Spring has come to Edoras, and with it comes a spring cleaning frenzy that eventually hits Meduseld, the Golden hall of Edoras where the King resides. Gríma, as councilor and member of the royal family, would not normally partake, but neither is he councilor nor part of the family no more, and normal was a long time ago. So he makes no protest when Féola, matron of keys and head servant of the house, commandeers his time and sends him to pull water for the cleaning. During the last year and a half he's become accustomed to Féola bossing him around. Which is unfair, because Féola isn't bossy, but highly competent, for sure. Without her skills, Meduseld would have been far worse off during the meagre years. But then, the years might not have been so meagre, were it not for him, and for the treason he committed. Gríma pauses, tries not to think back. Those years are filled with bad memories.
Out on the plains people have started to make bundles of waste from gardens, stables and backyards. Old, broken things and freshly grown shoots, dead leaves, by-products of spring cleaning. They are to be burned later in the year, for practical reasons as well as to welcome summer, the time of year for growth and new life. We burn our past away to start anew, thinks Gríma. That's what should be done with bad memories; burn them. During the midsummer festival, people do jump through the fires for this exact reason, to symbolically cleanse themselves. Gríma doesn't usually partake. But things are no longer how they used to be. Perhaps he'll find a small fire and jump through it when no one's looking.
A cry from the open scullery door brings him back to the present; an annoyed maid letting him know that Féola needs him here with those buckets already, and then some. We haven't got all day. Right, the water. A lot is needed: it is to be heated and used to scrub clean something, presumably floors. It is heavy to draw as much as is needed, luckily the wells are full this early in the season. Gríma shakes his head lightly as to clear his mind and gets on with the task at hand.
...
It is later in the day. Gríma has made himself invisible, hiding out back in the shadowed herb farm, to spare his aching back and arms from further work for a while. He is breathing in the smell of fresh thyme. The maids used to get by fine without his aid in days past, surely they can manage without him now, for a while. Then, Gríma remembers how there used to be more people about in days past, stable boys and riders and sons of riders and they are not here anymore, are they? And who is to blame for that? There are still stable boys about, and sons of riders and men of the Mark. But fewer, far fewer these days. Many fell victims to the war, both soldiers trained and boys rightly too young to face battle. They should have been here now, noisy and helpful and obnoxious and complaining over aching backs, maybe. But most of all: alive. Gríma shudders, tugs at rolled up sleeves to cover his arms in the sudden chill. Look here, Gríma, called Wormtongue, at the consequences of your treason. And dare not complain. Éomer would have told him that, surely. Has told him, in fact, many times. Rohan lacks many faces, many pairs of hands, after the war. Anyone left must pull their weight and make themselves useful. Gríma knows this, has made a pledge to do so. But he had not expected it to hit him so hard during spring cleaning. Such a treacherously small, everyday task. Well, Féola would not have him call it small, it is a huge task to undertake once every year. But not as in-your-face as the villages burned and plundered that he has been made to visit, nor the corpses violated and strung up that he has been made to cut down and bury. He thought he had faced the consequences well enough. But they are all around him, ever present, ready to remind him daily. Gríma rubs his arms and makes to go back to the kitchens. It is probably too late by now for him to pull more water (thankfully), but its near midday and his belly is complaining at lack of fullness. Féola will see him fed and then probably put him to work again. Best go on and try not to look back.
...
Gríma remembers hunger. Remembers the gnawing and gnawing of an empty belly, remembers trying to fill it with water and herbs and maybe strands of grass. There were insects about, he remembers beetles and something buzzing and even mosquitos, because they fed of him. He had heard of places where the eating of insects is commonplace, but he could never bring himself to try it. Besides, they were probably the wrong kind of insects, just as the woods seemed filled with the wrong types of mushrooms, or rather, mushrooms he did not recognize and therefore did not dare to try. He remembers hunger and darkness and cold and pain and hunger but it hurts to think about it so he does not want to remember. Burn all memories. Burn it all, start anew.
Féola tuts at him, says she wonders where he got of to, that they could have had more use for him. Gríma nods meekly, tries to think of an excuse but finds that none is needed. Féola contends herself with more tutting, some scowling and showing a bowl of stew at him, with some bread on the side. Says sternly that she expects him to stay within sight, the day is far from over and neither is the cleaning. There is much work still to be done, more water to be drawn. Gríma does not want to disobey her. She feeds him, so he is as loyal as a stray cat; they can trust him to show up at mealtime. But, unlike a cat, he pulls his weight. Tries to, anyhow. Mostly.