Author's Note: You guys rock. I mean, you really rock. Your reviews are stunning, your enthusiasm rich. I am ever so glad you understand my difficult situation; for that I try harder to write whenever possible. Your involvement and insight into this story has me working perhaps harder than ever before, and for it I am grateful.
Onward!
Chapter Seven: Of Shades, Blood, and Awe.
The body of Grima lay quiet on the snow.
His mind, however, was more alive than it had been in many a long year, and as he lay in darkness at the gates of death he thought of many things, and many voices spoke to him, though they came from very far away. He listened in silence, for he had no voice of his own on these dark and echoing plains, and dread hovered about him like a shroud. Before him he saw only shadow, and it lasted for what seemed like a thousand lifetimes, yet it did not linger before him forever.
It was then, as he surrendered himself to this blank existence, that his father split the shadow with Baldor his sword, from whose blade he had met death, for when his son was but just beginning his passing as a young man the Rohirrim was ambushed by orcs. Baldor was wrested from its master's grasp, and by orc-hands had tasted its bearer's bowels, and Galmod had let his blood feed the parched earth of Rohan's summer-smitten hills. The orc that had dealt him the deathblow bore the white hand of Saruman.
Blood still glistened upon the tempered steel as it pierced the shadow as easily as it had pierced its master, and a terrible light spilled forth; in the centre stood the figure of his father, though only an outline; tendrils of black swung about his legs, spilled forth from his belly. Grima cowered and shut his eyes tightly, and soundless lips begged for mercy, though mercy on these distant plains was earned only through valour. He received none, and knelt alone.
Where is Grima my son? Galmod thundered, and his voice sent a thousand lights bursting before Wormtongue's pale eyes, which burned from the brilliance though they remained closed. This creature before me is not the same one that I left when I rode with the Rohirrim.
Grima found his voice then, and cried, "Father, it is I! Your Grima!" He cowered in the shadow before him, bowing his head.
Galmod shook his head. No, he said sadly, for alas, my son is dead. He died before my body had cooled on the plains of my homeland, and none were left to shelter our family. This creature before me is but a shade, infesting the body of my son, once so loyal to Rohan. How his mother weeps still, beside me in the halls of my fathers, all shamed at the empty place made for the son of Galmod. Never will he rest there.
"Mercy, Father," begged Grima tearfully. "Do not tell me these things!"
I am not your father, said the shade, and anger thundered in his voice. I am no father to a traitor; look at your hands, Worm—tell me what you see!
Grima's trembling hands were wet with blood, and as he beheld them he gave a cry and wiped them furiously on his robes, but still it dripped, ever flowing, and he shut his eyes against the sight. From his hands rose the scents of his mother and sister: sweet lavender and sage mingled with the copper stench of blood, and Grima threw back his head and screamed.
Alas, however, for it did no good; the darkness swallowed his voice until he had no breath left for screaming, and instead lay in his dark place and moaned. "Tellath…Mother…"
Alas, said Galmod, they are beside me, and hear you, but they will not answer.
Wormtongue lay wracked with grief, and his father stood over him, but the proud spirit felt no pity for the remnants of his son. Grima is dead, he hissed softly.
"No, no…" whimpered Wormtongue. "Father, I live. Please, Father…"
Open your eyes, Worm, if you still live! Galmod commanded, and Grima sat up and faced the horrid light and the grisly figure of his father, and opened his eyes.
"See!" he cried. "My eyes are open! Do not leave your Grima; he lives still!"
Galmod raised his sword, his head shaking. Open your eyes, Worm, if you still live!
"They are open, they are open!" cried Grima in a frenzy, and ripped at his eyes as though to pluck them from between their lids to be eternally open, yet Galmod still shook his head and pointed his sword, and cried, Open your eyes, Worm, if you still live!
Suddenly it was as though the world had folded in on itself; the light was sucked away as Galmod vanished, and Grima felt a tugging sensation as though he were being dragged upwards at a terrific speed. All the while he could hear his father's voice, though oddly growing louder and more clear rather than fading.
Open your eyes, Worm, if you still live!
With a great gasp, Grima the Wormtongue came back to himself in the chill winter night.
Saruman had not expected his request to be granted, and so it was with some awe that he beheld the body of his servant again pulsing with life. He was bloody, and the wound at his throat was difficult to look upon, but nevertheless Wormtongue slowly sat up, blinking into the night as though his eyes had been flooded with light and then left to the abrupt darkness. Saruman fancied that, bathed in gore and bleary, he looked as a creature just born; like a black-on-white cat that knew so much of the world before even entering it. The thought moved Saruman to silence, and so he sat back upon his heel and merely watched, fascinated, the quality of human endurance.
Grima sat stoically assessing his wounds; to Saruman's surprise he did not whine or cringe but merely shook himself, sending droplets of human and wolf blood spattering. After a time he looked to his master.
"Are you injured, my Lord?" he inquired raspily.
"Slightly," replied Saruman carefully. "I suggest that we rest through the night, and perhaps into day when the cold is not so cruel."
Wormtongue nodded, grateful that he would not have to travel again that night, for he was very sore. Slowly he began to scoop up handfuls of cooling snow and place them upon his wounds, hissing at the initial sting. The cold helped to numb him after a while, however, and soon he felt as though he might sleep. Turning to Saruman he said, "Rest if you are weary, my Lord. Grima will keep watch."
Saruman stared at his servant for some time, and then shook his head, carefully keeping the awe from his voice as he replied, "No, master Wormtongue. The rule tonight is that he who sheds the most blood may sleep first. I believe you've earned this rest quite spectacularly."
Stunned, Wormtongue could only nod his head, and stutter, "Thank you, my Lord." Painfully he turned upon his side and closed his eyes, and soon exhaustion overcame him and he fell into dreams.