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.
**************************************************************************** *********
Chapter Four – The hands of the virtuous
Were I to abandon my role as healer and embrace the role of a spy, one of the first places I'd glean my information in a high-born household would be the kitchens. They are the gathering places of those who say little but hear much as they attend their duties waiting upon their masters and mistresses.
Servants may remain quiet when moving among the noble ranks, but they gossip among themselves. And they know a great deal that goes on in these families; everything from what bastard child was sired by what nobleman to the political manueverings of an ambitious thane.
I sat at my usual place in the Meduseld's vast kitchen, watching with interest as the cook, Elswide, stripped the feathers from a dead goose with breathtaking speed. She talked as quickly as she plucked, breaking through the running stream of her conversation with me to admonish one of the army of scullery maids who worked with single-minded purpose to provide meals for King Theoden's court.
"Here!" Elswide called out, pointing a down-covered finger at a young girl peeling potatoes. "Mind your fingers with that knife. We'll be servin' those up with a bit of blood in the sauce if you keep peelin' that way." She waved another, older maid over. "Leofe, show her how to do it proper."
She turned back to me, knowing her commands would be obeyed immediately and without question. I hid my smile by taking another bite of the lentil soup before me. In her middle years, and wider than a mare's backside, Elswide ruled this hot, fragrant domain with the same firm hand that Theoden ruled Rohan. Shield maidens were admirable in their bravery, envied for their nobility but I had no doubts that this low-born cook could command a company of eored as easily as she did her underlings.
The now stripped goose was tossed into a nearby basket and immediately replaced with another one. Feathers flew as Elswide gave me an arched smile. "I hear tell the Third Marshal is up and about, feeling good enough to make a right nuisance of himself among the household. How long before he's fit to patrol the Mark?"
I popped a piece of hard cheese into my mouth and ate before answering. "He can ride now if he wants. It is Sabert who thinks he isn't ready. And the lady Eowyn is being cautious." I shrugged. "'Tis natural on both parts. The chief physician is reclaiming his place, and a sister fears for her brother. The exercise would do much to improve Eomer's strength and mood, but it won't harm him to wait a little longer."
The cook snorted in disbelief. "Can't tell him that, I wager. That boy was near born on a saddle, as any Rohirrim. He'll be foaming at the mouth if he can't ride soon. I wouldn't be surprised to find out Sabert's words were tossed to the side and we saw the King's nephew riding with Theodred at first light tomorrow."
I was inclined to agree with her. In the near month I had resided at the Meduseld, Eomer had improved at a rapid pace. The thick, hacking cough was gone and the fever had not resurfaced, even during the mornings when the mists lay heavy and damp on the plains, and dripped from the timbers of buildings. I, with the help of several willing serving women, had worked hard to crush the Lung Fever polluting his body. His chamber, once filthy and acrid with smoke was swept clean on a daily basis, the fires restarted each day and the shutters thrown open to let in the clean air. I maintained my order that he sleep in a half-reclined position to ease the labor of his strengthening lungs, and near begged Eowyn not to let the physicians bleed him. She had taken my advice without question and the king's healers ground their teeth but didn't argue.
I had not made friends of these three, but my reasons for being here did not involve socializing with fellow leeches, nor was my purpose to supplant any one of them. I had trained with a woman famed for her skills, but I never saw the inside of the guild halls that taught the craft. These men had, and served as healers to the aristocracy for a reason. I was realistic enough to know that my summons was an act of desperation by the king and I was only sought for my ties to Udela and the hope that, through the ghost of her guidance, I could somehow succeed where others had failed. Luck or Providence favored me this time. That and the Rohirric strength that made men such as Eomer formidable in battle. My time here was coming to an end. I still saw the Third Marshal once a day, listened to his breathing and monitored the color of his skin. Beyond that, he was once again the charge of the king's physicians
As if she could follow the path of my thoughts, Elswide asked me a question. "You're near done here. Will you stay in Edoras or return to your village? We could use another healer here. Wulfrune tells me you've worked with her in your free time, and she can use an extra pair of trained hands. The sick and the injured seem to increase each day."
I nodded in agreement. The hours that I was free from succoring Eomer, I spent with Elswide's sister. Wulfrune was a skilled leech in her own right, with a gift for midwifery. When the cook introduced us, there was an immediate recognition between us. We embraced many of the same philosophies and in the short time that I accompanied her on her visits to the lower houses, I learned much and brought that knowledge back with me to my spare chamber in the Meduseld, writing what I had gleaned in the battered pages of my grimoire.
