"Choose your poison," said EP41, having finally written a new chapter. "This ending is based on movie-verse. If you want to read the book-verse version, it's highly likely I shall write one of those, too, simply because I don't like making decisions. Hell, you can even read both."

"This ending sucks," said Gríma. "Don't you know I'm supposed to get the girl?"

"It's not all that AU, Grimmers my dear," said EP. "A massive thanks to Auri for getting me off my lazy ass to write this chapter, and to ShelobTinuviel for a wonderful beta-job, as always."

"Get on with it!" Gríma shouted, and thus it began.

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XII. Despicable

The next day was different.

Holding true to at least some of his resolution, Gríma at last returned to the main hall of Meduseld. Éowyn was walking through as he entered, the filtered sunlight shining on her hair. She wore a white dress.

He suppressed his anxieties and bowed his head in greeting to her as she passed. Although he did not see it, the look she gave him was one of interest, of curiosity, as if she expected something new and different from him. However, he took his place next to Théoden just as he had done for so many years, and her gaze turned to anger and disappointment.

I suppose people cannot change so greatly after all, she thought as she left the Hall.

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He spat at the feet of the rejuvenated king, at the hand which was extended to him, and fled. He feared the wrath of Théoden, who was hale once more, and scorned the mercy of this newcomer, this Man. It was better to escape than to remain as a prisoner. Knocking people out of the way, he ran to the stables and arrived out of breath. A black horse of medium size stared sideways at him with those hateful eyes of his kind. Gríma mounted the saddled horse, and made for Orthanc.

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He arrived to find Isengard a barren waste, with smoke billowing out of pits in the ground, the glow of fire reddening their stony rims. Machinery creaked as Orcs scurried about. Yowls and feral cries rose up into the air, and floated away on the wind. Gríma urged the tiring horse on for the short distance, both of them choking on the smoke. He wondered what foul designs Saruman had devised, almost fearing to find out.

Reaching the black steps, he ungracefully dismounted the horse and climbed up them, leaving the beast to fend for itself. Trepidation filled him, but it was strangely mingled with apathy. Saruman would be displeased at the best, but what did it matter anymore? He pulled open the door and entered the oppressive darkness of the tower. A few tiny windows, no more than slits in the walls covered in a blue-tinged glass, allowed in a bit of eerie light which made little bright glares on the stone walls. He made for the spiral staircase which would take him to Saruman's study, but just as he reached them, a figure swept down towards him.

Saruman was clad in shimmering robes, which appeared white at first glace, but to the more observant eye were revealed to be of all colors, woven in a confusing, ever-changing array. Yet the wizard's eyes were black, and they glittered coldly down at his servant.

"Come," he said, in a commanding tone which would have made stronger men than Gríma follow without question.

Gríma obliged.

They reached the study, a round, spacious room with wrought iron in the windows. Although large, the windows provided only a cold grey light; the rest of the light in the room came from flames within black lamps. The study was filled with many things: curious tomes which Gríma would have given his right arm to look at (for he was, of course, left-handed), strangely fascinating things in jars, suspended quietly in thick liquid, and everything else one could imagine, from Harad jewelry to small clay models of the Púkel-men at Dunharrow. A very thin layer of dust covered many of Saruman's artifacts; little specks of dust danced in the windows.

Saruman turned to glare at his servant. "I take it you have failed, then, Worm." His voice was discordant, like shattered glass.

Gríma looked down. He noticed that the wizard's white shoes, just visible under the hem of his robes, were dirty. "There was nothing I could have done, my lord." He raised his eyes, hoping that the information he had would stay Saruman's wrath. The other's eyebrows bristled as he waited for an explanation. "Gandalf the Grey came, but he was Grey no longer – he wore white, my lord, and it was he who released Théoden. Surely you could not have expected me to overcome one such as Gandalf?"

