Author's Note: (opening mouth to mutter updating excuse, but closing it quickly.) I uh… I got nothin'. Sorry for the wait, short chapter 'cos I'm tired, enjoy, next update hopefully soon, blah blah blah.

Chapter Eight: The Warmest Dawn

The Wormtongue's dreams that night were strange, filled with many screams and bursts of blood and light. He stood alone in the centre of this mayhem, his blade brandished and stained with blood, and as the noise and chaos assaulted his senses he lashed out blindly, striking nothing. He felt much fear, yet he was unafraid to die, for he knew then that he would at last be free of his master's control. The battle carried on, and though he slept Grima son of Galmod did not rest.

When he woke shortly before dawn his mind still echoed with them, their lights fading from his eyes as they were replaced with the figure of Saruman. The wizard sat watching him silently in the half-light of approaching dawn, his robes bloodied and torn yet still somehow regal. He appeared as though his injuries bothered him little, though Wormtongue's own were plaguing him with a ghastly ache. The wizard made no sound as he beheld his servant's waking. A pipe in his hand smoldered fragrantly.

Saruman caught Grima peering, and the ghost of a sad smile flitted across his lined face, gone as quickly as it had come.

"The very last bit of pipeweed. It lends some company to the thoughts of an old wizard when the night is silent."

Grima nodded, keeping his pain from his voice as he murmured, "There must be many of those thoughts in these times."

"That is not for you to tell," said Saruman harshly, and Wormtongue flinched, causing more pain to ripple through him.

"Forgive me, my Lord. I meant not to speak out of my place."

Saruman merely nodded, exhaling an ivory plume of smoke into the cold air. He pursed his lips in thought, and they sat, the wizard and the worm, in silence for a long time.

"Your turn has come to rest," ventured Grima at last. "My Lord, since the dawn has broken a fire can no longer betray us to our foes. Might we build one?"

To sleep by a fireside would be a welcome feeling on this aching body, thought Saruman, but he put on his best frown and said in a disapproving voice, "If you are so weak as to need one, build one yourself."

Grima nodded and bowed, thanking him profusely, and then got to his feet and limped slowly into the woodlands. He returned shortly with a bundle of pitiful sticks, for it was all that his weak and battered body could carry, and as he approached Saruman he fell to his knees and began feebly digging out a pit in the damp soil with his trembling hands. Saruman merely watched, reclining against a large stone, as his servant struggled with his flint and tinder, and finally managed a weak and sputtering flame. As it slowly took light Saruman moved closer and lay down, letting sleep overcome him.

However, he kept one eye and one ear open as he did so, for even after the wolf attack he trusted no one but himself. This was the nature of Saruman.

Grima huddled by the flames and watched a weary sun ascend in the east. One hand was beneath his robes, and rested on his dagger, crusted with dried blood.

How I hate him, he thought, looking to Saruman. How I loathe the very ground he walks upon, and yet how I must worship it. Curse this half-life! Curse the damning of the son of Galmod, the very moment of his weakness!

His hand tightened on the hilt of the weapon, yet in a moment's time fell away, helpless, frightened. He held it to the fire instead, and as he warmed he felt strength slowly returning to him. His wounds, once deeply aching, now merely stung, and though the pain plagued him it was better than its previous, bone-deep manifestation. He sighed and turned his back to the flames, warming it. Feeling weary despite his sleep he gazed blearily out into the surrounding forest, in which the birds were stirring and singing and motes of sunlight pierced the dark undergrowth.

From which a pair of eyes gazed back impassively.