Disclaimer : Here is a new chapter of the Mount Doom Tales. I don't know if it's a convincing part, well... just read it and REVIEW, pleaaaaaase ; )The content of Grima's dream is the property of Mrs Rowling.

Grima's Dreams

"Should I let them there?" Gandalf wondered aloud.

"Or will I have them telling their nonsense be allowed?

The worst I fear with such a company.

Will the next tale be once more uncanny?"

As the wise wizard unravelled his head content,

Grima Wormtongue raised a yellowish hand.

Although he was still shocked by his recent aggression,

He promised the audience not to tell digression.

"Well, what will be the subject of your tale, Wormtongue?"

Gandalf asked quite abruptly, in a voice strong.

"Erm..."the greasy man gargled. "Dreams and torment."

A tide of sceptical eyebrows raised in a same movement.

The fair Galadriel, however, exclaimed with surprise.

"What an interesting topic to rise!"

Grima, quite afraid, was reassured by her eyes:

It seemed like they were two moving skies,

Where glittering stars danced dizzily.

The pathetic-looking man breathed deeply:

"Do you know what is real and what is not?

Who can claim he's able to untie the knot?

People think we are in real life, but is it true?

Did physicians proved it was such? Did I? Did you?

Who can say what we dream is not real?

Who can tell the borderline between what we feel,

And what we do? Aren't dreams a mystery?

When we dream, don't we taste the sweetness of a strawberry?

Can we tell what is veracity from what is fable?

Aren't dreams fascinating? So close but so inaccessible?"

Grima paused. The company began to drink his every word.

As for Galadriel, she was in Grima's verbal boat aboard.

"Now I will tell you about my theory.

My name is Grima Wormtongue, and, it is no mystery,

I was the evil adviser of King Theoden.

My weapon was not a sword or a pen,

Nor an army, no, all my strength was in my oral skill.

What I do best is spreading evil.

But apart from being a puppet in Saruman's gnarled hands,

I am also a free thinker that escapes in other realms.

I spend my nights dreaming of things strange,

Still I feel that in my memories they cover a wide range.

At night, when the stars are the mistresses of the world,

When the vivid waters of the vales have too much swirled,

And when the swift and silent owls conquer the sombre skies,

Then my dull brain starts creating wonders and tries,

With its utmost care, to take me away from Middle Earth.

My fantastic brain to ecstatic thoughts gives birth!

Almost every night, after I leave the decrepit once-white-wizard,

My soul revives at last! No more bleary lizard

To tear open in order to read a depressing future in,

No more heavy corpses to throw in the dustbin,

No more crawling wastes to sweep away,

No more indecent orders to obey..."

Grima stopped. People were staring intently at him.

"Erm...Well ,wandering as usual... Don't scream!

I will not describe ugly things. Listen to my tale.

In many ways it can reach the top of the marvel's scale.

In my dreams, I see obscure corridors lit by blazing torches,

When I walk along the passage, my hair scorches,

And sizzles with joy."

Saruman spat: "That's my boy!"

But Grima ignored him royally and went on.

"Against my pitiful awaken life I won,

Since the sacred night when the first dream appeared.

I guessed I found myself in a castle weird,

For I caught sight of poltergeists and children.

However, no swarming worms nor grumbling men.

Just...wizards." He gasped, realising what he had just said.

Slightly annoyed, he turned towards Gandalf.

"True wizards, like our friend Gandalf, not some crumbling half!"

He said that with an insistent look on his master.

Saruman frowned and clenched his fists of alabaster.

"Will you stop this, you lumpy newt! Or..."

Cut to the quick, Grima growled: "Mordor,

Lothlorien, Gondor, Minas Tirith or even the noisy Shire,

Of the slightest crop, tree, wall, street you'll have never.

All your life you tried to become a great wizard,

However your whole career was nothing else but a hazard.

To pretend you were mighty, you repressed me,

With your filthy little words and insane glee!

But now your creature broke free from his chains,

And leads a parallel life and that's a great chance!"

His eyes all glistening, Grima went on feverishly:

"In my dreams I work in a castle huge oddly,

With moving staircases, talking paintings,

Wizard-apprentices, and ghostly greetings.

When I see my reflection into a mirror,

I am beautiful, there's no error.

To yellowish bubos I am no more akin,

For instead I have a smooth and pale skin.

My hair are of the same greasy nature,

But they fit my well-proportioned stature,

Which bears my long flowing black robe.

Teaching how to make decoctions is my job.

Talkative arrogant little adolescents are my pupils,

But I scoff at them with a biting coldness and no scruples.

My presence is dreaded and I like it,

For I do not have my domination to admit."

Grima went silent, he had fallen into deep thoughts,

And from Saruman himself came no assaults.

"Erm", Pippin asked, "is the message conveyed is protection?"

Neither Grima nor the audience had the slightest reaction.

"I mean, since you live a miserable life in Middle Earth,

You find some joy in your dreams, it's like a merry hearth,

The flames of which warm your cold dried heart.

You see, when to a game you take part,

You feel good, because you're involved..."

Saruman said dryly: "Is your theory evolved,

Or are you simply trying to defend that hound?

To my nasty influence he is bound,

Whether you like it or not.

I am the master here, believe it, you silly lot!"

Gandalf sprang to his feet, hot as charcoal:

"Merry company, pray hear my call,

To put an end to that senile gibberish of Saruman,

Let's see if an interesting topic discuss he can.