Saruman frowned. "Gandalf the White... Gandalf the Fool! Does he seek to humble me with his newfound piety?" Gríma relaxed as the wizard turned away in thought. He felt a warm sensation at the corner of his mouth, and realized the cut there was bleeding afresh. While Saruman bent over his desk in search of a book, Gríma pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the blood away. The now dingy square of fabric had once been Éowyn's; the embroidered horses at the corners had faded, and it was ragged at the edges. She had disposed of it, but he had salvaged it from the refuse before it could be burned. He wondered what she was thinking of at that very moment.

"There were three who followed the wizard," Gríma offered. "An Elf, a Dwarf, and a Man."

Saruman turned around, apparently having found the proper book, and looked at Gríma in distaste. "The Man... was he from Gondor?"

Gríma considered the question, and felt jealousy rise up inside him – for had he not seen Éowyn's eyes light up with the sight of the man? "No, from the North," he said at last. "One of the Dúnedain Rangers I thought him. His cloth was poor. But he bore a strange ring – two serpents with emerald eyes: one devouring, the other crowned in golden flowers."

Saruman turned a few leaves in his book. "The Ring of Barahir," he said softly, his voice honeyed and dangerous once more. Gríma recognized the name. "So Gandalf Greyhame thinks he has found Isildur's heir, the lost king of Gondor. He is a fool – the line was broken years ago." He closed the book, the heavy leather cover thumping as it met the pages. "It matters not. The world of men shall fall. It will begin at Edoras."

"No," said Gríma. Saruman, thinking his servant was being insubordinate, looked at him as if daring him to continue. "Théoden will not stay at Edoras," he went on. "It is vulnerable; he knows this. He will expect an attack on the city. They will flee to Helm's Deep, the great fortress of Rohan. It is a dangerous road through the mountains. They will be slow. They will have women, and children with them."

"I see," said Saruman contemplatively, seeming pleased with the information. He stood in silence for a few moments, and then settled his gaze on his servant.

"You stink of horse."

Gríma said nothing.

"What did you do with the beast you took?"

"I left it at the foot of the tower, lord." Éowyn had called him lord...

Saruman seemed to consider something. "Shall I go attend to it?" he asked of him.

"No," said the master of Orthanc, somewhat craftily. "No, let it fare as it may amid the fire. You are dismissed, Worm – go. I shall send for you later." With a wave of his hand, he turned his back. Gríma moved towards the black staircase, and was about to ascend when Saruman spoke once more.

"And, Worm," he said, not looking up from the items he was gathering on the desk before him, "see if you can do anything about that horrid horse-stench."

The wizard's words were meant only as a final insult – Gríma understood he expected nothing from his failed spy. He paused, and then silently began the ascent to his small chamber.

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His chamber, close to the top of the tower, had no window. It was lit by a few stubby tapers which made the walls glimmer a sickly gold. Time did not pass in that room, save as marked by the descent of the flames as the wax below them melted away.

He arrived in the chamber, and closed the heavy door behind him. He was at a loss for what to do, feeling rather drained both physically and mentally. He admitted to himself that the wizard did frighten him – fortunately, Saruman had seemed satisfied with the information he had been able to supply. Lifting the edge of his cloak, he sniffed it delicately, and wrinkled his brow at the smell before releasing the fabric: horse-stink through and through. As meaningless as Saruman's parting words had been, they were in no way inaccurate.

He sat down on the thin, creaky bed, staring vaguely at the light of the candles, and turning his thoughts to Éowyn. She would be glad of his departure, he mused. It was all for the best, I suppose, he thought. He doubted he would ever see her again – unless, he suddenly realized, Rohan was conquered and Saruman made good on his promise. He almost laughed at the thought of he and Éowyn reunited in Orthanc after all they had gone through – what could possibly come of it? For now all he could hope was that from time to time he would be in her thoughts, and that not all her thoughts of him would be ill. He hoped she would at least be happier now.

