Author's Note: If you hadn't noticed already, this story is pretty much based off of the movies. Thought I should include that, just so everybody knows. And now on to the ever so important thank yous!

EP41: Loved your book ending! Although now I have nothing to look forward to… sniffles Although you are a rather prolific writer. I have promised myself that sometime in the near future I will review you Phanphics. Anyway, thanks for reviewing! "Storm" is up, too, if you so desire to read it.

Lady Baelish: Yay! Someone else loves me! does happy dance I'm glad you think Gríma is well written - I try hard to make him be likable but still the sick stalker-pervert that he is. Hmmm… you're probably right about Èowyn, but since this story is extremely AU… I don't know. She'll get better as the story progresses, I think. And about "Storm"… tried to send you an email about that one, but my computer hates me, so it bounced back. Anyway, the story is reposted so that everything is there (although I'm not certain it's in the right format… last time a posted it half the story was in italics and it wasn't supposed to be). Anyway, it still ends abruptly, but there's an explanation for that posted at the beginning of the story. Since I had to take it down and repost, your review has disappeared, so if you could review again puppy eyes that would be fantastic. Hope you like this chapter!

Thanks to everybody else reading this story and please review. Just to let everyone know, this chapter has no Èowyn POV and it goes back into Gríma's memories for a little bit. Hope you enjoy!

Gríma hated the underground caverns of Isengard more than any place on the entirety of Middle Earth. They were hot, fiery, dirty, and filled with orcs and Uruk-hai creating weapons, armor, and more Uruk-hai. Saruman knew of Gríma's dislike of the pits and so found excuses to go there as often as possible.

Orcs who had been busy creating armor looked up as the wizard and his spy walked by, lifting their heads and snorting, bowing to Saruman and leering at Gríma. Gríma tried to avoid their hateful stares, but it was nearly impossible. "Forgive me, my Lord," he said to his master, "But may I ask you why we have come down here?"

Saruman smirked. "You do not enjoy this place, then," he said, already knowing the answer.

"I absolutely loathe it," Gríma spat. "May I return to the tower?"

"No," Saruman said with an evil grin. "You will stay here."

"But you do not need me," Gríma whimpered.

"You don't know that," Saruman said calmly. "Come, this way."

Gríma despondently followed Saruman down to where an orc stood overlooking… well… something. "What's here?" he questioned, attempting to see.

Saruman did not condescend to answer him. "Send out your warg riders," he commanded to the orc. The orc grinned evilly and then turned to look back down at where the wargs were apparently kept

Gríma felt horror slice through him. "Wargs, my Lord?" he gasped.

"It may destruct them before they come to safe ground," Saruman said.

Gríma desperately endeavored to convince Saruman that this was an unwise decision. "But my Lord, this was not our original plan!" he started. "I would advise - "

"And we see how far your advice has gotten everyone in this world," Saruman said icily, turning to glare at his slave. "Our original plan can no longer be carried out. You completely destroyed all chances of that."

Gríma withered under the wizard's cruel gaze. "But - but - my Èowyn - " he whispered.

A cruel smirk crossed Saruman's face. "Ah, yes," he nearly purred. "Your so-precious princess. I suppose she might die as well? Such a shame. Nonetheless, a fitting punishment for a servant whose work has clearly become a failure."

Gríma's eyes narrowed. "You promised me," he snarled. "You promised me that she would be mine! You cannot break your promise!"

"You did not fulfill your half of the bargain," Saruman snapped. "Why should I have to fulfill mine?"

Gríma felt utterly staggered at this knowledge. Almost unable to comprehend, he stumbled backwards against a stone wall, still murmuring, "You promised me…"

A wizard's promise means nothing.

This was supposedly common knowledge among the Rohirrim. They were a rational people who tended to disbelieve the supernatural - or at least claimed to disbelieve the supernatural. Yet this did not explain their tendency to shun the strange, to put distance between themselves and the odd ducks of their culture - people like Gríma.

Foreigners were the worst - especially wizards and Elves and kinds of their like. Whenever Gandalf or Saruman would appear in the near vicinity, mothers would be heard reproaching their children, reminding them firmly: Never trust a wizard, child. Their promises mean nothing.

Why hadn't Gríma listened?

He hadn't wanted to, of course. He had tried to ignore the secret letter presented to him by a mysterious old man in a hidden alleyway in Edoras. It claimed to be from Saruman the White, and it told of great things - great and terrible changes - that would soon be coming to his homeland. It warned of the dangers of future times, and promised him safety and freedom from fear - if he would but betray his country and kin. If he would give up the life he had known. If he would destroy the only place that he had ever called home.

His first thought: What makes this request so worthy? What profit is there for me?

And somehow, the wicked bastard of a wizard knew his thought, and came to his house in the dead of night with the answer.

She whom you love, of course. Your fair white maiden, so pure, so strong, so beautiful.

Gríma had been staggered by this offer. "What?" he had gasped, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"You know how greatly you desire her," Saruman had hissed into the darkness, eyes glowing. "Your loneliness would be cured were she your wife. She would never leave your side. She would love you desperately, as you love her."

"How can this come to be?" Gríma had demanded suspiciously. "She will have nothing to do with me."

"I am Saruman the Great!" the wizard had said in a terrible voice, standing straight and proud before him. "I have more power than any in this land. I may do as I wish."

How was he to refuse such an offer? Saruman was indeed powerful, and surely a wizard would be capable of presenting him with what he desired most?

He was such a fool. He had believed - had wanted to believe - that Saruman would carry through. He had continued to believe, until that very moment. Now look where his betrayal had brought him - to this pit, to this horrible tower, under a cruel and bitter master, with no future and no love, no light, no hope.

Nothing.

He had to save her.

That was the next thought that came to Gríma called Wormtongue's mind.

He was, obviously, not heroic by nature, and, if he thought long enough, he wasn't saving her for any reasons other than his own wanting. But how to protect her - them - how to warn them?

Gríma glanced down at the warg pits again. The wargs were still snarling and spitting at one another while orcs attempted to gain control of them. They would not ride out for a few hours, at least.

The horse he had ridden to Orthanc was still saddled and ready. It would only take a matter of minutes to escape. And Saruman -

Gríma glanced at his master fearfully. But Saruman was involved in his own thoughts, clearly trying to devise another plan. After a moment, the wizard turned to glare at Gríma and said, "Return to your quarters. I do not need you."

Gríma bowed, his heart pounding. "Thank you, my master," he murmured, and then he turned and fled quickly to the surface.

He would go now, and she would be safe.

That was all that mattered.