Chapter 10

Once, he was a man. What he had become, he hardly even knew any more, for his mind was warped of hunger and mental exertion. The times when his thoughts were unclouded were few and disjointed, but clear moments still came. He wished then that they wouldn't, for it was in those moments that he could see himself in the light of what he once was. This crawling, creeping shadow that half-heartedly clung on to life could be scolded for many a name, but could hardly be called a man anymore, he thought. To still be aware of where he had come from and just how far he had descended was the hardest thing he had to endure; worse than the physical pain as he writhed inside from humiliation and shame at every kick, every stroke, every invective. Worm he had become, of Gríma son of Gálmód remained but a memory.

Ever since the day they escaped Isengard had he heeled Saruman like a dog, hoping that the sorcerer's patronage would give him free passage and lead him far away from Rohan. And they had indeed travelled far, but the temporary truce that had reigned while they were trapped in Orthanc was over. Saruman set his Worm to do the most thankless tasks, punishing him if the result was not to his satisfaction. The dagger that had once been a mighty man's pride and ornament was now a tainted gear, with an edge that had tasted far too much blood. Half mad with hunger and pain, Saruman's Worm would soon do whatever his master asked, unable to leave him. For every atrocity his shame grew, along with the conviction that no living creature would ever offer him kindness or protection, such as he was now become. And so, subdued and broken, Saruman's Worm remained at his master's side. Soon, he no longer questioned the Wizard's plans or doings. Thus was he when they finally reached the Shire, home of the hobbits.

It had taken Imaén a long time to find the way. The link she had so carefully woven within a deserter's mind had filled her with remorse, and the only way to heal the damage she had done was to find him and lift the sorcery that had granted her a door into his mind. Following the trail of such a link was usually not a difficult task; the minds involved in such a spell are connected. For Imaén's inner sight it manifested like a taut silver wire that stretched out towards the man she sought. If she concentrated, she could clearly feel it pulling her closer to her target. He seemed to be headed away from her, but this didn't trouble Imaén at first. The distance barely increased from one day to another, moreover she was travelling on horseback and was able to cover considerable distances by each day of travel. But as time passed, the track got more curious. Some days it was as if the thread in her mind hung limply, making it hard for her to determine in which direction it was going. Gradually the track became weaker and weaker, though it should have been the other way around. The closer the target, the stronger the band should become, and Imaén began to fear that the damage she had caused the man had already gone too far. Some days the track was clear and pulsating, on other days she lost it completely and had to trust her gut feeling when choosing which way to take. But then, just as she'd almost given up hope, the track brought her toward more populated areas, and rumours of stranger's rampage could bring her back on track. On the day when Imaén approached Hobbiton the silver wire only pulsated in short glimpses.

She had heard what rumour said about what went on in the Shire, but to see it with her own eyes was worse. Imaén cursed between gritted teeth, remembering well the easy-going people she had seen at the gates of Isengard. Their kinsmen were, however, not so easy-going anymore. As abscesses in the landscape sat the crude buildings constructed for packaging and export of tobacco and groceries, and the feral men who'd put the hobbits to work made Imaén boil as she recalled the courage she had formerly associated with this people. A courage which they should have been allowed to keep, living in peace. She had, as was her custom, found a reasonably safe vantage point in a high location of woodland. She had left her horse on a farm whose inhabitants seemed to know the difference between food and labour, and she was pretty sure it would be safe there for now. She made herself a small nest in a tree with dense branches, and with a rope tethered to her belt, she could even doze off under the cover of darkness. An elf would hardly have needed such security measures, but Imaén took no chances. As she watched the course of events in Hobbiton, she was ever the spy, and she knew well to avoid the wild men who stood guard.

Saruman had taken the Shire. Whatever the wizard's motives were, Imaén could only guess, and what she might do about it was not easy to figure out. To approach Saruman, unnoticed, and somehow neutralize him was out of the question. A human who was not one of Saruman's minions would incur immediate attention. And the gift of speech is wasted on those who do not have the gift of listening; Saruman's guards would not be interested in her words. Imaén realized her limitations. She must concentrate on the task for which she'd come here, seeking to break the spell she had cast on the man called Wormtongue.

