Author's Note: I love poor tragic Grima. 'Nuff said.
Disclaimer: I own none of Tolkien's characters, events, or locations; his work is solely his own, and he must be damn proud.
Chapter One: The Purging of Edoras
Grima the Wormtongue paced the steps before his king, his footfalls silent despite his agitation. Theoden, aged far beyond his years under the curse of Saruman and the cunning goading toward despondency from Grima himself, watched impassively, head drooping like a dying flower. He struggled to remember what Hama had reported to him that had upset his advisor so, but the growing mists in his mind shadowed them, and he had been sapped of the will to overcome them. He remained motionless upon his throne, like a stone in the great and darkened hall, and let his mind wander over dark things that he could not name. Occasionally he would surface to the present and take notice of Grima, who was pacing and muttering, his strange pale eyes afire with calculation. At length Theoden realised that Grima was speaking to him, and lifted his head slightly to listen.
"They come with naught but ill news, and the tidings of war, with which they will goad you to fight and die alongside them," Grima hissed. "Usurpers! Let them come freely into Edoras, then, but should they wish to enter this hall I would have Hama relieve them of their weapons. For it is Gandalf the Stormcrow come calling, King. He is but an ill tiding in himself, and rides forth upon your stolen horse to upset this house and convince you to send your men to death upon plains darker and more distant than those of Rohan. It is insolence, Majesty; surely great Theoden would not have it in his house?"
At this Grima slunk forth to the King's side and leaned very close, whispering, "Thy might outshines the wanderer in gray; fall not unto his tricks, for your failure to be resilient will mean the fall of Rohan. And with your son dead and Eomer a traitor..."
He let his words trail off then, letting the poison he had planted in Theoden's mind finish for him.
It was then that the door came open and Hama strode toward the king. Grima remained close to the King's side, crouching upon the steps.
"My lord," said Grima, "three wanderers in gray have ventured to Edoras, claiming to be in dire need of your council. They wait upon the outside steps. What is your command?"
"Permit them," said the king slowly, "but take their weapons."
"One of them," said Grima, "carries a staff. Take it from him; do not let him enter with it. Take all that they may bear."
Hama stared at him for a moment, and his eyes went to Theoden, who nodded slowly. The guard left then, and it was in silence that the king and his counselor waited.
I need not tell what happened then, for it is a well-known tale. Grima's misfortune led him eventually to Isengard, to stay at his new master's side. Herein we join him...
The water of the river was as cold as the Wormtongue's fear, and like his fear it rose steadily as he approached the tower of Orthanc. He floundered helplessly as the tree-thing loomed behind him, watching, but despite its vigilance Grima doubted that if his dark head were to vanish beneath the waters it would venture forth to save him. In truth, he was loathe to have it handle him again, even for rescue, for his ribs had been crushed beneath the grip of it when it had lifted him off of his horse; he had heard them crunching, and when he was forced into the waters the pain was unimaginable, and he cowered now upon a floating barrel, his black robes dragging him back down into the water as he fought for breath that barely came. He remained in this state, unaware of the time passing as he stared unblinkingly at the flood before him, until suddenly the barrel struck something solid and he was hurled from it onto the steps of Orthanc.
He lay but a fraction of a moment before the doors creaked open and a long, pale hand snatched his cloak, dragging him in. Grima kept his cries behind his teeth as his tortured ribs scraped the ground, and when the hand released him he scrambled to his knees, bowing and cringing fervently in turn. His shame had deserted him long ago, and so it was in its absence that he did prostrate himself before Saruman the White, his Master. He peered up at him through a curtain of dark, dripping hair with exhaustion reddened eyes.
"Your lip bleeds," said Saruman, and flung a cloth at Grima's huddled form. "Wipe it away; it revolts me. Stain not the steps of Orthanc with your foulness. Tell me instead your news of Rohan; from your state I expect you are in ill favour with the horse-lords."
"I was cast out at the coming of Gandalf," gasped Grima, wiping vainly at his blood, "and your veil lifted from the mind of Theoden."