I was fortunate in that Wulfrune was not one to jealously guard her skills and she was free with both her time and her wisdom, imparting many things concerning herbs and surgeries of which I had no prior experience. In this she reminded me a great deal of Udela.
"Be generous with your knowledge, Maeve, and miserly with your pride. Learn from those who know more and are willing to share. And pass on what you have learned to those willing to listen."
Blind but all-seeing was Udela and I lived by her many words. So it was that I had taken Sunniva as my own initiate, and listened with an avid thirst as Wulfrune poured her wisdom into my willing ears. However, I could not stay in Edoras. The village that had welcomed an outlander bride with cautious enthusiasm and now embraced me as one of its own, needed my skills. There were no royal physicians or Wulfrunes living there, only Sunniva, who had not been an initiate long enough to become a full-fledged healer. In the end, my uses here were less important and easily missed. I suspected only one might benefit from my continued presence and he was agile enough in mind to make his own way if I left the proper instructions.
"I must return home. Would that Wulfrune came with me, so much the better." I said with a smile.
Elswide returned the smile and huffed. "Never. That old crone will never leave Edoras. Not the adventuring type." Her tone was scathing, but I heard the deep affection for her elder sister in her voice. Even if Wulfrune suddenly embraced a nomadic way, I suspected that Elswide would do all in her power to convince her to stay. Bonds of kinship, blood and clan were strong among the Rohirrim. They kept close to one another.
I finished my meal and the cook motioned for me to leave my bowl and cup where they sat. "Have Leofe prepare the tray for you. I made the broth especially strong this time. I think your recipe has worked its magic." She gestured to a buxom girl named Beornwyn. "She tells us that Wormtongue has shown more vigor of late."
I slid a glance to the maid, toiling at one of the great hearths as she helped turn a roasting boar on its spit. I found it curious that for one so maligned and despised, Grima Wormtongue was the source of much speculation and whisperings among the maids here. Beornwyn was one of the few women willing to service him. A big boned, voluptuous creature, she possessed a pretty face and hard, flat eyes. When the other maids tittered or shuddered in disgust at the idea of spreading their thighs for the small, sickly counselor, she would shrug her shoulders and in a bored tone say, "What is it to me? One is much the same as the other between the legs. Besides, he does not ask me to look up on him, but takes me from behind. With that, I can put any face to him I choose."
Pragmatic to a fault, and cold beyond measure. I sometimes wondered what the counselor would make of such thoughts. If he even suspected them, and if he did, did he care? It seemed that only I, and in some twisted fashion, Eowyn, found him fascinating in a way that left me puzzled and uneasy.
The broth Elswide spoke of was a special brew, heavy with blood and herbs to strengthen a body weakened from either blood loss or disease. I had administered it to Eomer in the first days of my treatment, in an attempt to correct the damage caused by those who had bled him. I now brought it to Wormtongue on a daily basis.
Leofe brought a small tray with the bowl of hot broth and a set of towels. I took it from her with a nod of thanks, ignoring the faintly appraising, sympathetic look she bestowed on me. I could easily guess her thoughts. Like others in the kitchen, she wondered at my willingness to help the one they called "Snake", and if I, like Beornwyn, had lain with him. They would continue to wonder, as I am far more reluctant to reveal my private thoughts and actions than I am my healing skills.
I hefted the tray to my shoulder with practiced ease, patted Elswide on the arm and promised to return with the tray and bowl shortly. My passage through the Meduseld's dim corridors was no longer unfamiliar and in little time I found myself standing outside a set of doors, ornately carved with the ever-present symbols of horses. I knocked once and waited for a mere space of breaths before one of the doors opened on silent hinges and I stepped inside the chamber.
Spacious and meticulously clean, the room was sparse in its furnishings, sporting a low-slung bed and large storage chest, as well as a small table and single bench. An open window facing east allowed a thin draft to swirl throughout the chamber, barely disturbing the dying fire in the hearth.
I walked to the table and set the tray down gently, feeling the lurking presence of Wormtongue behind me as he watched my actions. As had become the custom between us, he opened the conversation with the same cryptic question.
"Have you come to poison me, leech?"
I turned and clasped my hands in front of me and gave him the same answer as always. "Not today, Lord Grima. Another time, perhaps."
He nodded once and passed me to sit on the bench and swirl the broth gently with his spoon. He grimaced at the scent. "That hag of a cook has made it stronger this time," and he turned truly suspicious eyes in my direction.
