by surprise. Three soft thuds
and a sudden flash of pain. He topples over at the sheer power of the impact –
it feels like a slow, long fall, that of a feather or a piece of silk floating
on the wind.
Free.
Downwards... drained of all emotion, at last. The cold fades. It's warmer now.
Downwards...
...and home.
Only reflections of clouds move in the pools of his eyes.
~~~~ The Very End ~~~~