They approached Gandalf, Theoden, and Eomer, who stood speaking with Treebeard. Nimoë gazed in wonder upon the ancient Ent. His rough bark skin had been gouged in many places. Apparently Isengard had not fallen without resistance, but no orc arrow could pierce the skin of an Ent. Nimoë had often heard tales of the Ents, the shepherds of the trees, but had never expected to see one in her lifetime, long as it might grow to be. Wonders abounded in this turbulent time.

Eomer noticed their approach and hailed them. "Welcome, friends! Now that all are gathered, the time has come to have speech with Saruman. I look forward to bending his ear with the many ways I plan to cause him suffering before I kill him."

Gandalf was quick to chastise him. "Eomer, you know not whereof you speak. Do not think that simply because Saruman is imprisoned within his tower that he is powerless. You must be on your guard. He will seek to twist your heart with his honeyed words, and you will find your mouth speaking words which you cannot recognize as your own. Do not be so foolish as to threaten him. Among us, only I have the strength to truly match power with him, and it may be that I will have to. Keep your own counsel before him, and hope that you will be spared." The aged wizard cast his glance around at all of the others "The same goes for the rest of you. Do not draw undue attention to yourselves."

On hearing those words spoken, Legolas felt it was an opportune moment to speak to Nimoë. "Dear heart, I want you to remain behind when we go to speak with Saruman. He does not know of your presence among us, since you were not with us when his fell messengers spied upon our journey from Rivendell. I would that he remain in ignorance."

Nimoë shook her head vehemently. "Do you forget that Wormtongue is with him? Surely he would have told his tale to his master, and my presence is no secret. There is no point in my hiding. I would like to look upon the face of him who has caused so much pain to this land."

Legolas looked to Aragorn, pleading for his assistance in convincing Nimoë to remain behind. The heir of Gondor spoke, "Nimoë, can you not see that your presence will only serve as a distraction to Legolas? If the voice of Saruman is as powerful as it is rumored, then he will need all his faculties about him when he faces him. Would you rob him of that?"

Nimoë opened her mouth to speak, but found no words. She paused, then tried again. "You would deny me the right to see the man who has hurt so many? Who has caused the death of a friend and many valiant soldiers, some of which passed away even as I held their hands and offered them final comfort?" She turned her gaze full on the Elf Prince. "Legolas, am I truly so much of a distraction to you? That you cannot function fully when I am with you? Are you not stronger than that?"

He dropped his glance, unable to face the accusing look in her wide grey eyes. He knew that she was right. He was stronger than that. Through countless centuries he had lived as a warrior, trained in the ways of battle. One woman should not be able to drive away all of that preparation. But he could not say with certainty that she would not do just that, and if there was a hint of uncertainty, it would not be a lie to confess the weakness, especially if it would in turn keep her out of harm's way. "Please, Nimoë. Please do this for me. Please give me the peace of knowing you are safe."

Frustration and anger welled up in her breast. She knew with conviction that he was stretching the truth, using his feigned weakness as a tool to keep her away. Unwilling to argue further, she acquiesced. "Very well. I will not come with you to Orthanc." She chose her words carefully. "I will not come with you, and you may be comforted knowing that Saruman will not see me."

Legolas raised his eyes then, and they shone with relief. "Thank you, Nimoë. You ease my heart."

Then the rest of the company walked away, deeper into Isengard. The Hobbits were introducing Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas to Treebeard when they left the range of her hearing. Just before she looked away, Eomer turned to look back at her with an inscrutable look upon his face. Although she knew that to him she was only a blur, he was to her as clear as if he stood just in front of her. She watched in wonder as he shook his head at her, and his eyes held a pleading look. Uncomfortably, she realized that he had read her intentions. He knew that she would follow them to Orthanc.

#

Nimoë had known from the start that she would go to Orthanc, whether with her companions or not. Gandalf had made their danger patently clear, and she could not allow them to go without the small bit of protection she could offer. Although she was but a novice user of the Elven magic, she was able to channel a tremendous amount of power. She would find a way to use her song to protect her friends.

As she walked, she wracked her brain, trying to call up the words of power which she had heard her mistress use, but had never had a chance to practice herself. In order to work upon the minds of others, great strength and control was necessary. Galadriel had never taught her the ancient words, for she was still very young, and the queen feared that the power that would transfer through her would be too much for her to control, that she would lose some vital part of herself.

On silent feet she approached the muddy moat which was present around the tower. She crept up the back of a toppled pillar which stood at an angle leaning in towards Orthanc, and laid herself against it, only allowing her eyes and the top of her head to peek over the top. There was a clear view from her position, but she was far enough away that it was unlikely any would see her.

Already Saruman was out upon a parapet, speaking to those below him. The Rohirrim had come to take up positions behind the members of the Fellowship, Treebeard, Eomer and Theoden. Clearly the magic of Saruman's voice was working upon them, for they looked about them suspiciously, as if thinking that perhaps there were traitors among them. Traitors who were to blame for the deaths at Helm's Deep. For surely one so kindly and wise as the old man in the tower could not be responsible for such a thing.

Nimoë blocked out his words. Since they were not directed at her, it was not difficult. She took a deep breath to steady herself, then began to sing. The song began slowly, softly, as she reached far back into her memory to dredge the words forward onto her tongue. All of her thought she focused upon Saruman, hoping to interrupt the flow of his words, to cause his mind to lose its clarity, to send him mad.