He thought he had seen in Éowyn's eyes a look that he had never seen pass over them before. How could he fail to recognize what such a look meant when he had cast so similar a glance upon her? When she looked at the Ranger, who bore the Ring of Barahir, Gríma had detected great admiration, and possibly, he thought, love in her painfully beautiful eyes. And why would she not feel love for him? The man was valiant, strong, and lordly; he had helped save her homeland.

He felt a pang of jealousy bitter as bile once more. The Ranger was everything Éowyn had ever wanted, possibly even the heir to a great and noble kingdom. He had simply walked into the Golden Hall and ensnared her heart, whether intentionally or not.

She aims high, my lady shieldmaiden. She may yet be a queen if she has her way.

He closed his eyes and thought of the touch of Éowyn's skin.

-------------------

How long he sat there lost in thought he could not say – yet he was jarred from his musings when he heard the harsh bray of a horn-call such as he had never heard before, even through the unbreakable stone of Orthanc. He listened closely, and heard it again. It sparked his curiosity, but he could not fathom what Saruman was up to. He thought of the smoke rising from the pits surrounding the tower, and wondered whether the wretched horse had yet met its demise.

The noise from outside, though he judged it would probably be deafening to one out there, sounded like a deep buzz. As time passed, a steady, pounding pulse eventually grew from the irregular din. He got up and walked over to the wall; placing a hand on it, he could feel it vibrating slightly. It continued for some time until at last a great, brash call came up from the horn once more. Then all fell disturbingly silent.

Gríma strained his ears, but he could hear nothing. The quiet unnerved him, and the room seemed as cold and silent as the legendary Void itself. It seemed apparent that the activity outside had stopped – what could possibly have made such a noise? Perhaps some new machinery of Saruman's, or perhaps he had been breeding something foul down under the ground. He could even have obtained some Mûmakil for the war which he was sure would soon come.

In a few minutes, a short knock came on his door. Before he could answer, a hunched, mud-splattered Orc opened the door. The creature's ragtag garments looked like a dull-colored patchwork quilt sewn in the dark.

"Lord Saruman bids you join him in his study," the twisted thing rasped.

Gríma followed the Orc down the spiraling stairs. It grumbled to itself, muttering under its breath about having more important things to do than fetching people when Saruman could surely do so himself. The griping Orc did not report back to its master, either; when they reached the proper level, he just continued down the seemingly endless stair. Gríma let himself in.

The wizard was examining some equipment on the table before him, poring over charts and checking measurements. When Gríma entered, the wizard's black eyes bored into his servant's pale blue. "You say the people will flee to Helm's Deep. You have been there, have you not?"

"I have."

"Then you would know of its layout, of any weaknesses it might have. You have a sharp eye, Worm, however useless the rest of you may be. No fortress is impenetrable. Are there any places in the Deep where the walls are weak? Where an attack might be centered?"

Gríma remembered when he had been at the fortress, supervising the storage of provisions and supplies. Théoden, who was yet in good health then, had entrusted such an important job only to his head councilor.

"Its outer wall is solid rock," he told his master. "No foe has ever breached them. To hope to do so is next to impossible. But, as you say, Helm's Deep has one weakness: a small culvert at its base, which is little more than a drain."

"That will do perfectly," said the wizard, the corners of his mouth twitching up ever so slightly.

"What for, my lord? The culvert narrows as it goes under the wall; a battalion could not fit through the opening more than one at a time, even if they did manage to break through the grate."

"Stone can be conquered by many things: the roots of trees, or the slow eroding of water. But these natural forces take much time," he said, saying the word 'natural' as though it had insulted him, "and so I have created a superior solution. The stone shall be conquered by fire." The wizard took a flask filled with what seemed to be tiny black stones, and began pouring its contents into a bowl which already was nearly filled with the unfamiliar substance.

