Ever since he could recall, he had been different.
Blighted by illness, always weaker than the other children of Edoras, he had never been quick enough to play with them, never strong enough, always left behind, left alone.
And they laughed at him for it.
Some taunted him, even threw sticks and stones at him.
Blood came easily from beneath parchment-thin skin, bruises darkening his pallor, his dark hair tugged by laughing, strong-limbed, golden-haired boys who played the parts of the Rohirrim and hated the one who did not fit in.
So he had hidden away from them, taken refuge in the home of his parents, hiding in the corners, tears on a face that remained untouched by the sun, pale and sallow, hair dull and lank about unnaturally thin features, distorted features.
Even there, there was little sanctuary.
It was not his parents fault, he knew, that they could not love him, that he was seen as little more than a labour. No family desired a weakling child. They were useless and worthless in a landscape where strength and power were valued.
They did not harm him, his family.
They simply ignored him. Wished him dead, perhaps. Better dead than weak in a land such as Rohan. It would have been a mercy to all, had he died at birth. Many had expected that, still did as he grew. His limbs were bent, clumsy, weak; his health was fallible; everything about him spoke of how closely he trod to death each day, every breath so close to being his last.
But he did not die, though nor was he seen as living.
No, he was not seen as normal.
An oddity.
Repulsive.
Like an animal, he had been driven into hiding, a beaten horse cowering away from a Master's cruel hand, and, in hiding, a frightened and hate-filled animal he became, no longer viewing himself as one of them, shying from contact, suspicious and wary of all.
Small and scrawny, he remained, even into his early adulthood. No one would have him near, when he dared to emerge from his parents' home. Horses shied from his touch, his scent stale, his hands clammy though he was eternally chilled.
Sinking back into obscurity, he had staye din the shadows, shadows that he knew and trusted more than any living thin. All manner of filthy labour came his way, starting in the deepest belly of Edoras, but - staying within shadows - he slowly found his way creeping upwards, unseen, slithering through the darkness, evading the golden light of Rohan.
Shadows aided him.
Contained by them, he went unnoticed; moved freely; saw iher/i.
And, as the sunlight rippled upon hair as gold as autumn leaves, and the fair lines of her face creased in merry, youthful laughter, Gríma - son of Gálmód - knew a emotion other than hate.
He watched for so long, steeped in darkness and ugliness, as she moved, a creature of light and beauty and everything he was not, and, in those moments of secretly stolen pleasure, he found that he could smile.
