Author's Note: My thanks to the Phantom for the constructive review. Having been a slave to the book since I was a child I delighted with the coming of the movies, so much so that—perhaps unfortunately—I have adopted the method of the shortcut. I had hoped no one would notice, but your keen eye was dead on. It is a compliment to know how much attention you are paying, and thus I am grateful for your bringing up the subject. If one person has noticed, it is one person too many, and thusly chapter one was in need of a change. Reread the unabridged version; it has received better ministrations, and hopefully the shortcut I took this time might not grate so harshly on the Tolkienite's acute nerves.

So, thank you, my friend. Your advice has been gratefully heeded. Do enjoy.

Thanks to all the others who have reviewed as well. Get out there and write some Grima fic; our regiments are far too thin.

Chapter Four: A Rising Tide

Word of the identity of the stranger in white had spread throughout the village by dawn, and elders knew well of Saruman the White and his great wisdom and powerful hand, and therefore walked their village in quiet reverence, as though the Valar themselves walked among them. They whispered in their huts of Saruman's coming to strike down the cruel, strange armies that now marched so frequently upon their territory; many were relieved, for they did not know how much longer their families might go unnoticed.

Their children, caught up in the excitement, followed them like shadows, asking many questions about the stranger, and all received the same reply:

            "Ask him yourself!"

            Of course they did not, ever fearing the imposing stranger, as children are wont to do, and also as children their eyes were not deceived, and many times when they were at play a passing adult might overhear their doubts. Yet they shook their heads and dismissed them as child's timid ignorance, as adults are wont to do, and also as adults they went so far as to scold their children against such blind suspicion.

            So passed Saruman's days in the village, and it was though every step he took there left no print.

Lady Emertress, who had been put in charge of Wormtongue's recovery, seemed to know she had upset Grima with her claims of pity, and was repentant for it. She had forgotten the small matter of pride, an entity that she was unused to in the humble ways of her people, and using her instinct acted accordingly and left Grima to his own, knowing that she could no nothing more for him as it was. Her sisters followed her example, knowing well the fickle minds of men, and did little more than keep a watchful eye upon the door in case their ailing guest might require their aid, in which case they were ready, stowing herbs in the pockets of their skirts and listening for any call, for they were a very hospitable people and dedicated to well serving their guests.

            On the third evening they stood outside in the center of the village grounds, again preparing the cauldron for food. A fire crackled merrily beneath it, and its contents bubbled fragrantly. Emertress dropped in sprigs of wild thyme as her sisters added the meat of rabbits and squirrels, and the talk flowed freely with the other maidens of the village as they assisted, preparing bowls for serving.

            Presently Laraley stood beside her sister, and murmured, "He has not called for us yet. How fared he when you left him?"

            "As well as he could," answered Emertress, "and though he said nothing I could see he was very angry with me. He must have some strength back in his body to take such offense."

            "Aye, and that worries me," said Laraley. "His master is powerful; I possess little doubt that he harbours much himself."

            "I am loathe to suspect him capable of anything. He is still very weak, and shows me no malice, only offense. And though I regret upsetting him I cannot say my pity is lessened; if it is such a poor subject in his eye then his life must warrant it. More so, if his anger at my concern is any indication of the torment he suffers then perhaps I did not pity him enough."

            Laraley said nothing to this, for in her mind she harboured much doubt, yet she seemed to only one amongst her sisters to feel it. She watched as Gaelen went to the cauldron and ladled a bowl full of stew, walking quickly to Grima's hut and rapping upon the door. Her sisters followed quickly, eager to learn if he would again refuse their offerings.

            "My lord, I have brought food," she called softly, and the door opened a crack. The sisters beheld the pale, clouded eye as it watched them warily. There was a long pause, and then a rasping voice said:

            "I will not take your charity. Grima fares for himself."

            "All due respect, my lord," replied Gaelen, "but one cannot fare well if he does not leave his hut to do so."

            "Leave me," Grima hissed, and the door closed.

            "Stubborn ass!" cursed Gaelen softly under her breath. "He will die of hunger in that hut, and Dengal will have our heads."

            "He won't, sister," soothed Laraley. "Dengal knows of his stubborn nature. I have told him already. It would be no fault of ours."

            "Still, my heart aches to know a creature suffers with hunger in this village," sighed Gaelen, and Emertress placed a hand upon her shoulder.

            "Come, sister. Let us go back to our duties. If he needs us, we will come. It is all we can do."

Saruman went to Grima before the dawn of the fourth day broke over Dengal's village. Wormtongue had been expecting his master, for he would surely have some part to play in the lies Saruman had uttered to the people of the camp, and when the door of his hut opened silently he was ready, though perhaps hungrier than he would have liked, but he did not regret leaving the food.

It was poisoned, likely, he had thought crazily as they left him the previous evening. They suspect me. They suspect us. All the better not to take in their poisons.

            "We are finished here," said Saruman abruptly. "The council refuses to march out with us, but it is no matter. I did not come here to have them follow us like mongrels. We have taken our food and our rest, and it is time to set out again. I will not have us bide our time wastefully in a place it does us no good to invade; they are no allies, nor proper beings of war. They are made fat and impudent by the land they live on, and crouch within their hovels thinking themselves safe from the world. But no… they are not safe from Saruman."

            His voice grew suddenly smooth, and he moved closer to Wormtongue, murmuring, "I have noted that the fury over your offence has grown within you these past days like a rising tide. Dengal has been informed of your refusal to trust the maidens he enlisted to care for you. I know not what grievance they have bestowed upon you, but I invite you now to dole out your retribution, before the sun is risen."

            The Wormtongue smiled, though his heart was nervous, and asked, "What would you have me do, my Master?"

            "Burn the village," said Saruman. "Burn it to the ground."