Curiously, Gríma picked up a candlestick and approached the wizard to get a closer look. "How?" he asked. "How can fire undo stone? What kind of device could bring down the—" His question was cut short, for as he leaned over the bowl, holding the candle near it, Saruman had suddenly stopped his hand. Saruman gave him a look of warning, and Gríma lowered his arm, dying to know what the wizard knew here that he did not.

"If the wall is breached, Helm's Deep will fall," Saruman said calmly, walking away from the table.

"Even if it is breached," Gríma argued, following him across the spacious room, "it would take a number beyond reckoning, thousands, to storm the Keep." As much as he hated the Rohirrim, he was willing to admit that they were not to be underestimated in battle. They would defend their people to the last man, and while they defended Helm's Deep no foe had ever defeated them.

"Tens of thousands," Saruman corrected him, his tone rational.

Gríma grew impatient as Saruman headed for the balcony. "But, my lord, there is no such force—"

They stepped onto the balcony, and a great roar and a horn-call sounded.

Shocked, Gríma beheld an army unlike any he had ever seen. Ten thousand large Orcs stood in ranks, outfitted with armor and weaponry. They carried pikes and tall banners bearing the White Hand. They chanted harshly but their words were indiscernible. He looked down in amazement mingled with wonder and horror. So this was what Saruman had been doing. The wind whipped about him and blew out the candle he still clutched in his hand.

The wizard raised a hand and the Orcs grew quiet. "A new power is rising," he announced to his army. "Its victory is at hand!" A mighty cheer came from the creatures. "This night the land will be red with the blood of Rohan! March to Helm's Deep. Leave none alive!" he commanded. His black eyes glittered maliciously as he raised his arms. "To war!" he cried. The army below let out the most raucous shouts yet.

Gríma felt overwhelmed by it all, looking at the machine of war which now prepared to march out of Angrenost. Had he done this? He had turned against them and gave Saruman the ability to destroy them. With a force this size, it seemed hopeless for Rohan. He had never borne any love for his people, and yet he had never expected this. The horse-lords hidden behind their stone walls could be no match for their merciless foe.

And Éowyn would die with them. No doubt her uncle would wish her to help the women and children in the caves, but if the battle were to turn ill, she might – nay, would – abandon her post to fight for her people. He envisioned her proudly leaving the caves, her sword in hand, facing her foe with eyes of steely fire, and being cut down by one of the hulking monsters, crimson blood staining her white dress – for in his mind she would always wear white.

He had not wept since he was a young boy, and yet now a solitary tear trickled down the cold cheek of Gríma called the Wormtongue. And as Saruman turned to leave, he said what Gríma had been thinking: "There is nothing more useful, or more despicable, Worm, than a traitor."

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Well? Like? Dislike? Do tell with a review!

Review Responses:

Verse: Thanks! I'm quite a movie-version fan too, although the Scouring of the Shire is my favorite chapter of all of LotR. My paperback copy of RotK opens to it automatically, that's how many times I've read it. ;)

Culumacilinte: Here ya go; hope you liked it.

leonsalanna: No, you haven't seemed bitter at all – it's just you seemed to be very much on Éowyn's side, and wouldn't have minded seeing Gríma get what he deserves.

Natara: Heh heh... philosophical nonsense is endlessly fun. :D

Nertrender: That's the great thing about their relationship, though... it just isn't meant to happen but we all wish it would!

Harry Hippie: Hope this wasn't too tragic for you!

Mariette: Thanks! And don't worry, the book-ending should come in time.

Faramir1017: Updated it is!

Auri: Again, thank you for actually getting me to write this... hope it was to your enjoyment! And of course I'd give him a hug -- he's just bizarrely lovable.

"Ain't that right, Gríma?" EP asked of her muse.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he responded. "Um, in the book-version... I have to wallow through a lot of dirty water to get to Orthanc, don't I?"

"Yup," said EP, grinning sadistically.

"That's gross," Gríma said, clutching his hankie.