It was the only spell which she could remember clearly enough to hope to perform it. Once she had completed the song, she began to repeat it, adding volume and power. None would be aware of hearing it, as it was cloaked in words of disguise, but it felt strange to project the song so loudly over the great distance to the parapet of Orthanc.

Nimoë felt the strength pouring out of her, and she struggled to maintain control of the energies flowing out with her song. Without warning, a great backlash flew at her. All of the strength she had sent forth slammed into her body, undirected, but with devastating strength. She flew through the air and landed with a sickening crunch against a pillar behind her. It felt as if every bone in her back had been snapped, and for long moments she could not breathe. When finally air managed to make its way back into her lungs, she gasped like a drowning man pulled back from the brink.

Tentatively, she tested her body, and found that it responded to her commands. Nothing had been broken, although she was deeply bruised. She crawled back to her perch upon the downed pillar. Saruman was still holding forth his speech, and it did not seem that he was aware of what had happened. His innate power was simply to great for her to reach his mind. Frustration seethed in her veins and she pounded her fist into the granite beneath her.

The sharp pain of her action brought her up short. That was no way to accomplish anything. Look around for something useful to do, she chided herself.

And then she saw him. Standing just inside a window slit, staring out at what was happening below, was Wormtongue. His drab features were taut, and he strained to hear what occurred.

Memory crashed into Nimoë's mind unbidden. "Bind her mouth! Bind her mouth!" Here was the man who had caused her so much torment and suffering. She shook with rage at the sight of him. Anger, which had festered so long within her, broke to the fore and, with as much strength as she could muster, Nimoë sent forth her song: a wall of energy, full of pulsing strength, and it took root inside the mind of Wormtongue.

#

Grima felt odd. He strained to lean further out of the window, but it was so tall that he could lever himself out no further. The voices, which had seemed clear but moments before, began to fade and a persistent buzzing began between his ears. He shook his head angrily, trying to clear it, but the motion only managed to augment the annoying sound.

He clapped his hands over his ears, trying to shut out the noise, but it had no effect. When he pulled his hands away, he was horrified to discover that he could no longer hear what was begin spoken at all. There was nothing. Only the ominous buzzing, which grew ever more shrill, and more relentless.

Unable to ignore the sound, he tried to listen to it more closely, to find where it originated. He leapt away from the window, and ran to a door, flinging it open. Wildly he looked about, and saw that there was nothing there that could have created the noise. He spun about, and began to pull books down off the shelves, looking behind them for an explanation. Even as he did so, the buzz began to pulse. A strange, compelling rhythm beat into his skull, and it seemed to be formed of words, but they were words like none he had ever heard before.

A strangled cry sprang from his lips as he began to cast various pieces of furniture about the room, looking in every drawer, under every table and chair, for the source of his torment. The pulsing was now wrought of excruciating pain, and it was as if hammers and chisels carved out pieces of his skull, in time with the forceful rhythm of the unrelenting words.

Madly, he stumbled through the room, throwing items off of desks and, alternately, pounding his head on the walls, trying to knock away the terrible cacophony. An ink well flew through the air, crashing against a wall, leaving a trail of blue-black liquid, like blood, splattered against the stone. He hurled a candlestick out the door, but still the pounding raged on. Mindlessly, he grabbed a large stone globe, with lights pulsating through it, and he heaved it with all of his strength out the window.

Unable to stand the torment any longer, he placed his head in the door frame. Then, with all the strength he could muster, he slammed the door shut. There was only a moment of pain before he slipped into peaceful oblivion.

#

As soon as Wormtongue lost consciousness, the tremendous energy surging through Nimoë's body again recoiled upon her. Once more she was hurled through the air, but this time she landed on the muddy earth. So much of her strength had been needed to control the words of power that, once it was no longer flowing through her, she could not even raise her head from the ground.

So she lay there, with her face squelched into the mud, hardly able to breathe. Awareness of what she had done began to creep into her. The realization that she had used her power for such a cruel and violent act swept over her like a tidal wave and she trembled uncontrollably. What she had done was a blasphemy against all that Galadriel had striven to instill in her! Strength like hers was not to be used in anger, and certainly never for revenge. She had irreversibly sullied her training and her very soul, which she had believed to be pure. She had become what Grima had labeled her, an Elf-Witch.

Guilt ravaged her and, with what little strength she had, she raised her head off of the ground. It appeared that none had noticed what had happened. The stone which Grima had thrown out of Orthanc had been picked up by Pippin, and the others were crowding around him.

Saruman had left the parapet, and the danger to her friends had passed. With a monumental effort, Nimoë dragged herself onto her hands and knees and, with tears flowing down her face, she began to crawl away. What she had done was unthinkable, and she dared not show her face among honest men. Her body dragged painfully through the muck as she crept away, and she thought it fitting. She wanted to bury herself in the filthy stuff, never to be seen again. How could she have let her instincts take control of her in such a manner? With a deep sense of regret and self-loathing, she acknowledged that her actions had proven her to be no better than an animal. And like an animal she slunk away.

#

Author's Note: Okay, I had WAY too much fun writing that part with Grima. I am beginning to wonder about myself… Oh well, I hope that you enjoyed seeing Wormtongue get what was coming to him as well as I did. (And hey, no one ever explained for CERTAIN why he threw the palantir out the window…)