Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews. Lovely, lovely, all of you. How funny it was to come, whilst reading other Grima fic reviews, across the phrase "pervy Wormtongue fanciers". Perhaps we all should form a club. "The Grima Guild", perhaps? LOL.
Chapter Three: An Old Fury
Grima tried valiantly to stifle his cries as the point of the lance dug into his injured back. Behind him he coud hear the dirt crunching under many boots, and the hem of a cloak brushed his face as he turned to see what had come up behind him. Beside him Saruman sat calmly, seemingly unperturbed at the weaponry digging into his skin, and listened as the leader spoke again.
"What right have you to trespass upon our lands?" growled the voice, and Saruman smiled.
"Up with your weapon, Dengal; the nerve of Saruman is not lessened by your petty threats."
Immediately there came a collective intake of breath from the dark assembly, and Grima felt the point of the weapon remove itself blessedly from his tortured flesh. Saruman stood then, and kicked him also into rising, and as he stood Grima could see a gathering of men clothed in cloaks that hid them in shadow.
The tallest, Dengal, spoke softly in the gloom. "Forgive me, Saruman... I knew not that it was you. Our actions were hasty; understand that many a being has strayed into our territory of late, and many were of a fell disposition. We meant you no harm."
"Your land has remained remarkably unchanged despite the chaos that has befallen Middle Earth," said Saruman. "Orcs travel freely now, on their way to some dark business. You and your men are indeed strong if you have been able to resist them."
"Aye, the evil lot of them," said Dengal hatefully. "Their cruel feet rip up the land, and they would burn our village if they could find it. Yet there are none who can, and we are the better for it. Though it is highly strange, Saruman, to see you walk abroad. These are dangerous times."
"I walk to where I must," said Saruman, "and fear no earthly peril. The orcs cannot harm me."
"Undoubtedly not. It is a long way from Isengard, my friend; pray tell me: why have you sought to leave it? What errands would send the White Hand wayward?"
"None that I would speak of," said Saruman grimly, and yet he smiled as he spoke, and in that moment he could have charmed the birds from the trees. It was then that Grima began to understand: Dengal knew not of Saruman's allegiance with Sauron. His people were isolated; no word must have come to them of recent times.
A pity for them, then, thought Grima, for surely he will seek to gain from this, and when the White gains all others lose.
"Who is this creature beside you?" Dengal asked at length, and Grima looked up from his reverie to see the man staring, and met his dark eyes. Dengal seemed taken aback by the sight of him in the gloom; Grima knew how his pale eyes gleamed unnervingly in shadow, and he stood as still as a stone, gazing back.
"Do not trouble yourself with him, Dengal," said Saruman. "His name is Grima, but you need not remember it; he is but useless company. Be civil, Grima; respect must be shown in another man's land!"
Hastily Grima bowed, lowering his clouded eyes. "It is an honour, my Lord, to be permitted upon your sacred land. Forgive my silence; never have I seen such a swift and silent band of men, and for a moment my awe did overcome me."
Saruman glanced at him, pleased, and when Grima straightened again he was led by the others to follow his master and Dengal, who were striding into the cover of the trees, and all the while Saruman spoke smoothly, as though detached from it, of the evil brewing in Mordor and the fell nature of the orc, and to the unknowing eye he would seem every bit the benefactor.
When at last they reached the outskirts of the village Grima was very near exhaustion, and could hardly support his own weight, which was slight with small frame and starvation. Frowning, one of the accompanying men looked to Dengal and mouthed something.
Dengal regarded Wormtongue and turned to Saruman. "Your companion is weak and ill, as though he has been injured and without food for many days. Has your condition indeed been so grave?"
"These are foul times," replied Saruman, unperturbed. "We went wayward on our urgent errand and could not stop, nor think of food. I fear Grima is weaker than most; he is a small thing, no doubt, but well-serving when he means to be."
"We will see to it that you receive at least one good meal and rest before we send you off again, friend, for we need every last creature of good intentions in these times" said Dengal. Grima felt a swell of guilt that they should be taken under such a blind wing, and turned his attention to his pain so that he would not think on it.
The smell of food wafted about the village as they approached. The huts were set into a great overhanging of rock that jutted out from the mountain, and a thick copse of trees surrounded it on its three unprotected sides, making it invisible to even those who strayed very near.
Dengal gave a shrill whistle as they approached, and at the sound more men came out of the huts, followed by a few women, all dressed in the greens and browns of their kinfolk. Dengal strode out ahead and exchanged words with them while Saruman and Grima stayed respectfully behind with their escort. Presently the men came forward and greeted Saruman, and together went off into a large hut in the centre of the village. Three women, all strong-looking yet fair and kind of face, came forward to Grima and took him gently by the arms, supporting him, for at the prospect of food and rest his legs finally began to fail him, as though they had waited for this very chance.
One woman, fairest of the three, smiled down upon him and said in a quiet voice, "Good evening, Master Grima. I am called Gaelen. These are my sisters, Laraley and Emertress. Dengal informed me of your condition, and from what I can see it is a sight worse. We will help you."
Grima nodded his thanks, strange sleep overcoming him even as he fought it, for he wanted again to hear that voice, light and melodious as the wind in the trees. His head lolled forward slowly, and he found that he could no longer hear Lady Gaelen, nor feel the strong hands of Laraley and Emertress. It was with remorse that he surrendered to the quiet dark.
The warmth of a fire woke him hours later, and Wormtongue lay still at first, wondering at how he felt, for no longer did his body burn with exhaustion and hunger, and the pain of his wounds was lessened. He came to himself shortly and opened his eyes to see the fair face of Lady Emertress above him, smiling gently. He could hear the voices of her sisters not far away, and he meant to sit up, but Emertress placed her strong hands upon his shoulders and forced him gently back.
"Nay, do not rise just yet, my lord," she said softly. "We have seen to your wounds, and your sleep has helped you, but still you are weak. Your master preferred that you stay here and recover while he takes council with our soldiers."
"I have missed the counsel?" asked Grima, shocked, and thought, Saruman truly has no more use of me, then.
"It is for the better. None of it is good news, from what I have heard, and most of which you likely know already. Our people are solitary; we know nothing of the outside world. Your master will be doing much of the talking, I expect."
"I am grateful for your ministrations," said Grima at length, and was rewarded by another gentle smile, yet this one was somehow grimmer.
"It appears," said Emertress, "that no other has bothered. Our pity for you steadied and quickened our hands; you were nearly lost at first."
Seeing Grima cringe at her statement of pity she quickly rose and left, and he found himself alone in the small hut, whose western wall was made of the mountain itself, into which a hearth had been hewed. Within a fire flickered merrily, and Grima savoured its warmth, for it had been long seasons since he had felt it last. Yet his heart remained cold and leaden, and the maiden's words had troubled and embarrassed him, and he began to feel a stir of something dangerous within him. Embarrassed by maidens who knew nothing of anything; how dare they pity him! Him, Lord Wormtongue, who had ensnared the mighty king of the horse-lords to his power with no weapon but his words!
Wincing he rose from his pile of cushions and blankets, and went to the door, peering out to see the sisters and other maidens tending to a massive cauldron of fragrant stew which simmered merrily in the open ground of the village. Face close to the crack in the door he began to feel a strange anger burning within him, and his mind once again was filled with evil thoughts, as it had been in the days when he was stronger.
"You will have no reason to pity Grima the Wormtongue," he hissed, "when he is finished here."
Outside Gaelen threw dry logs onto the fire beneath the cauldron. Flames shot upward, sending the shadows of the night scurrying away from the huts, but to Grima it looked as though the very night had fled from his words.