The promises were empty, the rewards never his. The authority was sweet, yet soon stolen back to its rightful owner. Ever had he done as he'd been told, and suffered for it.
Now he was nothing more than a beggar. No. Worse. He was the beggar's slave; hated, cursed, kicked.
Wormtongue, they called him once - now they called him worse. But Grima, son of Galdor, would have no more of it.
He rose from the dust of the Shire road, summoned his hatred and slew the fallen wizard - and welcomed hobbit arrows that set matters aright at last.