"Yes. I asked her to do so. The taste is less pleasant but will have better results." I ran my eyes over his hunched form as he continued to stir the broth. He was much improved from the first time I'd seen him slinking through the shadows of the Great Hall. He was less pale, his lips and cheeks showing faint traces of color, and his gums no longer bled so that pink spittle formed at the corners of his mouth when he spoke. He would never obtain the ruddy glow of his Rohirrim kinsmen, and the oily black hair served only to heighten his pallor, but he no longer looked like a corpse. Still a viper, but one not quite so ill.
I watched him a moment longer as he took a cautious sip and shuddered, but continued eating in a resigned fashion. As he ate, I stoked the fire in the hearth, and slid a small cauldron of water onto the spit to boil. I untied the small pouch at my waist and pulled out a handful of herbs, dropping them into the now hot water. Tendrils of aromatic steam coiled upward from the cauldron, making my eyes water with their astringent smell. I stirred the contents a few times and dropped the cloths I brought with me into the pot. They would soon be put to use as healing compresses.
A few days earlier, Wormtongue had gone riding. While as skilled a rider as any Rohirrim, he was not as quick or adept at avoiding a well-placed kick and his horse had landed a solid one against his thigh, the edge of the hoof laying open the fragile skin. It had taken some effort on my part to convince the counselor to let me see and treat the wound. But I was insistent. Those with this kind of disease were more prone to infection and wounds did not heal as well or as quickly. My comment that he could easily lose that leg if left untreated, finally convince him to reveal the damage. Since then, I had worked to heal the open gash, pleased when it ceased to ooze yellow pus and no longer showed the tell-tale lines of infection.
I have performed this kind of treatment on countless patients, men, women and children. I am not uncomfortable with the sight of the naked form, mine or another's. Neither modesty nor vanity have a place in a healer's thoughts when they tend the wounded. As such, I felt no reservations at seeing Grima Wormtongue unclothed. It was he who had at first balked at the idea of baring his body to my eyes.
His reluctance was unsurprising. This was a man, strong in intellect but weak in body, whose physical shortcomings were so glaringly obvious when compared to Rohan's tall, vigorous folk. Thin blood and what I suspected was Dunlending heritage only heightened these differences. Life for him growing up here would have been difficult. People, no matter their generosity or kindness, held an aversion to that which seemed strange or unlike themselves, no matter the reason. He was maligned and outcast by most for far more than the sly and cunning demeanor that cloaked him in a near impervious armor. I understood the counselor's reluctance but refused to appease it. I intended to treat that wound and used whatever weapon of reason or threat I considered necessary to see it done.
I carefully lifted the steaming towels out of the cauldron with a set of tongs and dropped them into a waiting bowl at my feet. Wormtongue had finished the broth in silence and stood slowly as I approached him. There was a pinched look around his mouth, and his eyes held that now familiar expression of both threat and dread in them. We had performed this simple ritual for a measure of days now and he was still painfully uncomfortable with it. I did not offer comforting words of reassurance, feeling that he would be insulted by such a gesture. Instead, I offered what came most naturally to me, an efficient, detached manner that gave him nothing more than the surety that I knew the business at hand and was concerned only with that.
I stood in front of him, the bowl of hot cloths in my hands. "Are you ready, my lord?"
As usual, he hesitated then nodded once, shrugging out of the heavy furs that held in his body's warmth. I knelt down in front of him and waited patiently as he slowly unlaced his boots and then his trews, revealing thin, muscular legs as pale as the moon's face. I did not dwell on what this would look like to another pair of eyes. Me, kneeling suppliant between the naked thighs of the king's counselor, his eyes glittering with an odd, waiting expression as I placed my hands on the narrow expanse of white leg and moved the hem of his tunic away from the wrapped wound.
A brief, uncomfortable thought flitted through my mind and for the first time in such dealings with this man, I felt myself blush with mortification. What would it be like, I wondered, were the circumstances altered slightly and I found myself in this way before the son of Galmod, crouched not to heal a wound but to render pleasure?
**************************************************************************** *********
Please review.
Chapter title is taken from a quotation by H.L. Mencken - "Sin is a dangerous toy in the hands of the virtuous. It should be left to the congenitally sinful, who know when to play with it and when to let it alone."
Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:
1) Anglo Saxon Names - www.s-gabriel.org 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.20000-names.com
Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - www.glyphweb.com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - www.happyherbalist.com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal.demon.co.uk 4) The Thain's Book – www.tuckborough.net
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.
