Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, mates- life and lack of inspiration hath loomed over this poor Unfortunate. Let it be known, however, that I am no quitter.
Rather a short chapter this time, dear readers, but hopefully sweet. Do let me know, won't you?
Chapter Five: Alight in the Dark
Grima's hand trembled as he held the torch, which sputtered its young flame fitfully, like a babe fussing for its mother's breast, yearning not for milk but for the dry straw that its bearer had spent the better part of an hour scattering at the entrances of sleeping huts.
Soon.
Saruman waited on the outskirts of the village, his eyes straining in the dark for any sign of cleansing flame. His cohort had been unable to hide his surprise when the wizard had instructed him to carry out his task and return to the forest copse as quickly as he could; Wormtongue had been convinced that Saruman would not wait for him. Saruman did wait, however; the council's refusal to follow him had stung the Istari deeply, and he had planned to take revenge himself, but upon noticing Wormtongue's offense he opened an opportunity for his cohort to do the job for them both.
So now he stood, awaiting the eruption of deadly flames.
Soon.
Emertress and her sisters lay abed within their huts; Laraley and Galen slept soundly, their even breathing soothing in the chill night air.
Emertress, however, slept not as easily, and at times even fancied that she heard the slightest creeping sounds outside. Yet despite her unease she was tired, and stayed fast beneath her blanket, and in the shadow thought of dark things as the deepest part of night fell down outside, sweeping over the village like the black cloak of Grima.
Soon.
All was ready.
Grima moved swiftly, his mind like the early morning fogs that oft overtook Edoras in winter. Speedily and silently he touched his torch to each carefully constructed pile of straw, dampened at its bottom with fuel so as to give Grima time to get away. The thinly shredded straw burned silently, with nary a crackle, and the occupants of the doomed huts dozed contentedly as the Wormtongue did his master's work as though a man possessed.
At the last hut Grima touched the flame to its pile of straw, and he hissed with satisfaction, his breath steaming in the chill air.
"Not long, no..."
Then he dropped the torch and scurried off into the woodlands, where he fell upon his knees in the forest, hugging his head with his hands, baring his teeth at the images of the kind sisters who looked upon him with such pity. Soon his sallow cheeks were awash with tears, and from his throat there issued anguished sobs and strangled, growling laughter.
Blood mingled with his tears as he gripped his temples harder with his sharp fingernails, and his spine was afire with pain from his rocking, and his knees were scraped and his hands burned, and the moon laughed down upon him with the white face of Saruman as from the village a great booming whump! was heard, and then many more in rapid succession.
They had no chance, the kind, well-meaning people in their huts in the cliff. Their two ways of escape had perished; fire formed a wall to the front of them, and to the back, the cliff's face. Many tried to leap over the flames, their children swaddled in blankets in their arms, but the fire was craftily built, and its wall was thick, and the daring fell ablaze with their burning offspring in their arms, dead. Others in their blind, animal panic rushed to the stone and clawed at with their fingers until they had naught but stumps left of their fingertips and their hope, and the fire waited patiently until they were quite messy, and then rushed in upon them with glee. Their blood was cooked upon the stone.
Amid their screams the Wormtongue crawled back to his master, who kicked him absently, his eyes alight with satisfaction and delight, and before the last of the living had perished in flame they were abroad again, the blaze sending their wayward shadows before them like black ghosts.