He did not seem to be easily accessible either, thought Imaén. Although he appeared to be neither prisoner nor of great value to the wizard, he was rarely seen except in Saruman's company. Imaén ventured sneaking and scouting on the outskirts of the village, in the early dawn or dusk when she could both see and hide herself in the gray shadows. She watched, and she was tormented by what she saw. The man she had met in the forest was now bent and distorted, with an absent expression, as if he no longer saw or was truly aware of where he was. The few times she saw him like that, Imaén could no longer feel the bond between them. At other times he looked awake, on these occasions his expression was either terrified or one bowed deeply in shame, and she could clearly feel thoughts and emotions pulse through the band she'd woven. A deep sadness welled up within Imaén, as she realized it might already be too late for him to be healed. Everything he'd owned, everything he was had been taken away from him, even his name. Anger mixed with sorrow, and Imaén reminded herself that she still had to try, that the crimes committed here were not solely of her making. The former Istari had big part in this iniquity. She also grieved the Great White Wizard, because there was hardly any greatness left in him. But with what little power he still possessed, he spread terror and destruction, revelling in the fear of those he oppressed. His Worm was left powerless, and the only mercy left for Gríma was the deep unconsciousness of sleep, whenever it would spare him from his dreams.

Sleeping in a tree may be good enough for an elf, but eventually it depletes on a human. Imaén made ready a hidden camp further into the forest, in a clearing near a forest lake where the hobbits had been happy to bathe, play and pick wild berries before Saruman's reign had taken over their world. Rarely did they come here now, those who were not prisoners or worked with the pipe weed had gone. Imaén mourned their fate, but was grateful to have this beautiful place for herself. Here, she was able to calm her thoughts and try to form a plan. The Worm must come out of the nest, it was impossible for her to reach him otherwise. But how?

One delight still remained for Saruman's Worm, when the wizard sent him out into the night on various errands. These tasks were invariably dirty and ungrateful, but when he'd carried them out, he showed disobedience the only way he could by waiting long before returning to his master. Sometimes such disobedience was painfully reprimanded, depending on the wizard's mood. But the Worm had found that it was well worth it, for a few hours of respite under the stars. High above him they shone clear as ever, cold and far away they looked down on him. The stars, he thought, did not judge him. As a child, he had heard stories about the different constellations, sometimes he tried to recall them. Other times, he thought of how he'd looked up at the night sky and how it had, wherever he was, however he had become, still always been the same. Sometimes again his mind wandered off, thinking about how the stars still shone over these places, over the people he had once known. Perhaps she, whom he'd once been promised, was standing under the same night sky, right now? Maybe the wind caressed her fair ringlets, the same wind that was now tugging at his own hair and cloak? If he ventured to send her a kiss, would the wind then carry it across the world to place it on her cheek? But no, this idea was too bold. To fantasize about what could have been benefited him little, for such thoughts invariably led to self-pity and bad dreams.

His mind was clear on nights when he watched the stars, but too seldom was he given the chance. Tonight, however, he had. After wiping yet another dirty deed from his dagger he stole from shadow to shadow until he reached the edge of the woods. He was usually able to find a good place here beneath the night sky, but this particular evening he found it difficult to settle down. He wandered aimlessly along the forest edge until he came across a small stream that trickled from the woods. Suddenly, he was seized by a desire to follow the creek to see its source. He hesitated. If he was to track the stream, he must go into the forest. He was ill at ease in the woods; trees darkened the road, things he could not see squeaked and rattled in the bushes and in addition, he could not see the stars. Hobbits and elves called the forests beautiful. As for himself, he considered them unpleasant. But here it was now, a little creek, a silvery thread that pulled and called to him. He wanted to follow it. Even if it meant that he had to enter the forest. Even if it meant that he would be gone so long that the wizard would be bound to punish him. And here, surprisingly, rose a grain of defiance and pride: Saruman's Worm decided to defy his master and be gone for oh, so long this night.

It was a funny little stream. Here and there it took a sudden, impish turn and was not at all easy to follow. Gríma managed to get his feet wet both once and twice as he was looking for foothold among the wet, bulging rocks. Soon, he found the source, and he was disappointed that the trek had not been longer. But on the shores of the little lake where the creek ran up, the stars were clearly visible, and the forest seemed less frightening than he had imagined. He was beginning to feel rather pleased with his outing.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps made him aware that he was not alone. He turned hastily, hand on the dagger. From the shadows a woman emerged, short and slender. She let her cloak fall open and extended her hands, a sign that she was unarmed. He relaxed a little, but still watched her vigilantly. Something about her seemed familiar, but he could not recall that he had ever seen her before.

"Who are you?" he snapped.

The woman offered no response, but said instead; "You are the one they call Worm. Tell me, do you still remember your true name?"

The nickname slid off him. He had been called far worse, and rightfully so. But what did this stranger know of his real name?

"Answer my question," he managed. "Who are you and what is your errand in this place?"

"My errand is you, son of Gálmód," said Imaén, and saw his eyes widen in surprise. "You walk in shadows because I have wronged you. Let me repay my iniquity."