**************************************************************************** *********
Chapter Four – The hands of the virtuous
Were I to abandon my role as healer and embrace the role of a spy, one of the first places I'd glean my information in a high-born household would be the kitchens. They are the gathering places of those who say little but hear much as they attend their duties waiting upon their masters and mistresses.
Servants may remain quiet when moving among the noble ranks, but they gossip among themselves. And they know a great deal that goes on in these families; everything from what bastard child was sired by what nobleman to the political manueverings of an ambitious thane.
I sat at my usual place in the Meduseld's vast kitchen, watching with interest as the cook, Elswide, stripped the feathers from a dead goose with breathtaking speed. She talked as quickly as she plucked, breaking through the running stream of her conversation with me to admonish one of the army of scullery maids who worked with single-minded purpose to provide meals for King Theoden's court.
"Here!" Elswide called out, pointing a down-covered finger at a young girl peeling potatoes. "Mind your fingers with that knife. We'll be servin' those up with a bit of blood in the sauce if you keep peelin' that way." She waved another, older maid over. "Leofe, show her how to do it proper."
She turned back to me, knowing her commands would be obeyed immediately and without question. I hid my smile by taking another bite of the lentil soup before me. In her middle years, and wider than a mare's backside, Elswide ruled this hot, fragrant domain with the same firm hand that Theoden ruled Rohan. Shield maidens were admirable in their bravery, envied for their nobility but I had no doubts that this low-born cook could command a company of eored as easily as she did her underlings.
The now stripped goose was tossed into a nearby basket and immediately replaced with another one. Feathers flew as Elswide gave me an arched smile. "I hear tell the Third Marshal is up and about, feeling good enough to make a right nuisance of himself among the household. How long before he's fit to patrol the Mark?"
I popped a piece of hard cheese into my mouth and ate before answering. "He can ride now if he wants. It is Sabert who thinks he isn't ready. And the lady Eowyn is being cautious." I shrugged. "'Tis natural on both parts. The chief physician is reclaiming his place, and a sister fears for her brother. The exercise would do much to improve Eomer's strength and mood, but it won't harm him to wait a little longer."
The cook snorted in disbelief. "Can't tell him that, I wager. That boy was near born on a saddle, as any Rohirrim. He'll be foaming at the mouth if he can't ride soon. I wouldn't be surprised to find out Sabert's words were tossed to the side and we saw the King's nephew riding with Theodred at first light tomorrow."
I was inclined to agree with her. In the near month I had resided at the Meduseld, Eomer had improved at a rapid pace. The thick, hacking cough was gone and the fever had not resurfaced, even during the mornings when the mists lay heavy and damp on the plains, and dripped from the timbers of buildings. I, with the help of several willing serving women, had worked hard to crush the Lung Fever polluting his body. His chamber, once filthy and acrid with smoke was swept clean on a daily basis, the fires restarted each day and the shutters thrown open to let in the clean air. I maintained my order that he sleep in a half-reclined position to ease the labor of his strengthening lungs, and near begged Eowyn not to let the physicians bleed him. She had taken my advice without question and the king's healers ground their teeth but didn't argue.
I had not made friends of these three, but my reasons for being here did not involve socializing with fellow leeches, nor was my purpose to supplant any one of them. I had trained with a woman famed for her skills, but I never saw the inside of the guild halls that taught the craft. These men had, and served as healers to the aristocracy for a reason. I was realistic enough to know that my summons was an act of desperation by the king and I was only sought for my ties to Udela and the hope that, through the ghost of her guidance, I could somehow succeed where others had failed. Luck or Providence favored me this time. That and the Rohirric strength that made men such as Eomer formidable in battle. My time here was coming to an end. I still saw the Third Marshal once a day, listened to his breathing and monitored the color of his skin. Beyond that, he was once again the charge of the king's physicians
As if she could follow the path of my thoughts, Elswide asked me a question. "You're near done here. Will you stay in Edoras or return to your village? We could use another healer here. Wulfrune tells me you've worked with her in your free time, and she can use an extra pair of trained hands. The sick and the injured seem to increase each day."
I nodded in agreement. The hours that I was free from succoring Eomer, I spent with Elswide's sister. Wulfrune was a skilled leech in her own right, with a gift for midwifery. When the cook introduced us, there was an immediate recognition between us. We embraced many of the same philosophies and in the short time that I accompanied her on her visits to the lower houses, I learned much and brought that knowledge back with me to my spare chamber in the Meduseld, writing what I had gleaned in the battered pages of my grimoire.
