Lies Like Candy Craving
Author's Note: A slightly dark fic on the desires of Grima Wormtongue.
* * *
He sat in the darkness most nights, thinking. Thinking of her, of her loveliness. He craved her, wanted her, needed her. Her blonde hair in sharp contrast to his own, her frail form beneath his quivering fingertips.
He wasn't certain when the desire for her possession had taken him. He had lived under it for so long that he had long since forgotten. Long since he had come into the great hall of the king, long since he had overthrown the mind of Theoden.
He wanted.
Needed.
She was in the line of kings, yet he wanted to reduce her to rabble, begging on the ground at his feet. He wanted to see her face smeared with blood, dirt, and filth of all manners, to see her nails dirty as she crawled on all fours like a dog. Her dress would be torn, stained, and in tatters around her.
She was strong now, yes, but wait. He would wait. He was a patient man, a simple man. He would have her, would defile her and shame her and take away her dignity and pride.
His fingers clenched into fists at his black-robed sides. He realized he was sweating, and wiped his brow quickly. She would be coming to him soon. He had sent for her, and she would not refuse him. No, she had been brought up far too properly for that.
But he knew, knew her inner thoughts. He had seen them when her strengths had failed and weakness had won out. That was when he was at her side, his foul tongue whispering lies to her, lies so sweet that they went down easy, like sugar, like a kiss.
He had kissed her once, a tremulous thing. His cold hands had graced her cheek, still warm though he desired to cool the flesh to a frigid pallor. Then she would be cold, as cold as he. She would dress in a black mantle and not her white gowns. She would be no White Lady but a black whore for him to use as he desired. And she would want it as well, would tell him so when he lashed out at her.
The words would be lies, perhaps, but he preferred lies to the truth. They tasted sweeter than the truth, and he was fond of sweet things.
He had tasted her once.
He wished to do it again.
END.
Author's Note: A slightly dark fic on the desires of Grima Wormtongue.
* * *
He sat in the darkness most nights, thinking. Thinking of her, of her loveliness. He craved her, wanted her, needed her. Her blonde hair in sharp contrast to his own, her frail form beneath his quivering fingertips.
He wasn't certain when the desire for her possession had taken him. He had lived under it for so long that he had long since forgotten. Long since he had come into the great hall of the king, long since he had overthrown the mind of Theoden.
He wanted.
Needed.
She was in the line of kings, yet he wanted to reduce her to rabble, begging on the ground at his feet. He wanted to see her face smeared with blood, dirt, and filth of all manners, to see her nails dirty as she crawled on all fours like a dog. Her dress would be torn, stained, and in tatters around her.
She was strong now, yes, but wait. He would wait. He was a patient man, a simple man. He would have her, would defile her and shame her and take away her dignity and pride.
His fingers clenched into fists at his black-robed sides. He realized he was sweating, and wiped his brow quickly. She would be coming to him soon. He had sent for her, and she would not refuse him. No, she had been brought up far too properly for that.
But he knew, knew her inner thoughts. He had seen them when her strengths had failed and weakness had won out. That was when he was at her side, his foul tongue whispering lies to her, lies so sweet that they went down easy, like sugar, like a kiss.
He had kissed her once, a tremulous thing. His cold hands had graced her cheek, still warm though he desired to cool the flesh to a frigid pallor. Then she would be cold, as cold as he. She would dress in a black mantle and not her white gowns. She would be no White Lady but a black whore for him to use as he desired. And she would want it as well, would tell him so when he lashed out at her.
The words would be lies, perhaps, but he preferred lies to the truth. They tasted sweeter than the truth, and he was fond of sweet things.
He had tasted her once.
He wished to do it again.
END.