Wormtongue was aware that Saruman knew of this beforehand, but he dared not express this knowledge for fear of more of his master's erratic retribution. He said nothing, for his dealings with Saruman did not leave him void of education; if his master was angry with him, he learned, then pain would be his companion thusly. Better, he supposed, to play the ignorant fool, pitiable in his actions and lack of observation, but useful nonetheless.
How he hated Saruman, who true to Gandalf's presumption had indeed bought him; but no longer did he toil under the Istari through promise of payment, but rather through fear. Any hope of Grima's reward had been drawn from their relationship as Saruman's disease had been drawn from Theoden, but no matter; pain was a better motivator by far.
Soon Saruman tired of his company, frustrated at the turn of the tide, and left Grima to his own in the cold dark chamber. Exhausted and defeated, Grima slowly lowered himself to the hard floor and lay with his head upon its smooth surface, feeling darkness like the waters outside closing in around him, and soon it bore him away to a dark and dreamless torpor.
Around him things began to change in Isengard.
Grima lay in a state of oblivion where he had fallen, not feeling the coldness of Orthanc's stones seeping in his core, preying on the weakness and injury that plagued him. When Saruman finally returned and Grima came to himself again he could hardly move, so long had he remained inert. The passage of time had left him in its wake; he knew not whether it was days or weeks that he had been lying there. Perhaps months, even? he marveled to himself. Surely I could not have been so idle for so long…
And then his mind went to Theoden, and his doubt ceased.
Saruman was speaking to him now, and his voice was low and dangerous, and held an undercurrent of defeat.
"I sense your despair," he said to Grima, and the sound of his voice was the sound of that which he sensed in Grima, and yet he tried to mask it. "It is unwise to doubt me, Worm; the White is not cowed by losing Theoden his puppet. He was but a trifle."
"Alas, however," said Grima, "that your hand should reach there no longer."
Saruman stared at him for a long moment, and then turned on his heel and left.
Though Wormtongue had heard of no news, he knew that Helm's Deep had resisted Saruman's hand.
In his black heart he sensed gladness.
Days later…
He had done it. He had thrown the Palantir, down, down to the steps of Orthanc, and rid his master of his precious tool. He feigned ignorance, of course, for despite his growing madness Grima was still cunning, and he gave no sign that he knew what it was. Yet he was disappointed, for in the throes of his battle he could not decide who he would rather strike with it, and thus when indecision jerked his hand from its mark the seeing-stone bounced harmlessly by Gandalf's head, and a halfling scurried to retrieve it.
Now Saruman was storming up the steps to him, and the Wormtongue crouched like a beast upon the floor, awaiting him, and he was torn between terror and glee as the door flew open with a great rush of sound and power and his Master entered with his face twisted in a most hideous mask of rage. In his hand he bore the broken end of his staff.
"You witless fool!" he cried. "Crawling, pathetic, ignorant, witless fool!"
He brought the splintered end of the staff down into the Wormtongue's back, and Grima shrieked in agony, but Saruman jerked his weapon free of its mark and struck his spy across the head with it, and his scream was cut short. His dark robes pooled round him as he slumped bloody to the floor, and Saruman felt a whisper of satisfaction, but nothing he did could overcome his fury and desolation. He looked down to his weapon, split twice asunder in his hand, a white hand which was now bloody from the shards of it. In disgust he threw it, and kicked Wormtongue in the ribs as he passed him, and from the window he could see Gandalf and his company leaving.
To my misery, thought Saruman bitterly. He leaves me gladly, and knows what he leaves. My only companion this!
"Get up, you idiot!" he shouted, and kicked Wormtongue again, and his servant groaned faintly, clutching at his robes.
"You miserable fool," hissed Saruman, and jerked the hem away. "Lie there in weakness, then, and suffer all the more for it. I shall not feed you. You will feel the pains of hunger as a reminder of your stupidity; the wise know that one must never feed it, and to the physical I take it thus. Suffer, and find me when you are through with your self-pity."
At this he turned on his heel, Grima clutching weakly at it, and left the room. The door shut behind him, leaving Grima to his own.