I was fortunate in that Wulfrune was not one to jealously guard her skills and she was free with both her time and her wisdom, imparting many things concerning herbs and surgeries of which I had no prior experience. In this she reminded me a great deal of Udela.
"Be generous with your knowledge, Maeve, and miserly with your pride. Learn from those who know more and are willing to share. And pass on what you have learned to those willing to listen."
Blind but all-seeing was Udela and I lived by her many words. So it was that I had taken Sunniva as my own initiate, and listened with an avid thirst as Wulfrune poured her wisdom into my willing ears. However, I could not stay in Edoras. The village that had welcomed an outlander bride with cautious enthusiasm and now embraced me as one of its own, needed my skills. There were no royal physicians or Wulfrunes living there, only Sunniva, who had not been an initiate long enough to become a full-fledged healer. In the end, my uses here were less important and easily missed. I suspected only one might benefit from my continued presence and he was agile enough in mind to make his own way if I left the proper instructions.
"I must return home. Would that Wulfrune came with me, so much the better." I said with a smile.
Elswide returned the smile and huffed. "Never. That old crone will never leave Edoras. Not the adventuring type." Her tone was scathing, but I heard the deep affection for her elder sister in her voice. Even if Wulfrune suddenly embraced a nomadic way, I suspected that Elswide would do all in her power to convince her to stay. Bonds of kinship, blood and clan were strong among the Rohirrim. They kept close to one another.
I finished my meal and the cook motioned for me to leave my bowl and cup where they sat. "Have Leofe prepare the tray for you. I made the broth especially strong this time. I think your recipe has worked its magic." She gestured to a buxom girl named Beornwyn. "She tells us that Wormtongue has shown more vigor of late."
I slid a glance to the maid, toiling at one of the great hearths as she helped turn a roasting boar on its spit. I found it curious that for one so maligned and despised, Grima Wormtongue was the source of much speculation and whisperings among the maids here. Beornwyn was one of the few women willing to service him. A big boned, voluptuous creature, she possessed a pretty face and hard, flat eyes. When the other maids tittered or shuddered in disgust at the idea of spreading their thighs for the small, sickly counselor, she would shrug her shoulders and in a bored tone say, "What is it to me? One is much the same as the other between the legs. Besides, he does not ask me to look up on him, but takes me from behind. With that, I can put any face to him I choose."
Pragmatic to a fault, and cold beyond measure. I sometimes wondered what the counselor would make of such thoughts. If he even suspected them, and if he did, did he care? It seemed that only I, and in some twisted fashion, Eowyn, found him fascinating in a way that left me puzzled and uneasy.
The broth Elswide spoke of was a special brew, heavy with blood and herbs to strengthen a body weakened from either blood loss or disease. I had administered it to Eomer in the first days of my treatment, in an attempt to correct the damage caused by those who had bled him. I now brought it to Wormtongue on a daily basis.
Leofe brought a small tray with the bowl of hot broth and a set of towels. I took it from her with a nod of thanks, ignoring the faintly appraising, sympathetic look she bestowed on me. I could easily guess her thoughts. Like others in the kitchen, she wondered at my willingness to help the one they called "Snake", and if I, like Beornwyn, had lain with him. They would continue to wonder, as I am far more reluctant to reveal my private thoughts and actions than I am my healing skills.
I hefted the tray to my shoulder with practiced ease, patted Elswide on the arm and promised to return with the tray and bowl shortly. My passage through the Meduseld's dim corridors was no longer unfamiliar and in little time I found myself standing outside a set of doors, ornately carved with the ever-present symbols of horses. I knocked once and waited for a mere space of breaths before one of the doors opened on silent hinges and I stepped inside the chamber.
Spacious and meticulously clean, the room was sparse in its furnishings, sporting a low-slung bed and large storage chest, as well as a small table and single bench. An open window facing east allowed a thin draft to swirl throughout the chamber, barely disturbing the dying fire in the hearth.
I walked to the table and set the tray down gently, feeling the lurking presence of Wormtongue behind me as he watched my actions. As had become the custom between us, he opened the conversation with the same cryptic question.
"Have you come to poison me, leech?"
I turned and clasped my hands in front of me and gave him the same answer as always. "Not today, Lord Grima. Another time, perhaps."
He nodded once and passed me to sit on the bench and swirl the broth gently with his spoon. He grimaced at the scent. "That hag of a cook has made it stronger this time," and he turned truly suspicious eyes in my direction.
"Yes. I asked her to do so. The taste is less pleasant but will have better results." I ran my eyes over his hunched form as he continued to stir the broth. He was much improved from the first time I'd seen him slinking through the shadows of the Great Hall. He was less pale, his lips and cheeks showing faint traces of color, and his gums no longer bled so that pink spittle formed at the corners of his mouth when he spoke. He would never obtain the ruddy glow of his Rohirrim kinsmen, and the oily black hair served only to heighten his pallor, but he no longer looked like a corpse. Still a viper, but one not quite so ill.
I watched him a moment longer as he took a cautious sip and shuddered, but continued eating in a resigned fashion. As he ate, I stoked the fire in the hearth, and slid a small cauldron of water onto the spit to boil. I untied the small pouch at my waist and pulled out a handful of herbs, dropping them into the now hot water. Tendrils of aromatic steam coiled upward from the cauldron, making my eyes water with their astringent smell. I stirred the contents a few times and dropped the cloths I brought with me into the pot. They would soon be put to use as healing compresses.
A few days earlier, Wormtongue had gone riding. While as skilled a rider as any Rohirrim, he was not as quick or adept at avoiding a well-placed kick and his horse had landed a solid one against his thigh, the edge of the hoof laying open the fragile skin. It had taken some effort on my part to convince the counselor to let me see and treat the wound. But I was insistent. Those with this kind of disease were more prone to infection and wounds did not heal as well or as quickly. My comment that he could easily lose that leg if left untreated, finally convince him to reveal the damage. Since then, I had worked to heal the open gash, pleased when it ceased to ooze yellow pus and no longer showed the tell-tale lines of infection.
I have performed this kind of treatment on countless patients, men, women and children. I am not uncomfortable with the sight of the naked form, mine or another's. Neither modesty nor vanity have a place in a healer's thoughts when they tend the wounded. As such, I felt no reservations at seeing Grima Wormtongue unclothed. It was he who had at first balked at the idea of baring his body to my eyes.
His reluctance was unsurprising. This was a man, strong in intellect but weak in body, whose physical shortcomings were so glaringly obvious when compared to Rohan's tall, vigorous folk. Thin blood and what I suspected was Dunlending heritage only heightened these differences. Life for him growing up here would have been difficult. People, no matter their generosity or kindness, held an aversion to that which seemed strange or unlike themselves, no matter the reason. He was maligned and outcast by most for far more than the sly and cunning demeanor that cloaked him in a near impervious armor. I understood the counselor's reluctance but refused to appease it. I intended to treat that wound and used whatever weapon of reason or threat I considered necessary to see it done.
I carefully lifted the steaming towels out of the cauldron with a set of tongs and dropped them into a waiting bowl at my feet. Wormtongue had finished the broth in silence and stood slowly as I approached him. There was a pinched look around his mouth, and his eyes held that now familiar expression of both threat and dread in them. We had performed this simple ritual for a measure of days now and he was still painfully uncomfortable with it. I did not offer comforting words of reassurance, feeling that he would be insulted by such a gesture. Instead, I offered what came most naturally to me, an efficient, detached manner that gave him nothing more than the surety that I knew the business at hand and was concerned only with that.
I stood in front of him, the bowl of hot cloths in my hands. "Are you ready, my lord?"
As usual, he hesitated then nodded once, shrugging out of the heavy furs that held in his body's warmth. I knelt down in front of him and waited patiently as he slowly unlaced his boots and then his trews, revealing thin, muscular legs as pale as the moon's face. I did not dwell on what this would look like to another pair of eyes. Me, kneeling suppliant between the naked thighs of the king's counselor, his eyes glittering with an odd, waiting expression as I placed my hands on the narrow expanse of white leg and moved the hem of his tunic away from the wrapped wound.
A brief, uncomfortable thought flitted through my mind and for the first time in such dealings with this man, I felt myself blush with mortification. What would it be like, I wondered, were the circumstances altered slightly and I found myself in this way before the son of Galmod, crouched not to heal a wound but to render pleasure?
**************************************************************************** *********
Please review.
Chapter title is taken from a quotation by H.L. Mencken - "Sin is a dangerous toy in the hands of the virtuous. It should be left to the congenitally sinful, who know when to play with it and when to let it alone."
Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:
1) Anglo Saxon Names - www.s-gabriel.org 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.20000-names.com
Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - www.glyphweb.com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - www.happyherbalist.com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal.demon.co.uk 4) The Thain's Book – www.tuckborough.net